Relationship Of The Traveling Jacket

As we probably all know by now, I have issues with money. Specifically, not spending it. And even as apt as I am to spend it on a whim for myself-- really, a lot of the time, I have no idea where my money even really GOES-- I'm even more apt to spend it on presents for other people. Shopping for myself is so easy it's not even much of a challenge anymore. I know what I like; I know where to find what I like; and I have no trouble buying what I like. However, there's that One Moment when you find something that is so perfectly perfect for someone else that I liken it to the shopper's equivalent for the Holy Grail. It's like a coke addict getting the pure stuff. It's like Imelda Marcos finding another pair of shoes. And I swear to god, in the moment that I spot that item that my friend/father/boyfriend/boss/random-waiter-who-only-serves-me-on-the-3rd-Friday-of-every-month/professor cannot possibly live without, even if they don't know it yet, and I get to be the one to present it to them...it pulses in my vision with a radiant golden glow, like it was sent from the gods. It's like a something in a totally killer video game, but it's REAL LIFE. And it's blissfully and tangibly MATERIAL.

The weather in Vermont lately has been such a teaser for the fall to come, and today was the first day since moving back Stateside that I got to wear my leather jacket (seen above at Trevi Fountain, below looking toward the Colosseum, and above-above on the night of my birthday, so I guess, technically, that's a lie, though literally, today was the first DAY and not NIGHT I've worn it). I commented on this fact to Alli during our dinner-and-an-old-yet-favorite-movie at home, and the conversation finally worked its way around to the fact I bought and brought back from Italy to the guy I had most recently been seeing a leather jacket of his own, based merely on the fact that as I was leaving, I asked if he needed a new wallet or belt or journal, as I was going to be living in the leather goods capital of the world, and he jokingly replied, "Nah. But I always have wanted a leather jacket," and so on the same day, in the same shop I found mine, I found the perfect one for him-- something

which neither Alli nor Nora have completely made peace with yet considering all of what happened between coming back from Italy, giving him said jacket, and now. As for my part, it was a gift, and I am not an Indian-giver. You don't just happen upon, buy, give, and then take back the perfect present. You don't repossess something bought specifically for one person. You just cut your losses and call it even. Eh. What ya gonna do abouddit?

Today, however, I found the loop-hole, as I looked down at my spoils-of-Italy-clad feet while splayed across the couch. "You know what?" I said to Alli. "I actually think I paid more for these boots than I paid for that jacket."

Italy. Your economy can thank me.

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

Twisted Tips for Truly Tricky Travelers

Ciao, ragazzi! Mi dispace for not writing recently. I just got back from a much-needed, 4 day, last-Italian-adventure, blow-off-steam-and-not-study-for-finals trip to Sicily. I have a few blog posts, including one of blogging tips and tools of the trade for other bloggers, that I have currently under wraps, but right now, my state-side roommate is currently here, and I think being social with something other than my computer screen is favorable. Despite the fact that I actually did bring it to Sicily, not much writing was done on it. It was only used to alert the world of our continued existence after travelling to and in the birthplace of epic volcanoes and this little organization called...the Mafia?...and to watch Champlain's graduation (tears optional). Mostly, it was a 5 pound weight on my sunburned shoulders in my backpack.

Getting to and from Sicily seemed like it may never happen. I was the one who ended up planning the travel itinerary, which, truthfully, was the first real itinerary I have ever planned in my life. I tend to be a "by-the-seat-of-my-pants" girl, but on a huge island in which you don't speak the language so much and is surrounded by volcanoes and people with an affinity for cement boots (if Hollywood can convince you of this fact), is not someplace you want to be standing around, going "Huh?" I was so preoccupied attending my last Wednesday night class, running to Santa Maria Novella station afterward, and buying my train ticket to get into Rome and meet Alli to spend the night at JD's that I completely overlooked a few facts. Mainly, the fact that validating tickets in Italy is a big deal. And so, "Twisted Tips for Tricky Travelers" was born.

Not validating a train ticket can cost you either up to 50 Euro, or an eviction from said train, hopefully, while it's not still moving. I made the penultimate mistake, short of never even buying a ticket (this, however, is something I "conveniently" forget to do every time I'm in Rome, but there's more on that later), when I was so caught up in enjoying my ultimate travel McNugget Happy Meal that I completely forgot to validate my 44 Euro fast-train ticket. I was halfway through my crunchy, sinfully salty and greasy fries by the time I realized this, and sat there, stunned, completely thrown off my McComfort Food. It's a totally noob mistake, and I am not a noob in Italy anymore. In fact, I moseyed over to Santa Maria Novella Stazione, ordered my McDonalds, got my water, ignored the kissy noises and comments, and got on the train in complete and total Italian ease. Why I missed those little yellow boxes, I'll never know.

So I sat there, repeating "fuck" over and over in my head, which is the one English swear I will not let go of because there is really no equivalent, and mentally calculated the first $75 would be charged to my newly minted, never-been-used, very scary credit card when I came up with my dastardly Plan of Action: to play the Dumb American Traveling in Italy for the First Time.

Thank god I was on my way for a weekend of hiking and beaching, and so, wore my "adventure clothes" of cuffed boyfriend jeans, scuffed-to-shit Vans slip-on sneakers, and was carrying my undeniably ostentatious red and white Burton backpack. Also, thank god I was not only willing to "look cute, be charming, stumble with my Italian, apologize and blink my big blue eyes" as Alli instructed me via text-- I also had chosen a good day to wear a baby blue shirt that brought out said big blue eyes and a strand of classy pearls.

And then I came up with what is possibly one of the most cunning and manipulative plans of my life. Which, of course, I am sharing with you so you can abuse it, too, if you ever find yourself in the same sort of situation:

- I plugged my iPod in,

- Hid my diamond which suggested wealth and the incorrect idea that I may be able to pay a 50 Euro fine, and

- Pretended to be asleep.

Sure enough, when the train steward came by to check tickets as they always do, I appeared to be, and actually kind of was, fast asleep. She gently tapped my shoulder, and I started awake with an "Oh! Oh!" as she apologized and asked for my ticket. Then, in one of the most painful moments of my life, and in one of the most convincing moments of my acting career, pretended to not understand a word she said, not even when she asked "Parli Italiano?" Instead, I made what must have been a very dumb and confused face and answered, "Uhhh, no," in English. She switched languages and asked for my ticket again as I rubbed my eyes. I fished it out of my pocket and presented it to her as if it were Excalibur, watching as he eyes went straight to the empty spot where the validation was supposed to be. She looked quickly at me once more (charming, helpless, blink, blink), and then punched the ticket as checked, while thanking me, still in English, and wishing me a good trip. I then "went back to sleep."

Does this make me a bad person? Yes. A cheap-skate? Probably. But I want to thank Mill River's Stage 40 theater department, Mr. Bruno, and Peter Marsh for 6 years of excellent acting coaching. Thank you, dad, for those big blue eyes. And thank you, very nice train steward lady, for letting this dumb American girl go on to Roma and then Sicilia.

Though Sicilian (that's pronounced "Se-chill-ian") and Italian may be two completely different linguistic creatures, Sicilia is by far the favorite place I have been to in Italy. We got in to Palermo and visited the Botanical Gardens, the Rotunda, and hopped a bus to Mondello beach, where, after some overcast weather and having soccer balls and sand kicked at us by Sicilian middle-schoolers, we decided to call it a visit, and hop on our bus to Catania before I started screaming "Basta, ragazzi! Sei stronzo!"

Catania was a completely different story. Though the city may have felt like it was stuck in a time warp from the early '90s, it had enough sooty Baroque buildings, tourists, and locals to give it a well-lived-in feel. As I told Alli, "You know it's Sicily when at night, you can hear someone's mother chastising them from across the street through their open windows." The pastries were to die for. The market in the mornings, a foodie's madhouse. We bought our food there and took it away to sit in view of historical castellos and piazzas and lunched on fluffy rolls hot from the oven, prosciutto, fresh black pepper and pecorino cheese, olives soaked in olive oil, and some of the best oranges, strawberries, and melon I have ever had for about 5 Euro a person.

Our last day and night, we stayed in Catania City Center B&B in what could quite possibly become my Sicilian flat, newly renovated, painted, and decorated, with full kitchen, bathroom, and queen-size bed, for the dirt-cheap price of 65 Euro, which in no way reflected the ambiance. There was Wi-Fi. A flat-screen, high-def TV. And Satellite cable. And a DVD player, complete with a DVD library. Free breakfast in the morning. Angela, the B&B owner, not only made us some UNBELIEVABLE cappuccino, but also helped us with a thousand and one tiny, annoying questions we had about the internet, Catania, and helped us coordinate how to get to the beach. (Any errors made in course were strictly our mistakes as bumbling American travelers. As you will see.) I have stayed in a lot of hotels, B&Bs, and hostels in my life from places there was no hot running water (AHEM--Agora Hostel--AHEM) to the Waldorf Astoria and a concierge suite in Montreal's Hilton. And I am telling you, straight up, no shit-- Catania City Center B&B was the best place I have ever spent a night. It redefines clean, modern, efficient, and welcoming. So much that instead of eating out at a restaurant that night, we got kebabs and Muscato dessert wine to go, and spent the night in our flat lounging, eating, drinking, and watching the Scooby Doo movie.

Oh, that should also be addressed: Sicilian dessert wines are by far some of the most sweet, succulent, delicious nectar from the gods that you will ever drink. I spent roughly 30 to 35 U.S dollars on a bottle of Muscato to celebrate graduation in absentia since we couldn't be in Burlington to actually party, so happy fucking graduation, I bought myself a very expensive bottle of wine to think about drinking with you guys. Best served either very chilled, or naturally very warmed from the afternoon Sicilian sun.

Friday evening, we took a sunset hike up Mount Etna, also known as, "Oh my god, I'm from the Northeast and have never seen a volcano! THAT IS LAVA! THAT IS REAL, BLACK, HARDENED LAVA!" We went with the Etna Tattoo and Art Cafe Club, and not only did our guide Ernesto get us there, up, down, and back alive, he also provided some cold weather clothing after my speech on the attributes of Gore-Tex (waterproof, windproof, insulating,) got lost in translation, an impromptu karaoke show for us from the jump-seats in the back of his Land Rover, and some bites of a truly excellent prosciutto and cheese sandwich. We even got enough cell reception at the top of the big caldera to call our friend from his motherland as a pre-graduation present. It was, by far, one of the top 3 great experiences of my life. It may have even edged out some of the better sex I've had. That's how unreal it was. The white sand beach and swimming in the Meditteranian was nice. The black lava beach under Aci Castello was stunning (and hot). But Etna, looming over all of Catania at a truly staggering elevation, belching small tufts of smoke, was what really stunned this writer who previously thought she was a real "big mountain girl" from Vermont. HA HA. I lose.

The people of Sicily, however, are really what made it. From hiking Etna with the fun-loving, multi-lingual mountain destroyers Tyrone and Maria, to the old men who serenaded us in the streets, to the 16 year old girl on the city bus who invited us to her birthday party next week (probably to be the entertainment as she thought me struggling through a conversation in Italian was HEE-LAR-I-OUS,) to the Sheraton hotel front desk man who through a conversational mix of Italian, French, and English called us a cab after we hiked a mile from Aci Castello to Aci Trezza after missing our bus and trying to get back to Catania in time to catch our bus to Palermo, they are, without a doubt, the best Italians I have had the pleasure of interacting with. I was afraid at first from all of the guidebook warnings of them being a very closed and guarded culture. Totally unfounded. Our very sweet cabby Giovanni who had our American-Sicilian friend's liquid and unfairly long-lashed eyes and was quite tricky himself when he asked us if we wanted to take the cab from Catania to Palermo (to the tune of around 300 Euro,) actually complimented us with the universal sign for "you're clever" with a twist of his index in the dimple of his cheek after we emphatically responded with a "NO!!!" and then laughed when he asked us if we "like the Catanese boys?" and we gave an equally emphatic "SI!!!"

In another episode of traveler trickery in which never buying bus tickets for city buses in Rome or Sicily was involved, when Alli and I were the last two people on the bus to La Playa beach, and our driver got up to check the ticket validating machines, partly to head him off from asking for our (nonexistent) tickets and partially to actually get an answer, I asked him before he could get to us if the bus was stopping at the beach. (In Italian, of course.) He told us no, and after seeing our crestfallen little faces, asked if that's where we were trying to go. "Si," I answered, and the next thing I knew, he was telling us he would take us there. How many other people can say that they had a city bus drive 20 minutes outside of its route to personally drop them off at the beach like a very, VERY long stretch limo? That's the Sicilian way.

I don't think I have to tell you out-right that I highly suggest taking a trip to Sicily or even possibly living there for a bit. (Maybe a year or so.) But in the case that my arguement for this scrappy and potentially erupting little island has convinced you enough, here are some tips. I'll tell it bluntly: Sicilians are small. Their buildings are large. The men are swarthy and gorgeous. Try to keep your panties on. Palermo is a Napolean-sized Rome. Catania is prettier. Sicily is dirty. Don't expect to find many trashcans or Western toilet seats. Taking an SAIS bus is the easiest, cheapest, and most comfortable way to travel. All SAIS bus drivers are hip 30-something dudes with cool shades. You don't have to get city bus tickets. Just hop on. Hop off if you see a ticket inspector get on. TRY to speak some Italian. Eating is cheap. Sicilians are loud. Fair-skinned people will burn easily. Lava beaches are sharp and hard on the ass. Plus, any city that sells trademarked seeds outside of Amsterdam is down with me.

Right now, I'm brown as a nut, probably going to start peeling, mid-finals, and I return back state-side in 3 days. If you have any questions about Italy or my travels while I'm still here, now would be the time to send me a comment and ask me.

Ciao-ciao!

XOXO

Not All Those Who Wander Are Lost.

My friend Arielle, who is a very wise woman, said something to me the other day as we were discussing our time living in Italy-- "No one decides to go halfway around the world and study abroad for months for no reason. If your life was perfect, you wouldn't be in Italy, or Ireland, or France. I think everyone who studies abroad, whether they know it or not, is trying to escape from something."

That girl knows how to kick me in the ass like almost no other.

What she said is true. Think about it. If you were perfectly content and happy with your life at home, why would you leave? Why would you uproot, leave all your support systems, and decide that maybe, living somewhere 4,000 miles away sounded like a good idea? Why would you exchange your apartment, job, college, local grocery store, friends, climate, coffee shop, and daily routine for new ones if you were still so enamored with the old ones? It is not because, as some might say, you "wanted the experience." To that, I say bullshit. Yes, it certainly is an experience, but so is going to your closest amusement park and riding a roller coaster. If you wanted to shake your life up a bit, you would find a new job or get a haircut. You would not pack your life into two suitcases, a backpack, and a very large purse and move yourself across the globe for a nice jaunt. That is not an "experience." That is a life change, and you have to have a very good reason for making one of those, believe me.

I know because what Arielle said applies for me, too. One thing that I have learned while over here is what I am, and what I am not. And one thing that I am is a runner. If I have an issue, I tend to run away from it. In fact, Italy was my biggest runner of all. Italy was my answer to running away from my life for over three months, putting everything I could not fix on hold, and distancing myself from reality. In the months before I left, things happened in my life that I didn't have answers for. I lost someone incredibly important to me. I was stagnant in my job. I found myself in a situation that I didn't know how to deal with, because I did not have the guts to actually speak up about what I wanted and what I needed and what I was feeling. I experienced raw, emotional pain for the first time in my life like a tidal wave that sucked me down into the deepest depression of my life. Nothing was working. I got scared. I was flailing, and falling, and striking out at whatever came near me. I remember, hazily, screaming at my mother in the car while sobbing hysterically. I remember my hands shaking from thinly controlled nerves as I tried to paint. I remember turning back to chemical release because I still could not use words to remedy the situation I was in, and so, smoking could do it for me. I remember hours spent lying on my bed, in the dark, not doing anything, because just moving hurt. I remember days where I did not talk. I remember not wanting to look at myself in the mirror, because then I would see hipbones and ribs and sharp angles that I had never had before.

And so I came to Italy because I was letting go of everything that was holding me back, because I was leaving. I was checking out. I was done with living the way I had been. I came thinking that that would be the answer to life. I got shiny and sleek from the hot sun and rich food. My hair got longer in passing with the days. I started to heal. But, like Arielle, I started to realize why I had come to study abroad. I started to separate the experience from the impetus.

It took some massive struggles and some pretty tough self-love. I didn't like myself all of the time. I still don't, some days. I can be obsessive, illogical, irrational, jealous of things I cannot change, and--yes-- neurotic, and a HUUUGE flaming hypocrite. I cannot, in other words, get out of my own way. Like every person, I like to think that I was a great baby. In reality, my mother tells me that until I learned how to "get out of my own way" and crawl, I was miserable. And just like when I was a baby, with the stress of finals looming, eight-and-over page papers due in nearly every class, trying to find a job to now go with my apartment and nearly $700-a-month rent from across the ocean, my body rejecting nearly everything I try to put in it because at this point it is trying to physically reject Italy itself, and a massive question-mark hovering over the status of my life back in Vermont, I am fussy and just want to go home and figure all that out. NOW. I started to panic. I started to obsess and started to expect more than was feasible from other people, and then take it personally when things didn't pan out. I started to shut down. Like, "Get me on a plane tomorrow, ship me home, and the devil take my finals and credits and grades, because I have figured out me, I have figured out my life here, and now it is time to rejoin reality and figure out my life there."

But then I realized that if I went home now, I would have forever run away from something else-- something which I will never get a chance to get back. I also would incur a large amount of debt from switching my ticket that, seeing as I am currently job-less, I would not be able to pay back until the already large lump-sum had accrued even more money not being paid off on my (brand-new, never used, very scary) credit card. Overall, I think staying for the next 16 days is in my best interest. And so, to make it easier on myself, I cut the things out that were making me unnecessarily worry and over-hype and expect and wait and wait and wait for SOMETHING to happen, for some divine clue that everything was alright and that life back home was waiting for me to return, just as it was when I left, just as I hoped it would be. This means, for the next week, no skulking around Facebook. No waiting on Skype. No Twitter (except to Tweet these updates to the blog). This, of course, I cannot cut out, and wouldn't want to. If I couldn't write, I would die. As simple as that. (One of the things I discovered, inequivocably, I am: a writer. In that, I chose rightly.)

It does not mean, however, that it isn't very hard. I now have an apartment in Burlington that all I want is for it to be June 1st so I can move in. I want to have Saph's head on my chest again, impossibly heavy and nearly knocking me over, her nostrils making wet pockets on my shirt, my nostrils filled with the scent of hay and dust and horse. I want to wake up early and go for a walk with the trees overhead like a canopy, so early that no one else is up and I can savor a Vermont morning, all by myself. I want to drive my Civic again and panic about hill-stops on Main Street. I want to be back among my people, my friends, and the plaidness of it all. I want to find out what's going on, and where I stand. I want to have (physically, if not also emotionally if it is not too much to ask for,) safe sex again. I want to not have to smoke as much, though this is a completely open-for-interpretation desire, as my smoking habits vary directly with my stress levels. In any case, I want to not have to buy a new pack every five days.

Right now, I need more than is fair to ask from others. And so, that leads to having to ask myself to be everything I need. And this is why I came abroad, come to find out. I had to leave so that I could find myself. So that I could learn to be nearly everything I need. So that I could learn that I am obsessive, and illogical, and irrational, and jealous, and-- yes-- neurotic, and that I can be a huge hypocrite. The one thing I have to say about this period of time of running away is that though Arielle may have been right in the fact that I had a reason for leaving my life, I found an even better one to return to it: who I am, what I want, and what I need. And so, I close with this thought: though wanderers and runners and study abroad students may leave to go someplace for reasons they don't know, they will find them once they get there. If you leave someplace, you will discover why. And if you go somewhere new, you will discover something new about yourself, not just about your location. Many times, I have foolishly wished I didn't come here, just so that things could "stay normal" at home and so I wouldn't "have to worry." But in the end, what I have found here, and what has happened in Italy will be what sticks with me for the rest of my life, despite whatever I find has or has not changed back home. Not all those who wander are lost.

XOXO

Wrapping Up Firenze

Today, I am living in Florence:

I know it because I spent two hours tanning on the balcony in my bikini in the hot and dry Mediterranean sun, and then had to put on jeans, fashionable sandals, a classic white t-shirt, and do my hair and make-up, just to leave the apartment, walk down the street, and get a Doner kebab for dinner. I know because as I was walking down the sidewalk, half of the Italians who passed me were still in heavy coats despite the direct sun and 60+ degree temperature, and I found myself catching snippets of conversations as I passed. "Uomo mange troppo..." became "Man (meaning 'humans' in this context) eat too much." "Dove lei?" I understood instantly as "Where is she?" And the construction works who called out "Mamma mia! Caro! Bella! Biancaissimi!" as I passed needed no translation.

Tomorrow marks one-month away from leaving this country. 30 days left. In total, I have now lived here for 80 days. I have been to Roma (twice), and Venezia, and Pisa, and Cinque Terre (twice), and Dublin (for a week), and Northern Ireland(twice). I still have my last hurrah-- 4 days in Sicily with Alli the last weekend I am in Italy. I have spent more money and gained more debt than I care to admit, gained about 5 pounds and lost all my gym-rat-and-runner's muscle mass, and gotten sick of eating pasta while discovering a deep, passionate, and abiding love for Doner kebab. I enjoy wine exponentially more than I did before I came, and can now assess body, bouquet, and balance without a second thought. I have eaten fresh octopus and veal marrow and squid-ink spaghetti, and still need to try a famous Florentine tripe sandwich. I brought back the dying pen-pal tradition with the help of a well-written, verbose friend's assistance and continued correspondence. I have bought 6 pairs of shoes, and mastered the double-orgasm. I have made new friends for life, and managed not to kill any of my roommates yet. I have become a bona-fide, addicted, sometimes chain-smoking smoker. New friends bonded over new food and new clothing every Thursday night. The language became musical as I grew to understand it, in piccola and grande chunks. I became adept at sleeping anywhere-- foreign beds, beaches, and buses. I now parlo un po d'italiano.

But I've missed 21st birthdays, break-ups, new relationships, sex, parties, concerts, good days, bad days, daily life, and even sacrificed pieces of my own life where they intersected with other's lives while being here. I have gained some things, and may have devastatingly lost others. I am down-right guilty that I will be missing graduation, watching it streaming from my hotel room in Sicily instead, as friends I've had for years grasp diplomas and walk out of Champlain College's life, and into their own new ones. I've found that sometimes, you need to leave to get closer, and that you are never truly lost or plan-less as long as one foot is being put in front of the other. I have learned the weight of deeply missing someone, as well as the high heights of making it on your own. No matter what has or what will happen, I never would have traded this experience. The girl who came without much of a plan but a lot of questions is now ready to go home, someone a little wiser and a little different, with a lot of answers. So, now. Take me home. If I click the heels of blue boat shoes three times, will it get me back to Vermont?

I'm ready to be back in my real life; try it again, this time, hopefully for real, and take back everything I've been missing, detailed below:.

The Roof Over My Head:

Is at 311 South Union Street. It faces North, and has 2 bedrooms, a bathroom, a living room, an enclosed back porch, and a large and bright eat-in kitchen. (Though I have not been in it yet. I am trusting my description on my mother's words.) Until I can move in on June 1st, I'll probably be splitting time bumming around between my extremely sweet and gracious friend's couches in Burlington, and tying My Life As I Know It up in Rutland and packing up and out of there for good. I always thought it would be harder to leave the home I grew up in, but after these three months and the at times physical pain of wanting to be in Burlington so badly, it has been made abundantly clear to me that that is where my life is. That is where my friends are (though my 802 Crew will always, ALWAYS be welcome to visit in Burlington, because you are not friends at this point-- you are FAMILY). That is where my apartments have been. That is where my school is. That is where my jobs are. That's where the sun over the lake blinds my eyes as I look down the hill and the sand at North Beach gets stuck in between my toes and in my hair. That is where I know streets like old friends and can give you a running commentary on who lived where, what infamous party was busted there, and what I've eaten here as we walk through the city. There's where I know what's around me, what I have, and therefore, who I am. In short, that's where my heart is.

So I will pack up. I will take my hand-painted Monet stool and my nightstand and my two floor lamps and my shoe collection and the brown sofa bed that is older than I am, and I will move them, and my life, an hour and a half North to register as a resident, have my voter's details changed, and pay rent like a real, poor, and real poor human being. I will scour Recycle North and the Christmas Tree Shop and IKEA's website and DIY websites and manuals and reupholster and paint and hang (might need some taller help with that,) and decorate with whites and chrome and pops of bright colors and hints of green. I will find my first, and probably only and last, queen size bed. I will buy those dishes at Homeport I have always loved. I will do laundry regularly. I might bring my FatCat up to live with me so I am not alone on nights my roommate is not there. Provided she does not pee outside of her litterbox. (The cat, not the roommate. The roommate is housebroken.) I will go to classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays in the fall, and work nearly every other waking hour in between. I will save my money. And I, too, a year from now, will graduate, and will realize that I have moved myself out of my parent's house and out of my hometown, and have already started my life.

An Ode To Food:

I am in ITALY, and all I am planning for my first few days back in Burlington is to eat. First stop, American Flatbread for a Medicine Wheel pizza, NOT like they make them in Italy. Then, for comparison, I will wander over to Mr. Mike's for a slice of Buffalo Bully, because an Italian would never, EVER put ranch dressing on a pie. (This also coincidentally knocks off another item on my American Dining List-- ranch dressing. I want it on my pizza, and I want a huuuge, green, veggie-laden salad absolutely SMOTHERED in it, please.) That night, I will order a half-pound of Wings Over honey barbecue boneless wings at 2 AM. BECAUSE I CAN. I will also get the buttermilk ranch dressing with them. The next day, I will wake up around noon, get my girls together, and go to the Skinny Pancake (affectionately known amongst a select few as the "Spinny Cancake" because THAT pronunciation was the sole braincell that died after a very prodigious night's smoking back sophomore year,) and get the apple and brie crepe. I will go straight from there to City Market, where I will buy Vermont Cheese & Cremery's distinctive, straight-from-the-farm butter, and a baguette, and will eat the whole. damn. thing. Then, I will drive over to the UMall, and treat myself to an Auntie Anne's original pretzel and a small, tart, refreshingly summertime lemonade.

And I will go to Bobcat Cafe and Brewery in Bristol, even though I will have to wait another 28 days once in Burlington for my legal birthday, and bring one of my older accomplices in crime with me, and dine on what is simply THE BEST American comfort food there ever was, and drink what is arguably some of the most unassumingly best beer in the Northeast. Much better than a half-liter 1 Euro Peroni-- vero, vero, vero.

And THEN I will hit the gym with a vengeance, and embrace and cry over my treadmill like a long-lost friend. And hopefully live a little bit longer, if I haven't already damaged my arteries too badly while here and developed smoker's cough.

Sex:

Lots and lots of you-know-where's-it's-been, you-know-where-it's-come-from, and you-know-what-it's-going-to-be-like sex.

That is all I want out of coming home. The apartment, my friends, good ol' honest American food and brews, and good ol' honest American sex. Life is pretty simple for me. Shelter me, feed me, fuck me. And while you're here, can I please get you to help me put up these curtains? I can't reach. Thanks.

XOXO

Two Summer Essentials; Lots Of Ways To Wear Them.

Wow. It's been awhile since I've done a fashion post. I mean, a while. And I know what you're thinking-- 'You're in Italy, you idiot, practically fashion capital of the WORLD.' And you're right. But after the initial month-long period of integration here in which I snapped up every black/gray/dark blue, shirt/sweater/sweater-dress, wool/cotton/wool-cotton-blend in sight trying desperately to fill the holes in my wardrobe, blend in, and gain some semblance of warmth since I had been EXTREMELY optimistic in my first-non-Vermont-winter packing and so, was subsequently freezing when Italy ended up not being quite as balmy and sunny as expected...well, I kind of gave up. There's only so many times you can haul yourself out of bed at the ass-crack of the morning, shower, do your hair (15 minutes) and make-up (10 minutes) and then stand in front of your closet in your undies and bra, shivering, going, "Ok-- what's going to make me look like a chic Italian today?" (a totally unspecified amount of time before inspiration hits) before you find yourself hitting snooze to sleep instead of shower, putting your hair back in a bun and headband, smearing on Burt's Bees face cream and chapstick and slipping into (Italian) jeans, boots, and a basic t-shirt or, on my more homesick days, a plaid flannel shirt and walking out the front door like a gigantic "FUCK YOUUUU" to the whole Italian fashion-obsessed culture. Unless, of course, you are a New Yorker and already used to this daily beauty-and-fashion grind. You lucky, lucky bitches.

I daydream about the days I used to be able to put on sweats and drive to class in my slippers.

It's not like I haven't been shopping. (Oh, no-- my bank account balance and debit card statement will prove that I have been.) But it was just boredom shopping, happy-accident shopping, hey-whatever shopping. Nothing I was really thrilled about or really could get excited enough to post about. (Though if you need to know how to dress to look native, unspecial, and disinterested with life in Italy, I am your girl. Black. Lots and lots of black.) Until today, when, in the full sunshine-60+ degrees swing of summer's-promise bliss, I found the two essentials to my summer wardrobe. (And a few other incidentals that went along too well with them to pass up.)

First and foremost, a pair of shoes I've been dreaming about since I tried them on at Peluso nearly a month ago: brown strappy wedges that are honestly some of the most comfortable things I have ever put on my feet while still being devastatingly beautiful. (Seriously. I feel like I could hike up a mountain in them, perfectly fine. And being a Vermont Girl who runs better in her stilettos than in hiking boots, I probably could. And they make this "Thumbellina" as a very tall soldier called me the other day, tall and leggy for once in her life.)

I have never, EVER bought brown leather shoes before, and was a little hesitant about what I would wear them with at first. Being an ex-American Eagle sales associate cult member, I had the denim notion down-- they'll work well with light wash skinny jeans or a denim skirt or shorts. But brown to me says "summer," especially brown wedges. So, what else to pair them with?

I was distraught that I would forever be a fashion Don't in my beautiful brown wedges and mis-paired outfits until I wandered, like by automatic pilot clothing hypnosis, over to H&M, wedges in hand, and Arielle there to guide me with fashion advice. And there, amongst the international low-price clothing, I found it. My Summer Look.

Starting from the feet up, I paired my wedges first with a pair of pseudo-destroyed, medium-wash denim shorts, with extra detailing around the hem and double-pockets. Then I found a loose-fitting see-through white lace t-shirt, much like this one, that looks great either loose, or half-tucked into a pair of cuffed and relaxed boyfriend jeans or denim shorts with a good statement belt and the wedges. Or, take the wedges and the white lace t-shirt, and tuck the shirt into a brightly colored and oh-so-summery floral pencil skirt like this one,

Visit hm.com

also from H&M, which also HAS POCKETS and a gold zipper half-way down the back, and you have a flirty, fun, very seasonal look. OR, you could also take fun and colorful printed dresses (strapless is best at saying "summer"), and play up the dress by keeping the brown wedges practical.

Perfection. Everything was just as comfortable as my jeans/t-shirt/boots regimen (in fact, they're still the same jeans), but was so much more fitting for the new, nearly beachy weather and is almost disconcertingly fashionable with minimal effort. So feel free to mix and match-- you get a great Cost Per Wear with these summer staples that finally, FINALLY will be the happy-medium between my relaxed comfort and the end of the Italian's desire to throw me in front of a speeding moped for not trying hard enough with my attire.

However, I am now on a 50 Euro a week stipend because of my shopping, but I guess it will make me more frugal and also, hey-- if I have to do without food for a day or two, at least I'll fit in my new clothing better.

Ciao, bellas!

XOXO

A Life Lesson In Gender Relationships

A girl must have her girls.

But when in doubt, when you're feeling very small and unsure and scared and alone...

Call on your boys.

Have a few good, solid, hearty guys in your life who you know will always pick up the phone. Who will always sound like hearing from you is Christmas morning all over again. Who will sit through you having a crisis of faith in everything from yourself, to others, to the real estate market, to the state of your lungs and just listen and let you get it all off your chest. Who, when they say, "it's just a few more weeks," makes it sound not only doable, but enjoyable.

Because while your girls know what they should say to make you feel better, your boys can say things to you that make you feel like you're back at home in someone's living room in your warmest, most comfy sweats, passing a bowl and smelling spilled beer and stale cigarette smoke.

It may not sound all that glamorous or comforting.

But my god, it is.

So here's to the men in my life who pick up those calls and listen to all the small, scared thoughts and are intuitive enough to say things like, "We miss you too, muffin," which is pretty much the psychological equivalent of a giant bear-hug from across the Atlantic. Thank you, thank you, thank you from the bottom of this scared little unbeliever's heart. While I may have shitty luck in housing, the job market, and love, I am overly-blessed in my friends. And when it comes down to it, they usually have a couch and enough room in their life and love for your poor homeless ass, too.

XOXO

"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

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

A Present For You.

To start your day right. My best friend told me about Dub FX, and I think that you should hear this before you head out to start your day. The right way.

"Well, I know it's late, and it's probably Fate that I can't get through to you, but I needed to hear your voice in my ear to start my day anew. But your phone was off, and I missed your calls-- now you're fast asleep. So when you get up and you're ready to rock, you can make my mobile beep. You can make, you can make, you can make my mobile beep. Oh, just make my mobile beep."



Well, that didn't work out QUITE the way I wanted-- the song quoted is "Wandering Love," which is NOT the player-- but I highly suggest "Wandering Love," "Love Someone," "Intentions," and "Love Me Or Not." Here is a guy who writes about emotions, and writes/lyricizes about emotions WELL. With a catchy beat. First houseparty back in the states-- guess what's playing?

XOXO