"Cock-Block" Is An Active Verb.

Last night, my name was Amy and I was 22. Maybe I should explain.

My lovely Ghibellina Girl Erin turned 21 the day after Easter. Due to things like school and the fact NOTHING in all of Italy is open on Easter Monday save for McDonalds, festivities were postponed until Tuesday night.

We started off at Salamanca, a Mexican-inspired bar whose signature drink is pitchers of the world’s best sangria, served with straws over half the length of my body so that no matter where the pitcher is on the table, you can still reach it and so, enjoy getting absolutely wasted.

Nearly 20 women to 2 Australian boys, 5 pitchers and some snuck drinks in (thanks, Erin—thanks, Aussie Boys), some dancing on the tables, and general wildness (there are photos so I will bypass explanations), we decided to head to a club so we could dance on something OTHER than the poor establishment’s tables.

Finding a club when you’re drunk is harder than one might think. An hour of wandering around Firenze later, we found ourselves at Twice. And as is said, once you go to Twice, you’ll never go twice.

Now, there are a few things in life that I love. Good beer. Fast cars. Women’s magazines. Sunday football. Green-eyed men. Palm trees. Full moons on the beach. Puppies. And dancing. But, as I have tried to explain to people back home, clubbing in Italy is something akin to throwing a half-naked girl into a small enclosed cell with a bunch of starving sex-maniacs. Oh, wait—that is the definition of clubbing in Italy. The Aussie Boys looked around and were slightly aghast. “It’s all American girls. And the Italian guys who want to get with them,” they noted, correctly. This is why I preferred clubbing in Dublin—you don’t have to turn around every five minutes and say “Hey, get off of me!” To quote the eternal words of every dance movie ever made, I just want to dance.

However, nothing is ever that easy. And so, inevitably, hands creep around your hips and then start moving all over your southern extremities. I looked at Erin and mouthed, “How are my standards?” She checked out the dude grinding behind me, and gave him the ok. “He’s cute.”

If there is one thing Italy has taught me, it is tolerance. And so, I danced with my new Italian lover Andre and lied my ass off to him until right just about when I felt him sweep the hair from the side of my neck and nuzzle in with his lips. I spun around, held up my left hand, and pointed repeatedly to the half-carat diamond on my ring finger. (Thank you for that foresight, Daddy. My father is a wise, wise man. ) “You have boyfriend?” he asked me.

Lies don’t count if they’re to an Italian man in a club. “Yes. I do.”

“Where is he?”

“Home. In America.”

“America is very far away.” You have to love Italian logic.

The second time I was grabbed by the hips, I just looked at Kara and asked, “How bad is it?” She took one look, said something quickly to her Italian boyfriend, and then grabbed me and spun me bodily away from what ended up being a Slavic-looking man pushing 40.

By now, Erin and Kara were otherwise occupied, and had left me alone on the dance floor with the Aussie Boy of my ulterior motive intentions. Because of our proximity and dancing together, the Italians took the hint that I was a no-fly zone, but juuust as I was about to put my arms around the Aussie and ask, “Do you mind?” Kara realized her wallet was gone.

As shitty as it is, I’m going to go with Kara losing her wallet as the Universe’s cock-blocking me and a sign that maybe, sometimes, my vindictive judgment should NOT be ruling my actions. Saved by the thief?

Other lesson of the night? Cage heels may be stunning, but they are not meant for walking all over a city and then dancing at a club for two hours, unless you want your feet to be purple, swollen to twice their normal size, and have a lovely chessboard pattern on them.

Oh, Italy and 21st birthdays. What you teach me.

XOXO