20-Somethings

This past Thursday was my 21st birthday. It goes without saying that I had a great time-- what I remember of it, anyway. But it was landmark in more than the fact that I am now able to walk into a U.S liquor store without being run out; it showed me how far I've come in the past year and more.

21 Things I Managed to Accomplish by 21:

1.) Found, applied for, negotiated, and moved into my first "big girl" off-campus apartment.

2.) Come to terms with love and loss. Who I was in the fall changed radically with the death of someone I loved. Though the loss of a life shouldn't be taken lightly or spun in any light other than tragic, it did make me mature more quickly than I would have ever thought possible. Because of this, I've been able to maintain a much more realistic outlook on the loss of friendships, lovers, and situations than I ever was able to before. And I also realized the benefits to taking time out of every day to quietly remember someone.

3.) Spending a semester in Italy did more than expand my thinking on the world and love of clothing and shoes; it also made me more intimately aware of who I am, what I am capable of, and what I believe in and will stand for. This may have made me seem more demanding, opinionated, or quick-tempered, but it's become apparent that if people can't see past those characteristics to the driving force behind them-- can't recognize what I need; aren't willing to see things from both sides; get equally frustrated or mad instead of trying to come to a conclusion that suits both parties-- then they don't either know me or want to know me enough to know what's best for me.

4.) My mother looked at me the other day and in a tone of relief that was a little disconcerting, exclaimed, "You've finally grown into such a pretty young woman." Ok, ok, I'll be the one to say it-- I have not always been the most attractive specimen of womanhood. Most of it was elective. But I was also damn awkward for a long time. I hit 20, and BAM! I was someone new. My body shape changed. My face got leaner and more mature. My hair finally grew into acceptable submission. And this morning, when I stopped to talk to the painters as I left my apartment, I realized through their shyness that I've become to sort of girl who makes men nervous. Looks are not everything, but they mean more to the person they belong to than most of us are willing to admit to.

5.) Bought my first big-name designer item-- the vintage Louie messenger bag.

6.) Walked into a liquor store in the U.S, and belonged there.

7.) Spent the night on an Italian beach watching a meteor shower.

8.) Climbed an active volcano.

9.) Traveled extensively to places I have never been by myself, never got lost, never panicked, and never backed down from the challenges.

10.) Cried in public for the first time in my life since I was a toddler.

11.) From being a juvenile delinquent in high school, became a damn good and Dean's List college student who is involved on and off campus. (Key point: Finding out how to separate your professional and social lives.)

12.) Learned 2 other languages.

13.) Found, negotiated, bought, and learned how to drive a stick-shift.

14.) Became a runner. There will be no marathons in my life, but I'm a runner all the same.

15.) Recognized the fact that I am also an emotional runner.

16.) Learned when to say "yes," learned when to say "whatever you want," learned when to say "I'm sorry," learned how to say "I don't think so," learned how to say "Absolutely not!" and what situations to apply them all to.

17.) Though proposed to twice, was wise enough to say "no" both times.

18.) Rode one of the painted cows on Church Street. It goes without being said that this happened the night of my 21st birthday. Yes, there is photographic evidence. It will come a bit later.

19.) Among other things while nannying, taught a baby how to say "elephant," "lion," and "bear;" how to fist-bump, and how to swim. In doing so, helped shape a young life for two years.

20.) Can now pair food and wine and make some kick-ass authentic Italian meals.

21.) Started this blog. It may not be what defines me, but it's become a major part of my life, and for being a part of it, I thank all of you.

22 Things I Want To Accomplish by 22:

1.) Turn this blog into a website with advertisements from local businesses. The good news is, I have friends to build websites for a living and for fun. The bad news is, once this gets accomplished, I have a sneaking suspicion I'm going to have to start referring to myself as an "entrepreneur." And I can't spell that word, let alone live up to it.

2.) Have the sort of relationship that I want-- not the one that someone else wants.

3.) Publish something in Glamour, Cosmopolitan, ELLE; writing publications of note like the New Yorker, The Atlantic, etc.; or a well-heeled website.

4.) Get a "real job" I don't despise, and make enough to start saving for the first time in my life instead of living hand-to-mouth.

5.) Start saving for the first time in my life. Because come college graduation, it's not just me anymore-- it's me AND my horse I'm providing for. (If you don't understand the bond between women and horses, you can substitute the word "baby" for horse, and get the gist.)

6.) Compete again. I was a competitive rider from the age of 9, but with the start of college, showing fell by the way-side. I'm relaxed enough now that it's not about the ribbons and high scores anymore-- it's about seeing the changes and how far you've come as a team with your horse. (She used to try to kill me. Now she cuddles. I'd say that's an accomplishment better than any blue ribbon right there.)

7.) Pass my GREs, and start grad school.

8.) Give a hitch-hiker a ride.

9.) Get a dog again.

10.) See the desert.

11.) Get back to Disney World and let my inner child run rampant again.

12.) Read all of Edward Abbey's novels.

13.) Model for a piece of artwork. I came close for doing it for cash in Italy, and it looks like I may be in the same pose-ition (hahaha, bad puns, I can't resist them!) again this summer. My mom did it when she was in college, and I think there's something amazing about being able to look back at a portrait of you later in life and say, "That was me. That was what I looked like. Those are the same moles, the same toes, the same scars, the same birthmark. And that's art."

14.) Ride a motorcycle.

15.) Take a bar-tending class. I love talking to people, and I love alcohol, so why not combine two loves and make some money while doing it?

16.) Birthday sex. Possibly the one day out of a year when you can ask for whatever you want and make someone feel obligated to do it. Though you shouldn't take advantage of this situation...everyone does.

17.) Not over-draw my checking account ONCE.

18.) Become more comfortable with the more traditional aspects of dating. I feel like a freak of nature having to admit this, but I really feel as if my love life would improve if I did not turn paying the bill into a full-on brawl.

19.) Start having Boy's Nights like I already have Girl's Nights. Because I love my boys just as much, if not sometimes more, than I love my ladies, and it's time to start showing them that appreciation.

20.) Start painting and sketching again.

21.) Find a charity I really believe in and donate to them.

22.) Continue doing things that stretch my comfort level and make me grow and expand.

XOXO

The Argument For Airline Alcohol.

Nothing screams, "AA, take note!" quite like sitting alone in the dimmed lights of an empty hotel room in Zurich with 3 beds, yet just yourself, trying, and failing, to write something of any decent mien, and instead, finding yourself Googling "What sort of vodka does Swissair serve?"

Ok, so, I know I've been a bit of a whiny bitch today. And I apologize. Really, I do. But after airport security makes you cry in a room full of people (horrifying), your flight gets delayed two hours and then lands only for you and 49 other tired, upset, homesick twenty-somethings to find out that SURPRISE, your plane left without half its passengers and you are now stuck in a neutral country 5 miles outside of the city for at least a night and the better part of the next day with no cash, no idea what language they're speaking or what exactly Switzerland is other than a place with great banks, lots of gold, and nice watches, and a feeling that the more times you instantly respond "Si," and "Grazie mille," that you are juuust at the tip of the culture shock iceberg...I defy you to step into those grody shoes and not feel just a little bit put out.

Short of begging, "Make it better, make it better, make it better," I really don't know what to do with myself. And then again, that doesn't so much involve me as it just involves someone other than me solving my problems. So, if you were one of the people who received a very whiny, bitchy, Chicken-Little-esque "The world is falling, and it's volcano ash on my head!" phone call from me today-- this is the part where I say, "I'M SORRY." Bear with me. I'm upset and alone and don't know exactly what it is I should be doing in this situation. (Mom, you're included in this, because even if you are my mother, I shouldn't make you feel worried that I'm about to take the closest boarding ticket stub and start sawing it violently across my wrists.) I'm just in an awkward place right now. I ran away from real life for three months, learned a new language that I habitually can't stop speaking, and now I'm scared to come back home, when yet, I'm just so tired of being on the road and in train stations and in taxis and waiting for planes to board and alternately being hassled by or hassling airport security that there is no place else I want to be, desperately. I'll say it again-- I'M SCARED. So although you may hate to lie, I guess right now that the best thing you could say is, "It's going to be ok." I won't fully believe you, and you won't believe yourself, but the point is-- someone has to say it, and as someone stuck right in the middle of it all who can't see up from down anymore, I can't.

That's a lot of confessions for the night, so I'm just going to go back to my little cliched tableau of writer, empty computer screen, and misplaced frustration. And the sound of the Absolut-shaped water bottle's neck clinking against the rim of the tumbler, the sound of glass on glass and the soft and reassuring glug, glug, glug that it whispers? Well, oh, temptation...now I completely understand why they serve copious amounts of alcohol on planes. Here's hoping I get mine tomorrow while reclining somewhere over mid-Atlantic.

XOXO

The Aftermath of Sicilia: Sunburn and S&M

Hindsight and nerve endings being 20/20, this, to the left, may not have been the best choice.

Rubbing lotion in tiny, gentle baby circles on my chest with my fingertips hurts like a bitch that sends me gasping for air.

It's worse than sadomasochism.

There's a pretty good chance that when I get home, I'll be peeling most awe-inspiringly. Like, the sort of awe that you get when you see a burn victim on the streets panhandling for change, compared as to the sort of awe that you get when you see a really great piece of art or drink a perfectly made Cosmopolitan, 1 part Triple Sec, 1 part cranberry juice, and 2 parts premium vodka.

Said Cosmopolitan costs 10 Euro. Said sunburn was absolutely free after round-trip airfare and a hitched bus ride.

Even if you can peel the skin off the back of my thighs and shoulders and write on it like Hannibal's own parchment, will you still love me when I get home?

XOXO

New Faces, Deep Tans, Deep Ties.

I've met a lot of people while in Italy. Australian guys, New York girls, Minnesota couchsurfers, a Singapore traveler, and accidentally Vermonters. Without meaning to, I kind of stumbled right into the world of Couchsurfing.org when I made instant friends with a girl couchsurfing her way back through Italy and Europe. The day she left, I got a phone call from another couchsurfer, asking if I could show her around Florence. I wasn't expecting on doing anything that day other than eating Nerbone's lampredotto sandwich and catching up on all of my past-past-due Portfolio homework, but I broke down and said "sure" after listening to how enthusiastic and eager-to-please my new Florentine acolyte sounded. I grumbled about it all the way to the Marcato, but promptly fell right into friendship, just like always, with this fun, spunky girl from Singapore. I ended up spending the day with her and Arielle, just having Girl Time in our apartments and gelato shops across the city, and the homework remained not done. (Or even started.) This morning, I was reading one of my favorite travel chick-lit books by Jessica Morrison, "The Buenos Aires Broken Hearts Club", which I brought with me for comfort reading, when I found this passage:

"These things may have happened only months or weeks ago, but it is our only history, so we hold onto every moment with both hands. It's all we have...Zoey and I promise to visit each other back home and to email constantly, but behind these promises we harbor the unspoken truth that the friendship we embraced so voraciously here-- for travelers, I have learned, must be voracious with their friendships-- won't be easily reconstructed. 'This was the best time, you know,' she whispers to me the next morning as we wait for her taxi to the airport to arrive. 'Nothing will ever be the same as Buenos Aires.'" (Morrison, 200-201).

Just like nothing will ever be the same as Italy. The people I've met, the new faces that I hold as dear from three months, or even just three days, as the ones I've known for years; the sights I've seen, the smells, the tastes, the things that whispered against my skin-- hot air, warm sun, soft fabrics, chilly water, ancient dust, cold stone, countless strangers-- the adventures with both old friends and new ones-- none of this will ever be the same. I may be counting down (27 days,) but the shifts that have opened up in me to rearrange to fit new people into my life are forever. Easter and exploding carts with Aussies. Drinking on a pebble beach in Cinque Terre at 3 AM with Alli. Thursday Night Girl's Night (dinner, drinks, dessert, dishing out gossip,) with the Ghibellina Girls, and our mutually-enabling shopping, chocolate, and lazy afternoons with Arielle. Missed trains with Naomi. A group of drunk 30-something Americans and a bartender with bulging biceps in Montorosso. Cannoli-slinging Sicilian twins Massimo and Jean-Luca in Vernazza with the best ricotta cream filling in the world and saucy wit. Equally frustrated Italian classes with Erin, dissolving frustration into laughter with sentences like "Albero e mio ragazzo," "Tu sei caldo come il pane," and "Io lavoro a banca," the last of which does NOT mean, as those of you who may have taken a few years of French like we did and be horrified, "I wash in the bank"-- instead, it means "I WORK in the bank."

Without meaning to, and kind of hesitantly, Arielle and I sort of became Couchsurfing's Florence mascots, but in the end, I wouldn't have had it any other way. Traveler's attract each other. That's the way it is, the way it should be, and the the way it has to be. I've learned more from these people about life, relaxation, indulgence, mellowing, making things happen, taking chances, Aussie slang, how women and men are the same the world over, and just taking life one step at a time than I ever could have by myself. I whole-heartedly encourage you to seek out other wanderers when you wander away from home, because you'll find that where they are, you and a feeling of home is, too.

Now, unlike some of my more genetically-gifted new friends, I am white-white-painfully-white. I'm a Northern European snow princess. But there is nothing I love more than sun and a good, natural tan. I've been spending two hours of every blisteringly sunny day sitting out on the balcony in my bikini, trying desperately to achieve a color other than "fish-belly white", to no avail. Today, finally aggravated beyond everything, I stomped back into the kitchen, grabbed a paper towel and the bottle of extra-virgin olive oil, and slathered myself in the oil like I was basting myself to marinate. And back out and marinate I did. Not only did the oil soak right into my Mediterranean-dried skin like an oasis in the desert, but the smell and the suppleness it gave to my skin felt incredibly sexy, like some sort of Grecian sun goddess. And I was browning nicely within ten minutes. Huh. I suggest this trick to anyone fed up with dry skin and slow tanning, and not a redhead. When in Italy, you have to live like the Italians do.

XOXO

If You Have Ever Wondered, This Is What It's Like To Be Me.

Greetings, one, all, and the hopelessly indifferent! I write to you from my bed of twisted sheets that smell like Robitussin and Halls in the land of Italia, where I am currently suffering from what probably is (and what will probably remain since I am too poor/stubborn to call in a doctor) bronchitis.

As the title and introductory paragraph hint at, since I am currently too exhausted with coughing both right and left lung up to really put some effort into deep thinking, since I can't even breathe deeply without wheezing, I have a few stories to tide you over and sate your curiosity. The first one goes like this: I'm in Italy, it's beautiful out, and I am dying in my bed in a country where the only place one can find Halls cough drops is in the tobacco shop. So, what is a girl to do, other than buy 3 packs of Halls and Ricola cough drops, and one pack of Camel Lights? (Mom-- I know you're probably reading this right now, so don't worry-- I'm not smoking right now. I bought the pack in best hopes that I will get better soon enough to smoke it.)

The second brief epistolary took place a few weeks ago in Perugia. Our last morning there, I was quietly contemplating the beautiful Umbrian scenery while hanging out of our window at the hostel, minding my own business completely, when all of a sudden, the shutters opposite me across the street were thrown open, and there, blinding in the morning light, was a late-40-something middle-aged man resplendent in all of his pale, saggy, naked glory. I have never recoiled so fast from a scene of tragedy in my life. Alli came back from the bathroom to find me hiding as far into the corner of the room opposite the window as I could possibly get, shaking and shaken. "What happened?" she asked, so, of course, like any good friend, I said nothing and instead pointed for her to look out the window so that she, too, could share in my disgusted pain. A moment later, when she joined me in our little corner of 20-something scarred cornea, I looked at her pleadingly and said, "I was just minding my own business, and then...THAT! The last naked body I saw was young and beautiful, and now, I have to carry THAT thought along with me!"

Our third and final retelling is also of the "woe, why me?" category. My final dinner in Dublin, Alli, seated facing the door and front windows of the restaurant, said she kept seeing quite possibly the most beautiful black man in the world walking by. Trying to be smooth and suave about it and not crane my neck around in my usual fashion or let on to the fact that I really wanted to be a part of this hunk-o-burnin'-love-fest, I waited a few minutes before discreetly turning my head to look out the window. Instead of Shemar Moore's missing twin, I found myself watching a man who quite possibly weighed over 300 pounds wearing a grey hoodie and a red backpack literally DANCE down the sidewalk in front of the restaurant. And by dance, I do mean jiggle, undulate, ripple, and shimmy as only someone the size and obtrusiveness of a small Shetland pony can. Hearing a choked gasp, I turned around to face Melissa, by whose wide eyes and slack jaw I also correctly guessed had witnessed our movin' and groovin' friend. "Alli looks out the window, and she sees a gorgeous black man. You and I look out the window, and we see THAT," Melissa said to me, right before we collapsed into tearful and manic laughter. "Story of my life!"

So, there you have it. Irony rules my life.

Also, if you're from my homeland of the most beauteous and sorely-missed Burlyworld, please Skype me as I am not only an incredibly huge baby when I'm sick but am also very, very homesick and need something other than Kate Hudson and Matthew McConaughey's wacky treasure-hunting hijinks to keep me entertained. And don't mention the state of my hair or the fact I am wearing a white wifebeater and a black floral bra. I know, ok? If I had the ambition/strength/gave a fuck, I would crawl out of bed to change to. Mostly, if I gave a fuck.

That is all for now. Cough, cough; hack, hack; splat. Hey, anyone need a spleen?

XOXO

P.S-- I am currently accepting movie nominations to keep me occupied while confined to my bed this weekend. I have already watched Fool's Gold, Moonstruck (Newsflash!-- Nicholas Cage WAS once hot-- just before I was born), the new (aka: 2003) Peter Pan (won't discuss how attractive I found that boychild) (...someone call Neighborhood Watch), Love Actually, Into The Wild, Shutter Island, P.S I Love You (way to make me fear another man I love dying), and Old School.

Please, what must I see while I remain a captive audience? Extra points go to people who nominate a good action movie. Or porn with a plotline.

...If only I were actually kidding.

Debauchery: Adventures Abroad Include...

A brief synopsis of the Good, the Bad, and the Downright Ugly:

"Il Treno E In Retardo": The day before my mid-term exams start, Alli and I decide to go hike Cinque Terra. After hiking from Corniglia to Vernazza and indulging in the world's most orgasmic cannoli at Il Pirata, (where bar-keep Massimo declared, "Si, the clams are closed--they're shy. But they're like women; to open them, you just have to charm them. Then they melt like ice cream,") we realize that we can either A.) Go on to dinner in Montorosso since we're STARVING, or B.) Hop our last train to La Spezia and Florence and starve.

Well. We are not the Kitchen Bitches for nothing. So after trolling Montorosso for a store still open to buy a blanket-- none-- and contemplating stealing some hotel's towels off of a drying line-- couldn't reach-- we indulge in a 3 hour long dinner, then head to Fast Bar, proceed to make friends with everyone from the 30-something American tourists to the bartender who is Sealy Booth's Italian twin, drink ourselves warm, and then went and sat on the beach for the next 3 hours until our 5 AM train came, hiding from the carabineri and over-eager local guys from the bar, drinking wine, and having reflective heart-to-hearts. (Which I don't remember.) This day also includes: "My depth perception sucks." "Try mine." "No. I saw yours.", public urination, our first encounter with Italian men who don't know the meaning of the word "no", taking three exams with possibly the worst hangover of my life and only an hour's worth of sleep, and finding out that a classic corkscrew is pretty much a sobriety test in itself. (It takes two drunk blondes to open a bottle of wine, if you were wondering.)

"Ok, You Can Bring Him Back To The U.S With You": For Thursday Night Girl's Night, the girls, Alli and I went to Coquinarius. Feeling bad about us having to wait an hour for a table, Nicolai brings us all out complimentary glasses of wine, then shuffles us inside to a table ASAP, ignoring other waiting customers. At the end of the mean, we all get free glasses of vin santo and biscotti, and when I went up to the register at the end of the meal to "grazie mille" him profusely, he "prego"d and kissed me on both cheeks. As I stumbled back to the table where Alli and Arielle were waiting, I think I said something along the lines of, "He kissed me! Did you see that?! He kissed me like an Italian!"
Alli: "I know! I saw!"
Still in the high-pitch of a five-year-old: "HE KISSED ME!"
Alli: "I am in full support of you bringing him back to America with you."

"...And A Left At The Horse's Tail!": St. Paddy's day, Alli and I decided to go for apertivo at the swanky and fun Kitsch bar, where I proceeded to order a Mai Tai, even though it's first ingredient was rum, and, as we know by now, rum makes me DUMB. This was proven right yet again as we met up with Robin to find the Irish pub we were going to, and my usually impeccable sense of direction appeared addled, right until the point in time I stopped in the middle of the street, picked my nose up into the wind like a spaniel on point, thought for a moment, and then took off like a shot, muttering, "...And a left at the horse's tail!" Let me explain. We had been past the pub only once before, when looking for another restaurant about a month back, and the guidebook's directions to it were literally "take a left at the horse's tail of the statue in the piazza." 3 minutes later, I bring Robin, Alli and I out right in front of the pub. Where I proceeded to drink green beer and get further schnockered to a point at which Alli and I ended up recreating Rape of the Sabine Women in front of the statue, or, as I call it, Rape of the Champlain Women's Dignity. And then Sassy Drunk Carissa came out to play: "Oh, my boyfriend is playing with a balloon. I pick them so well!" "I have a watch. Do you know what time it is? Drunk time." "30...40...50...60 in my cash cow. Do you have a cash cow? I don't think so!"

"Abusement-- That's When You Beat Other People For Fun": Alli and I go to Perugia, where we encounter a metrorail that nearly dropped us into the compacting abyss-- "Alli, I don't want to go there!"-- and then made it better by soothing me with a familiar rhythm-- "Oh, this is a familiar rhythm." "Yes?" "It is. It's the same rhythm."-- Men Who Don't Know The Meaning Of The Word "No", a Romanian knock-off of George Clooney, a Very Small World episode in which an Australian who one of my best high school friends from the Netherlands lived with who Alli met her first time through Perugia, who introduced us to a friend who introduced us to a Middlebury grad student studying in Florence, and a houseparty that could have been straight out of the Burlington scene. I kept looking for the junglejuice and familiar faces. Quotes from that night include: "I think...you want to kiss me." "You want to touch my body?" "He means 'cock'." "It's impossible? No! Come dancing with us at the disco!" "No. No, no, no, no, no, no. NO." Also, Alli gets an 80 year old boyfriend named Sergio. I think it's time to start investing in Viagra.

"Just Call Me Molly": The Button Factory, a Dublin club, is having a 90's themed night. I conveniently forgot all my 90's themed clothes...in the 90's. Instead, I substitute cleavage for theme, because as Jamie says, "You have boobs. You don't need a decade." And it's true. Also, let it be stated here and now that Irish boys are far nicer and more polite in clubs than Italian men are. They actually ask you if they can dance with you, unlike Italian men as JD put it so eloquently, "will fuck you right on the dance floor."

"Gone Wilde In Dublin: One Morning In The Life Of": "Raaaaaaaahhh!" "Reptar?" "If I start humping something on the street, just keep walking." "Oh yeah. It's so much better not inhaling pressed powder." "Well, in the dark last night it looked relatively clean. Though that's been said about things before and proven wrong."

And "Two Pints Cheap-Date Night": Dublin was fun. Real fun.

"Get Me Home. Right Now": On the way to class yesterday, on the cramped Italian sidewalk, two days into coming back from A Land Where They Speak English And I Don't Want To Leave, after seriously considering just flying home from Dublin and hiring people to move my stuff out of my Italian apartment for me, I reached my threshold for Italian tolerance when a man straight-up grabbed me by the crotch. Now, yes, this is Italy, and yes, shitty things happen here all the time, but this was no mistake, and it was downright violating. All I saw as I went to angle my body to pass between him and the people on the other side of me was him smirk, and then it literally knocked the air out of me when I felt him plant his hand and felt finger through my jeans. I was too shocked to do anything than keep walking. After telling some of my friends about it, we realized that this was the same man who has done this to numerous girls. If you are reading this and are a girl studying abroad in Florence, beware a 30-something, brown-haired man about 5'10" on Via Nazionale with a wandering and very purposeful right hand. Give plenty of room to people on the sidewalk, and seriously, if it happens again, take him out. God knows I'm planning on it.

Spring Break Activities: Went spelunking in caves. Rolled down the hills of ancient fortresses of the kings of Ireland. Same old, same old.

And A Collection Of Recent Quotes: "Well, that's how I FEEL!" "Well, I'm sorry, but if you can't commit, I am totally free to eat other men's sandwiches." Sleep rambling: "I feel like a turtle."
"You feel like a turtle?" "Yes. my bed's all warm and I feel like I'm in my shell with only my little head sticking out. I'm a turtle." "Spending the night at a guy's apartment is like going to a one star hotel with a prostitute." "Places to go. Things to see. People to do." "We were basically a room full of people who sounded like we were in the Witness Protection Program." "So basically you're only druggie friends because you use them for their amenities." "Lush-- it's what women call themselves when they want to make alcoholism sound sexy."

So. Eurobreak and studying abroad. This is all what it's about. 45 days until I come home.

XOXO

Planes, Trains, And Automobiles

Planes, trains, and automobiles are where I’ve been doing most of my learning here in Italy. Jetting off to new locations on mini-vacations has slightly settled my fear or flying, or, rather—my fear of crashing and burning. In the horrendous traffic and speeding cars in Rome and Dublin, I have trusted people enough to hand my life over to them and let my white-knuckled fingers go from clutching the seat. I always sit facing backward on trains. I like being able to see my past so I know what’s done and gone is really gone. Plus, travel, especially on slow trains, gives you hours and hours to think. Hindsight is an amazing thing. Once you start to gather together the pieces, the picture is astounding.

I’m a runner. It’s true, so I’ll admit to it. I don’t tend to face the hard stuff and have been known on numerous occasions to turn my back on it and put some distance between us instead. I am flawlessly passive-aggressive. I don’t like facing things head-on—I’d rather saunter around the side of it and meet you somewhere near the conclusion. But you can’t live life like that. Italy (which may possibly be my biggest runner ever,) and the circumstances I’ve dealt with while here have changed me, just like I expected and hoped they would.

I came with a purpose: to get better at saying what I wanted to say. To actually say what I needed to. And damn it, if I could learn to do it in Italian, there was no way in hell it couldn’t be easier in English by the end of these 3-plus months. But I never expected that there are some aspects of this trip that wouldn’t be so easy. I don’t know what I was thinking when I left—maybe it was exactly that, and that I wasn’t thinking. I was operating solely on survival mode, for the last two weeks in the States, and for the first month I was here. There was no time to think outside of the present and where I was and the what I was doing, RIGHTNOW. I didn’t have the luxury of time to think or dwell on what happened. I didn’t have the opportunity to miss people or be any less selfish than just thinking about myself. In other words, I was literally not thinking. I was not thinking about how my choices affected others. I was not thinking about how other people’s past choices affected the choices I was in the process of making. I wasn’t thinking clearly enough to put all those pieces together and to start to map out my present. It’s no wonder I got a little lost along the way.

I remember getting off of the train in Assisi and standing there at the entrance of the station, looking left, then right, then at the distant hilltop town far too far to walk to and being floored because I never expected that it wouldn’t be easy. I had been taking so many things for granted, or just not even choosing to think about how hard they might be that I had completely overestimated myself, right until the point at which I took a deep breath, turned to look at the bus schedule, and then walked into the station’s tabacchi shop and asked for a return-trip bus ticket, in Italian. That’s what terrifies me sometimes. Sometimes, it really is just as easy as stepping off one thing and onto another, and other times, you find that you’re out in the middle of nowhere with not a clue how you got there and not a clue where to go from there. And that's when it all hit me-- how lost I was, yet how sure I was about some things. How much I missed people and how far I'd come, literally and figuratively. How much I'd grown and changed. How much time I still had to pass, when, internally, I was pretty much done with what I had set out to do. The Number One fear of all children is that they will grow up to be exactly like their parents, and lately, I’m terrified that this could be it and 20 and I could find out I’m more like my mother than I really would like to admit to. I’m terrified by how fast time has passed. I’m terrified to prove everyone right, and all my friends wrong. I’m terrified to admit that I’m growing up and getting older, but I’m also terrified that I’m too young for all of this. I’m most terrified that this thought doesn’t scare me or even give me a moment’s sway. I went to Assisi, and I had an epiphany as I sat there in the train station.

As Holly Golighty asked in “Breakfast at Tiffany’s”: “You know those days when you get the mean reds?”

Paul Varjak: “The mean reds, you mean like the blues?”

Holly Golightly: “No. The blues are because you're getting fat and maybe it's been raining too long, you're just sad that's all. The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you're afraid and you don't know what you're afraid of. Do you ever get that feeling?”

Paul Varjak: “Sure.”

Holly Golightly: “Well, when I get it the only thing that does any good is to jump in a cab and go to Tiffany's. Calms me down right away. The quietness and the proud look of it; nothing very bad could happen to you there. If I could find a real-life place that'd make me feel like Tiffany's, then - then I'd buy some furniture and give the cat a name!”

For me, the only thing that calms the mean reds and all the questions and terror of the unknown is the fact that in 45 days, I will be home. Every new sunrise brings me one day closer to being home. I can take all of the things that I’ve learned in Italy: how I am not afraid to ask if I’ve lost my way; how I have mellowed; how I can be confrontational—I can demand answers, and I can demand them in both English and Italian—; how I have learned about 20 other new life skills I did not have before, or did not know I was capable of and were hidden away somewhere inside of me, and I am going to bring this new girl home. I have changed, for better or for worse, which means that like it or not, my entire life has changed with me. So, like I recently discovered, even if I do somehow miraculously find an apartment, I don’t have a freaking bed to put in it. So it’s time to buy some furniture, and finally settle on a name for the cat. My path may be straight, but it’s not narrow. The mean reds are not here to stay.

XOXO

Yankee Girls

Last night at dinner with the Ghibellina Girls, we were talking about how different girls from different parts of the U.S act...differently. We all agreed that a Brooklyn Girl can fuck you up in a New York Minute; that Californian Girls just want to have fun, and that Southern Girls are far too sweet for their own good. "Yeah," I said a little glumly at the end of our little exposee. "And then there's Vermont Girls. I can load a rifle and push a car uphill in snow. There's nothing cute about that."

But this morning, I was obscenely glad to be from nowhere else.

Already running late to meet my parents in their first day in Firenze, I hopped into the shower only to find that in this, the apartment in which SOMETHING is always wrong, today it was our hot water. Or, rather-- our lack of hot water.

I grumbled about it for a minute, cursing in a mix of English and Italian, because, after all, our landlord is Italian, and then did the only thing I could do, because I sure as hell wasn't going to go greet my parents two days unwashed and looking like I had been living on the streets of Florence-- not the way to convince them I'm A Big Girl Now. Instead, I went into the kitchen, found out largest pot, heated water, took a big plastic cup and the pot of water into the shower, and proceeded to take a manual shower. God bless all those times my father, an eternal DIY tinkerer, decided to fuss with the hot water heater at home and render us hot-water-less while he installed a new one; once, for an entire summer of pot-and-cup showers like this. (I had to plead with him to finish putting in the new once before school started.)

But those shower-less days at home paid off. I write to you, squeaky-clean and still in a towel, ready to go make today my bitch. Yankee ingenuity at it's finest.

XOXO

Of Men, Women, And Italian Escapades, Part 4:

Italian Escapades:
Vespa Man, or Why Am I Such A Fuck-Up?

The dog is cute. It looks kind of like my best friend’s Australian shepherd, and it’s waiting patiently outside the small grocer’s down the block from my apartment for its master to return. It grins up at me, panting slightly, and, a sucker always for the canines, particularly good-looking ones, such as this one (just like with men and green-eyed people, or green-eyed men especially,) I smile back.

As I am smiling like a special type of fool at the dog, someone slides out of the door in front of me. I look up and see a youngish, stocky man in fashionable black leather-gear with sandy hair tucked under a helmet standing in front of me. “Hi,” he says, and thrown at the English with or without the accent behind it, I actually look back at him, catching his twinkling light eyes.

He reminds me, in the instant I really take him in, of the geeky Australian transfer student turned Eevil Keenival who was the hero of Grease 2. (Not such a great movie. That dreamboat and a young and always fabulous Michelle Phieffer were the only things that saved it.)

I take another pensive drag from the end of my cigarette, and he tries again. “Hello.” He’s careful to keep his body language open and friendly as I breeze by, not threatening or insinuating anything more than a greeting—maybe I’ll say something as I get closer? Maybe his magnetic attraction will just do the job and pull me right in to that black Italian-leathered muscular chest? I appreciate it—I appreciate all off it—though I don’t say anything back.

I walk another ten strides before it hits me. If Vespa man can see me like this, in a plaid men’s flannel shirt and bulky winter coat and my kicked-to-shit Uggs, desperately sucking on the end of a cigarette like it is my lifeline, hair tossed into a hot mess by the wind, and still think enough to want to say hi—what the fuck am I doing, walking away? If he is seeing me at one of my emotional lows, of which you conveniently get to miss out on the tempest that you’ve stirred up, and he wants to actually do something about it, even just greet me and chat with me on the sidewalk—why the fuck am I running away? Is that really the only mode I know how to operate on?

I look back. He’s still there, standing beside his Vespa, a vision in leather and nice hand-made shoes. I watch him swing a leg over the seat and settle in, turning the tiny engine over. He then motions to the dog, who rises from his watch by the shop’s stoop and jumps up into his master’s lap, riding in front of him. A man, his Vespa, and his dog. It’s such a picture of domestic Italian bachelordom bliss that it pulls at my ovaries somewhere in the same vicinity that really cute toddlers do. It doesn’t mean that I necessarily want one, but just for a moment, I think about what it could have been like if I actually said hi back. If we traded names. If I asked to pet his grinning dog and he told me it’s name. If I accepted an invitation for a ride on the back of the Vespa, something I want to check off the list of Thing To Do Before I Die or Before I Leave.

I think about it for a moment, watching his taillights fade. And then for another moment. And I find that somewhere in the space of these two moments, I’m less angry at you, and more angry at myself. I’m letting these moments go. These moments that I may never find again, great adventures, new acquaintances, and smiling European dogs. And for what? You’re having your moments at home, no explanations needed. I should be having mine. What I do here will mean just as little as what I didn’t do here when I get back, if not even less. Tit for tat. Vespa for Virginia.

XOXO

Of Men, Women, And Italian Escapades, Part 2:

Men:
Sex and the Whole Wide World:

The difference between men here and at home is apparent immediately. They look different—more put together and fashionable, no plaid flannel. They smell different—cologne in scents so exotic and captivating I will find I am following, nose-first, a 50-something man down the sidewalk for another whiff of that—what is it? Armani? Dolce?—musky smell. Italians also look pointedly. If one is checking you out, you know it. There are no last-minute turns so you don’t see them doing it. They speak up. They are not afraid to be shot down, because to them, that is just a fact of life—shit happens. Sometimes pretty women aren’t interested. Sometimes they even tell you to go fuck yourself for the “Ciao, bella” you gave them. If this was a common practice in the U.S, I think men would be so eternally crushed from all the turn-downs that we would not really have men anymore. There is something to be said for machismo. I think I could fall for one of these dashing figures quite easily, but Italians seems to exhibit the same sort of “I love you today; tomorrow I forget about you and replace you” mentality that I can’t stand.

And here I was, thinking sex ruled my life. I am a neophyte compared to Italian men. It’s all about getting it, doing it, doing it again, and onto the next. Personal space does not exist. Your ass is public property. A concert or packed club is a great way to try to procreate with you through clothing. Condoms are sold right alongside the Band-Aids. Sex, it seems, goes hand-in-hand with the mundane moments in life, like scraped knees or paper-cuts.

The implications of sex here are also different. A look means an opening for conversation. Conversation usually leads to a phone number. Giving a man your phone number means to be prepared for numerous calls or text, or calls AND texts, a day. “I see you later?” “Where are you tonight?” “What are you doing, cara?” Italian men are as needy as neurotic American women. Bringing them home means third base, at least. Go home with them, and your roommates may be calling the carabinieri, reporting you missing, because they are an enchanting and captivating people. You may not want to leave. And when you do finally break free from the love nest, try getting rid of them. It takes WEEKS.

And yes, Italian is a romance language. One of the most beautiful phrases that I have found to say is downright explicit—“Voglio vederti venire.” “I want to see you come.”

XOXO

Daughters, Students, Friends, Lovers.

All the men in my life are inordinately worried about me being over here. My father keeps telling me to “have fun” like I’m not already eating the best food of my life or working my way through a bottle of wine that I buy completely legally, free and clear, every other night. A favorite professor sent me a very comforting email about how the initial “initiation” phase in Italy can be very tough, but I’ll get through it, fine. Geoff, if he had had the time before I left, wanted to string together all the empty .38 shells from our afternoon at the shooting range and make a necklace for me so no one would fuck with me when I was out and about. Twanthony writes me wordy and hilariously, disturbingly violent weekly emails from home about what’s going on at work, who he wants to lay waste to and why, and to keep up with my adventures in his native land. Robin and the boys upstairs walk with me, even in broad daylight, right up to the front door, as if I could be whisked away somewhere in the 100 feet between the corner and front stoop. And after the first night I almost called you as I did it to have someone to walk me home over the phone from across the Atlantic, I re-thought it and realized I won’t dare tell you that I do the 20 minute walk home from my late-night class in the south end of the city to my apartment in the north end alone, because after the multitude of “be safe”s and “come back soon”s and the rest of the unspoken worry that nested somewhere between your guarded eyes and furrowed eyebrows, I would not put it past you to pitch an unholy fit and start developing the beginnings of an ulcer.

“Be safe” seems to be the rallying cry of all the important men in my life right now.

This is all I can say to you: I am fine. Stop worrying—not all the way, but enough to just know that I am enjoying myself here, and being as safe as I can be, and I will do all that I can to return myself back state-side in one piece, save for some liver damage from all the good vino and home-made liquor and about half a lung less than I started out with—both self-damaged and from the unavoidable second-hand smoke. The women here like me because I am up-front and assured while still being polite. The men, so far, are a little mystified at an American girl who looks them straight in the face and doesn’t play coy or seem to overly want their attention. Eh. They’re pretty, alright, a collectively beautiful people, but too clingy and a little too poetic for my tastes. “We be together tonight?” is not in my registered vocabulary at the moment. This is not to say I mind the occasional familiar heavy lean against me while seated, or hand on my hip or arm around my waist. These things are as reassuring and informally intimate as hearing an old friend’s voice, or a firm handshake. But I don’t have time for broken English or flowery Italian. Give me my American boys and an intelligent and fully comprehendible conversation, and call me a happy girl.

So. I’m being safe. I’m having fun. Short of saying “I would live here,” I hope it gets the point across. And rest assured, I worry just as much about you all being there, and me being here. I can’t wait to see you again.

There. Properly satisfied? Are we clear? Are you a little less nervous? A little more soothed that I am not running off with random Italian counts to their villas in Tuscany? (Though, I have not yet actually met a count. If I do, the game might change.)

XOXO

Flight Of The Midnight Sun

As I watched the sun rise in shades of pale orange, rose, and eggshell blue over the Atlantic Ocean at 6:30 AM Euro-time, and 1 AM U.S time from the plan window, it struck me that just like watching the sun rise in the middle of my night, I am in totally strange territory. In one month, I assigned myself to living in a totally foreign country for three months. There was lots of last-minute paperwork, not much planning, and a sense of total disregard for reading any of the prepatory material. Watching that midnight sun rise, I realized that not only was I not traditionally "ready," I also have no clue what I am doing. After a brief moment in which my eyes suddenly burned with a wall of saline tears pressing against the back of them, much to my total horror and embarrassment due to my attentive seatmate watching me, it passed. I am here. I said I'd do this. I need to do this. Already, I am stretching boundaries, making new friends, and opening myself up totally to whatever new experiances find me (including a group outing planned for what will be dubbed "The World's Most Offensive Scavenger Hunt" to a park replete at night with prostitutes, transvestities, and drug dealers in effort to find the holy trifecta of a transvestite drug-dealing prostitute, just to say we met one,) and just rolling with it.

Something's different in the air over here. It's not just the 50 degree temperature. It's not the food smells, or the palm tree that grows below my hotel window. It's a different permiable attitude of "what will be, will be." I am far calmer and more out-going and humorous here than at home. It's easy to be with a group of strangers, as a stranger, when all the natives expect you to be different anyway. Don't get me wrong-- I'm still alternately scared shitless and asking myself what the fuck I've gotten myself into, but I'm pretty sure I'm in love with Florence, already.

I am pretty sure this is the craziest and most exciting thing I have ever done.

Thank you for letting me go do this. It means so much.

I miss you all.

XOXO

Ciao, Bellas!: Goodbyes Before The Great Adventure Begins

"We're not going to encourage you to cross an ocean. We're selfish bitches who like you where you are."- Samantha, Sex and the City, Season 6.

In 24 hours, I will be somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean between Boston and Italy. I have 2 bags packed fully to the brim, my student visa and passport, 3 guidebooks, 3 new novels (2 bought, 1 very contentedly borrowed,) and lots and lots of people I don't want to leave.
...And a horse. She's equally, if not more, important.

The funny thing with the people who are close to you is that you can always, always, invariably tell when they are doing something strictly for your sake and trying to hide their real feelings on the subject. There is always the person who is not so keen on your leaving who knows that they should be excited for you, and so tries to pretend to be excited for you so that you aren't worried about them, because they are worried about you, and you just start a whole circle of projected feelings.
"I'm excited."
"Good. You should be excited." (Falsely cheerily.)
"...I'm coming back, you know. Don't worry."
"I'm not worried."
"You're so worried. And I'm worried about your being worried."

I can't be excited if you're worried. I'm worried about you. Me, I could care less about. So you care about me, and I'll care about you, and we'll both pledge to be nervous but excited for each other, and in no time flat, I'll be back. Easy as pie. Chocolate mud pie. My favorite.

Some don't try to hide it. Some, like Samantha, tell it to you exactly how it is. Friends are funny. They do unexpected things for your benefit that you never expect and then you have to balance their love for you with the situation at hand to see it from their perspective. (I recently remembered the fact that when a good friend of yours says they're going to do something, they usually do it. So take them seriously, or you're going to be the one feeling your jaw drop against the desk in shock.)

"I'm inviting you to go to France, not to jail."- Alec.
"I just--"- Carrie
"Have more questions?"- Alec
"Yes. I'm not finished with New York."- Carrie, all Sex and the City, all Season 6.

You always leave for a trip sooner than you want to. Universal truth. Am I ready? No. Am I going to do my best? Yes. I may or may not have mulishly not planned some details, like, plotting points around the city in regards to the college or my apartment because, frankly, at this point, all of the paperwork and planning has left very little room for the adventure in this adventure, and I really would just like to get lost enough to have no other options than stop wandering, find a good bar, sit down, and just...let it go.

If there is one thing I have learned recently, it's that when something keeps popping up unexpectedly-- a book, a person, a place-- you better face it head-on and get over your shit, because if you don't, you're just going to waste time and an opportunity. You can't deny what is right in front of you. You can try like hell, but sometimes, it's just best to stop the fight and resign yourself to the fact that at times, things greater than your own force of nature are at work. Sometimes, it's to help you. Sometimes, it's to teach you a lesson. And other times, it's to open you up to possibilities you never imagined were possible.

When two things work in tandem, they are always stronger and more sure than one. Remember this. Find someone or something else that works at your speed, and don't give up on it easily.

"There are those that open you up to something new and exotic, those that are old and familiar, those that bring up lots of questions, those that bring you somewhere unexpected, those that bring you far from where you started, and those that bring you back. But the most exciting, challenging and significant is the one you have with yourself. And if you can find someone to love the you you love, well, that's just fabulous."- Carrie, Sex and the City, Season 6.

So here's to traveling and friends and letting go and new adventures. Speaking of, I have no idea when or how I will be getting internet access in Florence, so I'll do my best, but it may be a little while. Rest assured, I'll be back.

Ciao, bellas! I love all y'all.
XOXO