That's a Wrap

Life is so crazy, you know? I'm in my room in Chicago, the snow falling steadily onto American automobiles. Rome, with all of its life-changing, life-giving, megatronic, megalithic, neon, bruised, tasty, sweet, delicious, juiciness has come to a close for this little girl. I don't mean to get ridiculous but I have to tell you: it was the best thing that's ever happened to me. I needed a breath of fresh air, something to stir me up, a run way for all the restlessness I felt getting stronger inside. And then, I ran free. I met some of the most amazing people and I tasted some of the best vegetables and I saw things mundane, extraordinary, extraterrestrial. If you've read this at any point, thank you so much. And if you haven't, don't worry. It was really for me. I wanted a tiny piece of the goddess for myself for always.

The loves:

Chiara, Zoe, Becca, Courtney, Nicole, Kim, Annelise, Ilaria, Michele, Matteo, Simona, Via Annia (I miss you, dear fountain), and the Goddess herself. I will never forget you, friends. It's not goodbye, but ci vediamo dopo.

Se Telefonando

The women of Via Annia are sick of finals. In the spirit of procrastination, we invited some of our friends for a final feast. There were about fourteen of us, crowded in the usual fashion, eating and chatting. People filtered in and out, the responsible left to study for finals. I was not among this group. Around ten, we dimmed the lights and put on Gloria Estefan. Matteo got into the groove, so much so that he split his pants down the ass. To add insult to injury, he was wearing a faux laurel wreath when this happened. Zoe rolled some sloppy cigarettes and spun me around the kitchen for a while before taking a broom and holding it up to make a limbo bar. At that point, it was a test of flexibility and determination. The wine was flowing and the bar was dipping. After about two hours, the "worst symphony" ever occured. "Se Telefonando," an anthem by 60s sensation Mina, came up on my speakers and among the twinkling lights and empty pizza boxes, the Italians really got going. They were singing their little hearts out, eyes squished and hands clasped. I was sitting on the couch, mouth agape. It knocked the wind right outta me. I wish I could describe the swelling of the chorus, the ridiculousness of the scene, the perfection of this procrastination. After the music subsided, it was time to say goodbye. The American girls kissed their Italian friends goodbye, two kisses for two cheeks, and got a little teary eyed. It seems that after a semester of symphonies and failed quizzes and aching legs, it's almost lights down. Of course, that never stopped us before.

La Vie En Rose

In Largo Argentina, this one woman is always singing. Rain or shine, she is there with pink pants and white hair in a hasty bun. Her melodies are indistinct, somewhere between Edith Piaf and Amy Winehouse. Singer gets this crazed look on her face when she opens her mouth so wide, like she is going to swallow me whole. The people waiting for the bus tend to look away. It's a little heartbreaking. A woman throwing herself into a senseless melody (we've all been there before). And yet, the Singer has become a fixture of the walk to school. From the humidity of August through the drizzle of December, she has been there. And when she isn't, we worry and wonder. It's so strange- the things we've become used to. Who knew I would miss such a spectacle.

Donkey Flip Kick

We sat on the sidelines, watching. It was the last soccer game of the season for the teams and they were ready to bring it. Zoe was also ready to bring it- the Peroni that is. She unveiled it from her new, rather voluptuous, bag along with some ciggys, and chocolate. Game on. Becca, Zoe, Liam and I sat grooving to music and watching the criss cross back front donkey kicks going on. It was a chilly night, the kind where your breath crystallizes in the air before falling suddenly. The players were huffing and puffing (athletically) and flying around. Chiara was, of course, head honcho shouting out orders before she was brutally head-butted. We foresaw a scary bruise but it's alright. Everybody got war wounds this semester. It's not that the game was exceptional or otherworldly. It was really just good semi-clean fun- illicit cheering, running on the turf post-game, and eventually hugging your sweaty compatriots. Epic.

Alejandro

Prague was unreal. The city is something from a Grimm's fairy tale. The pointed towers and gilded clocks glow. I felt like I was floating..maybe that was from the hot wine (it's glorified sangria, let's be honest). We just explored the streets, hands in pockets, and faces to the cold. There were pigs roasting on spits, vendors with vats of oil throwing dough and rolling it into sugar, and nativity scenes. We enjoyed the view from the top of the famous castle, and saw some bizarre items at the 'Communism Museum' which felt more like someone's crackpot scheme to rent out their apartment and throw a few posters on the wall. Unfortunately, at Chapeau Rouge, my girl Chiara's winter coat was stolen by some thief with a pension for faux fur. Wherever you are, dear thief, we curse you. It was chilly, and that was una causa propia cattiva. Luckily, Chiara got something chic from Zara and all was well. She was a trooper and we soldiered through for a walking tour and later, a pub crawl. Don't ask. I never thought I'd do such a thing but hey, when in Prague. It was really fun! We made friends with a boy named Pat who protected us from Taiwanese dance leaders and the rain. And as always, we found ourselves on dance floors and cobblestones. It was the last weekend jaunt for this little traveler. How bittersweet.

Now, I'm in Rome and trying to soak it up. Last night, we danced for a good two hours, in honor of the Virgin's Immaculate Conception. (No school today). I stood in the windowsill for a second and just thought This Is The Best. Gaga was throbbing, yelling "don't call my name, Alejandro." Alejandro may as well be America. I can't wait to get home and see so many things and places but really, I couldn't be happier. So, Alejandro, don't call my name for another two weeks. I want this all for myself. Even if just for a wee bit longer.

Public Service Announcement.

Sometimes I seem naive, superficial, filled with sunshine and roses. Listen world, I'm a good girl gone bad. I'm done ignoring the bitches and hoes. Why am I suddenly angry? Today, I went to di per di, the grocery store near my place. I stood in line with my blueberries and wine, waiting to be rung up. The woman behind the register helped the old man in front of me, asking politely if she could give him a hand or if he needed a bag. He declined and then I stepped up. Her face hardened. The fluorescent lighting wasn't kind, I hate to say it, and I saw every crease deepen. She rang up my goods, scoffing at my selection, and told me the amount. I handed her a twenty. Do you have exact change? she asked me. I told her I didn't. I'd like to interrupt myself for a second. Bitch, if I had exact change, wouldn't I have forked it over immediately? I don't like being weighed down with centessimi, I'm trying to get rid of that business. Anyway, she gave me a cold look and threw my goods down the register. She didn't ask if I needed a bag. I know this sounds entirely minor but the women of di per di are evil. They have artificial black hair and wear their striped smocks with contempt. They are unhappy with my presence. I may live in Italy but I am undeserving of their peroni and prosciutto. They curse the day I ever walked in. Well, guess what, bitch maidens of the grocery store! You may give me sassy looks but you also dance in your little plastic seats to my music. That's right. I'm from America, and when you "rap" along with Kanye, you're reppin my shit. I said it. I might be a little white girl but I got some rage.

I'm taking my saucy self to Prague just to recuperate.

Private Insides

I was scribbling notes today when I saw the insides of a neighbor's notebook. I didn't see anything dirty or embarrassing. Neighbor wasn't drawing hearts or writing Mrs. Blank, her future married name. But I gasped anyway. The girl had the worst handwriting I had ever seen. It was huge and looping and frankly, boyish. I hadn't seen handwriting of the type since fourth grade, when I learned penmanship in my d'nealian workbook. I was so surprised: where did she learn such hideous scrawl? And then I felt judgmental. Why did I expect beautiful even cursive? That wasn't very fair of me. Everyone is entitled to their own chicken scratch. And aren't geniuses supposed to be sloppy and illiterate? I should be grateful. After all, the girl's handwriting was thrilling. Even thinking about it now, my heart quickens a little bit.

Crumbling

Last night I had an ever-terrifying dream. My teeth fell out. It was a blur, as dreams are, but I remember my teeth falling out into my hands and then lusting for Dunkin Doughnuts. I couldn't make it to the dentist but fuck, I really wanted that frosted doughnut. And then suddenly Facebook was buzzing in my face, alerting me to all the things I was missing in America. The dream was anxiety in technicolor, chaotic and nonsensical. With Chicago approaching (December 18th!), I guess my private fears are manifesting. I'm not the only one. My friends don't mention the future, or the past. We're trying desperately to forget our indiscretions, previous blunders, general folly. We broke away from everything and now it's time to face the music. Having said that, I absolutely can't wait to see my girls and boys, my dog, my home. A window is closing but a door is opening. Speriamo..

One Tree Hill

There is this song called "One Tree Hill" that I love. I know it's terminally uncool to like U2 but I've always had a soft spot for Bono and his restless melodies. The Irish foursome reminds me of my dad lying on our velvet couch, tapping his foot. You see I've been staving off the Sunday blues; my family departed this morning for America and its bounty after a perfect week- a huge Thanksgiving dinner at Via Annia (props to Wendy for cooking a perfect turkey and seating fifteen), strolling with An, and philosophizing with dad. I can't help but seriously be thankful. When I was leaving for Rome, I felt so anxious about the life awaiting me. Would I be able to converse? Learn the train system? Survive? I think I have. As I strolled through Monti with the fam, pointing out vines and treasured spots, I had to stop and pinch myself. You just never know how things will play out. But if you keep yourself open, just like Bono says, you can't fail.

Do You Feel It Too?

I'm thinking about time. Tonight I went to dinner with my parents, grandmother, sister, and friend, and we talked about the past. The days, months, years- they've shaped us. We've unfolded and we are still unfolding. At five years old, I never brushed my hair and danced around the living room, intruding upon An and her friends. And my mom, at three years old, was jumping over logs and drain pipes, eager for her independence. There was something within each one of us that time couldn't ever change. We are who we are. But don't underestimate the potential for surprise. There's nothing better than a glimpse in my grandmother's face of the girl who waited with leather gloves for the clock to chime, for the door to open.

Am I making sense?

APB+RCP

AP Byer visited from London for a few dreaming days. We had some adventures, particularly in Villa Borghese. First: row boating. We approached the little boat house to buy tickets and found that it was suspiciously cheap, and suspiciously easy. I asked the signora if there were life vests. She laughed, her cigarette precarious, and pushed us with a single toe into the pond. What a mess. My chicken arms couldn't row worth a damn and the only other boat was filled with three guys, hung over and stuck in the weeds. After I stupidly rowed us to 'shore,' we bought lunch and took it to the dressage track (for horses and their tricks). We sat along an edge, playing with spotted dogs and composing a bucket list for spring in Baltimore. On the back of a paper bag, we sketched some ideas, inspired by an exhibit by Niki de Saint Phalle. We talked about expectation vs. reality, and decided we wouldn't settle for less than cooking, eating, lounging, decorating, writing, dancing, meeting, greeting, laughing, reading, imagining, and doing. APB- thanks for your creative spirit and joie de vivre. The future is going to be Real good.

Ooh La La

I'm listening to Lady GaGa's new jam "Bad Romance" and thinking about the Man Haters Club. Around three, I got a cappuccino and sat in the student lounge with my homework. I was scowling, trying to read a poem, when one girl exploded. She couldn't take it- she was done with her man. All of a sudden, everyone was in a rage. (The boys were m.i.a, probably hiding near the urinals, one ear pressed to the door). This one's boyfriend was a prick and that one's hook-up was laying the groundwork and wasn't he such an asshole. I put my pencil down and scowled for a second. Had we started a Man Haters Club unknowingly? The rage was palpable; the poor man refilling the vending machine seemed a little frightened. I found it curious that each girl felt similarly neglected, beaten down, sad about her situation. Why the miscommunication? Can't romance be easy? Roses and some chocolate? A hug? Lady GaGa would say assolutamente no. The conversation carried into Italian 301. In broken speech, we tried to explain ourselves, and to reason our way through our experiences. We didn't reach any conclusion, shocking I know. I had to laugh: at 21, my life is a bad romance. But hey, the girls will sing along.

The Ending

I'd love to write a long entry but I really don't have the time (paper to write, classes to register for, tea to brew) but consider this quote:

"the ending is open to question."

Let it wash over you for a second and by the time you've reached a conclusion, I will have written more. Bye!

Debrief

It was a weekend of new experiences. Friday night we went dancing at Art Cafe- an underground spot in Villa Borghese. It's a huge club but we found ourselves brushing up against anyone and everyone, just trying to stay afloat in the mass. I felt like I was hallucinating: petals were falling from the sky, women (prostitutes?) were doing their thing in lace and boots, and the bartenders were wearing eyeliner. The Italians were in full form, especially the man hanging above the balcony, kissing his suited compatriots like the godfather he was (or was trying to be). Saturday I went to Trastevere in pursuit of vintage and a look at Chiara's amore- the barista at Trasteverino. He was beautiful and eyed her after we eyed some vintage Hogan/Valentino/ Issey Miyake. Later, we hid under some trees while an ominous swarm of birds flew overhead, shitting for miles. Saturday night I hung out in Campo de Fiori with some friends from Hopkins, in from Spain+etc for the weekend. On the way to our night out, we saw a wild dog attack a man. His owners chased after him but they were too late: the dog was crazed, bitting the man's arm, and throwing the bridge into chaos. The Carabinieri were too late to be effectual but ran with authority and even picked up corn scattered by a vendor. Way to go! This morning Zoe and I woke up and met her lovely stepmother Yazmin at Porta Portese flea market. This was the highlight of my weekend. I love! flea markets and this one was amazing- sprawling and extremely cheap. There were tables and tables of rotary phones, 1 euro jewelry, leather jackets, fur coats, Indian dance tracks, gold sneakers, etc etc. While perusing gold costume jewelry, the man working the booth spoke to me in Italian: "if you take this long to pick jewelry, how can you ever pick a boyfriend?" he asked. I laughed for about five minutes and responded, "lo so lo so." I'm indecisive! I can't help myself. Now, we are in my apartment preparing pizza for dinner and drinking wine. It's lovely. I should help saute the peppers but I will be back soon. Ciao.

ps. T-1 week until my family comes! And I made a breakthrough with my play! La vita e bella.

I Look Across the Water

Rome is itself a museum. There is sculpture, graffiti, poetry in every cobble-stoned place. It's such a beautiful city..so where is my inspiration? I have been sick, and a little tired, and bemoaning my lack of progress. And then during art history, Pier Paolo spoke of Michelangelo and the "non finito" issue. I'll explain. Michelangelo was known for his unfinished works. When he encountered a flaw, or a deficiency in himself, he often gave up his work and turned to something new. In his youth he was better at persevering but with age, he slipped into laziness (sorry dude, I had to say it). The "non finito" issue is one which I know well. If my writing feels subpar, I eat some chocolate and go for a walk, closing my computer for days at a time. And sometimes, you need the distraction. But I'm growing up! I need to keep on keeping on. And so, I will learn from Signore Buonarroti and write something brilliant. Ci provo.

A Meditation on Brie

Have you ever eaten brie cheese with a spoon? I just did. It was easy: the silverware was dirty and no one was looking. I could feel bad about the brie-on-spoon situation that just occurred. It was unrefined and unladylike. And yet..isn't brie just as delicious and worthy of a spoon as creme brulee, or a dish of ice cream? It was highly convenient, cutting in so easily and eating it right from its silver resting place.

Why do I mention brie? It's more than cheese for me. It's home. It's my sister's favorite and we eat it at all hours-before dinner, at three am, when it's raining and we're bored. It's November and I can't wait to see my family for thanksgiving. We students can't help but enjoy our days and nights, filled as they are with pasta carbonara and leather goods and trips to London and Morocco. But let's get real: we all just want a good hug from mommy when the going gets rough. I could get into specifics but..Chiara is in her bedroom rocking out to Bruce Springsteen right now, making her tidy architectural drawings, and oh my, I can hear her humming. Gotta go. Don't worry: next time, I'll rinse a knife and save myself some heartache.

Epic Adventures

I fell into bed this rainy afternoon after an epic fall vacation (a girl can only drink so much wine, and eat so much tiramisu before she has to escape). Paris, Amsterdam, and Berlin were our cities of choice and let me tell you, we had a fucking ball.

Paris:

the louvre, croque madame, rainy afternoons, the wall, dancing, halloween in parisian streets, crepes with nutella, the metro, hostel oops, mod prints at musee d'orsay, beautiful people every which way, eclairs, pere lechaise, notre dame at night, the luxembourg gardens, cheap champagne at the foot of the eiffel tower..i could go on. Paris rules. If you tell me anything else you're a fool.

Amsterdam:

we left the absolute glamour of Paris for Amsterdam. After a lengthy train ride we found ourselves waiting outside of cafe Grasshopper for Mark (the unfortunate "colleague" at Amsterdam Cribs hostel). He turned out to be a sketchy Lithuanian DJ with a loping walk and a lack of credibility. Nevertheless, we were upgraded to a studio apartment complete with bongs, tea, and a playstation system that could make a teenage boy's head spin. We saw women with stretch marks in neon windows, swans swimming outside of sex shops, people blitzed out of their minds rolling joints at bus stops, and lots of great shoe stores. The Van Gogh museum was mellow, beautiful, and the waffles were delicious. The city was cold and foreboding and honestly, I should've prepared myself for the satanic place I was entering but I'm glad I saw the dams, the coffee shops, and the prostitutes. Amsterdam is the devil's playground. How can you say no?

Berlin:

We loved Berlin. Monsieur Vuong for cheap asian noodles, Claudia Skoda for amazing knit clothing, Pony Bar, Wombat City hostel (vacuum sealed sheets, who knew!), Brandenburg gate, the tall women with their cheekbones, the metro at 6 am, club Weekend with its middle school mafia, the winter jackets with fur, it was all incredible. East Berlin and West Berlin are worlds apart but it's worth seeing both. The modernity of East Berlin and the outdated feel of the West are both significant, and this is truly a city of juxtaposition (thank you Paolo for driving this home during our 4 hour, blisteringly cold walking tour). Berlin is not to be missed. It was the perfect finish to a perfect trip.

We left Berlin before the sun rose, barely making our easyjet flight. We came home with sore muscles and cameras bursting with pictures. Now it's time to unwind. A presto.

Fall Break

Paris Amsterdam Berlin! 9 days! 3 cities! Wish me luck.

XVI

This morning, I went to the papal audience. Each Wednesday, Pope Benedict XVI welcomes the faithful in San Pietro. The service is beautiful: there are readings from the gospel by Cardinals in their various languages and Il Papa himself gives speeches in numerous tongues (after he takes a spin in his windowless doorless white mercedes..it's surreal). Choirs from around the world sing, their tambourines and clarinets reverberating through the square, and everyone was dressed in their national colors or at least with the flag in close proximity. It was an experience I was both prepared and unprepared for. The Pope was pretty adorable (he stood in stark contrast to his gucci-esque secret security) and the people around me seemed excited, even thrilled. At one point, I stood on my chair and took a good look around. There I was, marble statues above, the Pope in his rocking chair, and the citizens of the world gathered on a fall morning. Sure, it wasn't the holiest of events. After all, one's iphone could be blessed along with their shroud. But in the end, the Germans, the French, the Portuguese, the Polish, the Americans, the Italians- they all stood together, laughing together when the Pope rolled by. I don't even know what to say about it. It was just Cool.

Michel My Belle

It's been a bad day. I woke up with a hangover, couldn't find my keys, couldn't find anything. Once at school, I lost a euro down a drain in the courtyard. Then I was trying to research for an upcoming presentation on abstinence-only education. The facts, speculations, statistics were too overwhelming. My partner Nina let out a victorian sigh, one of those supremely feminine "ooooooooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhh" kill me exclamations. Just as I was about to put my head down in surrender, Nina goes "this reminds me of Gilmore Girls when Michel says 'I have ennui.' Know what I am talking about?" Through my laughter, I told her I didn't. Why do I mention this? It was a) fucking hilarious and b) broke my bad mood. Everyone is exhausted right now, homesick and America sick, and generally full of ennui. Luckily, life is full of these bizarro conversations. They're the best medicine.

H/H

Adam and Eve- we all know the story. The serpent tempted Eve and she and Adam were thwarted eternally with just one bite. In class, Father Larrey gave his students a jolt when he started in on the concept of Hell. (Let me tell you, it's always too early for this discussion). Hell has been conceived of as a fiery abyss, a place where sinners go in eternal estrangement from God. But Hell can also be conceived of as a state of mind; this is solipsism. This philosophy assumes that the mind is everything and nothing outside of it can be known. Therefore, Heaven and Hell are both within one's making. I am Fascinated by this. I've always hated passivity. I feel that if something isn't to your liking, go and work it out. Solipsism is an extreme conception but it's in line with my thinking. Father Larrey asked a girl in the class if this was true, were H/H just conceived? She said yes, she said no. Hell may indeed be filled with beer-drinking murderers pushing their carts about aimlessly but it could be anything. The established idea isn't the only idea there is. Hell could be the 81 bus at 6 pm, and Heaven could be a cono piccolo di spagnola con panna from Frigidarium. I'm not versed in philosophy or religion but I do know that Eve, beautiful woman and the original badass, made a decision to eat that golden apple. What happens from there is in my hands.

Autumn

Autumn is my favorite season. It always has been and always will be. The crisp nights, the sweaters warm from sleep, and the mysterious sensation that life is opening before you-ain't nothing better. I can finally drink my English Breakfast tea and stroll around in high boots, kicking up leaves. Tonight, a few girls (..ten) came over for stuffed peppers, wine, and pesto. I've gotten into cooking, and I've expanded my 'repetoire' but I still have a lot to learn. My next conquest: rigatoni with ricotta and zucca (pumpkin). I will let you know how it goes. Al Green's 'belle' is playing, and I have some writing to do. Bye!

Polenta Party

I went to my first Italian dinner party. Of course, I loved it. Corado played host to his twenty or so guests, refilling wine glasses and showing off his balcony over Monteverde. Dinner: I was standing with Courtney, feeling impossibly tall in ma new suede boots, when everyone came into the room and circled around a table covered in tin foil and cooking paper. What is going on, we wondered. Suddenly, a tiny girl comes in with a huge pot. Without a word, she pours polenta all over the table! Then her friends came in bearing smaller pots filled with sauces (mushroom, tomato, zucchini, cheese, sausage etc) which they poured into strips in the cooling cornmeal. My jaw dropped. Corado passed out spoons and everyone started banging theirs on the edge of the table, the noise building and building before everyone plunged in. You simply took a dip from the section near you. Corado would ring a bell every so often (these sorts of instruments were all over the house, I sat on a squash racket at one point) and shout GIRO! and then we would all shuffle around the table to sample a different portion. It was ridiculous and awesome and so very Italian. Would Americans ever condone this sort of group food game? I think not.

Thursday Eve

Last night was spot on. The evening began at L'antica Birreria Peroni-a local spot dedicated to King Peroni. This establishment is not to be confused with Hard Rock Cafe or McDonalds; it's dedicated to the lightest and most delicious of beers but the crowd is sophisticated and the food is molto buono. Nothing says class like wall stencils of beer-drinking angel babies and sayings from Dante. Chiara told us we had to order the sausage and when Zoe's arrived, singing waiters swarmed like paparazzi to record her first bite. It was epic. I ordered the less climactic caccio e pepe, fettucini with cheese and pepper (yum). And of course, we ordered a pitcher of the house beer. After dinner, we went to Tre Scalini, a bar frequented by Chiara and her friends during University. It was mellow and great. We ordered the salame con cioccolato (a fudgy dessert) and cringed at the couple next to our table. (I know it's Europe but I'm a modest American..sorry). Filled to the brim, we walked to club Micca. Micca has its own style and it's pretty badass. The DJs only play retro jams but this is fitting for the decor: floor to ceiling screen prints of 60s icons and waitresses in pleather. Needless to say, we got down on the dance floor with the over 50 set. I roused myself a few hours later for a field trip to the Necropoli Etrusche. I vowed to sleep less and have achieved this quite successfully. Now it's nap time. A presto, blogosphere.

Magic School Bus

Gitti, mother goose and teacher of Italiano 301, took her ducklings to Monti for a field trip today. And what a trip it was. 3 o'clock: we were packed like sardines into the 64, clutching our belongings and laughing as the bus swerved through Piazza Venezia. Once we arrived a Monti , we visited a butcher shop (the owner's family had lived in the same house since 1700), a barber (he was perfectly old-school with red bow-tie and scissor in hand), and an organic market called Mia Market where we sampled cheese with honey, and vino sfuso (wine from a canister). We went to Misty Beethoven, a sex shop, replete with crystal penises, rubber dresses, and panties which were surprisingly modest. (Note: this is not for the faint of heart. A sex shop with a teacher is so embarrassing and when she wanted me to engage the store clerk, I almost ran for the door). Speaking of running, on the way out of a renowned music school for jazz, Gitti was run over. Her foot was anyway. There we were, on Via Zingari (known for its prostitution) when a smart car rolled over her tiny foot. She swore and gestured to the driver but was immediately soothed when a group of young men came to her aid. At this point, we were all exhausted and pleaded to wrap up the magic school bus tour. She complied. "Ci vediamo dopo!" she said, waving her yoga-toned arm. "Si," we said, heading down the cobbled street.

Wah wah wah

Sometimes you have a bad week-a string of days and it's all calamity. This week is such. Fall break is in sight and I'm jazzed (Paris, Amersterdam, Berlin what uppp) but until then, life is bleak. I have this intense urge to stand on a desk and yell "damn you, inventor of powerpoint! Hours of work disguised with clever backgrounds and weird graphics. And the presentations are so convenient and portable! Now I have to download and download and memorize every urn, date, and peninsula! FUCK!" But I won't. I refuse to be that weird girl with pale autumnal skin and a newly formed case of lock-jaw. Instead, I will proceed to computer 14 and, ever so quietly, hit 'stampa.' Amsterdam, here I come.

Pupa Mia

When I was a baby, I slept and slept. I napped for hours and through the night. My grandparents scratched their graying hairs and asked my parents to take me to a specialist. Mom and dad laughed-this was the best of problems. Now, at twenty one, I still love to sleep. My friends joke with me, sing-songing "buongiorno" when I emerge post-nap with wild hair and drool on my cheek. It seems that everyone is emerging from their cocoons, while I am still in chrysalis. (The butterfly in metamorphosis is called a pupa and, strangely enough, little remy was called "pupa mia").

Today I got a gig blogging for EYP: the English Yellow Pages. A website dedicated to studying abroad, I will be imparting my experiences for all the world (ok, ok, maybe for a slightly smaller population). And so, in honor of EYP, I vow to nap less. A girl has to blossom sometime.

The Cosmos

It's been a supernatural weekend. A beautiful girl named Miriam was killed in a hit-and-run in front of Hopkins. She wasn't a close friend of mine but she was close with some of my best friends, and we talked about Chicago every now and again (she went to Nutrier High School). In an effort to escape midterms and this news, a little group of us went to Aventino and saw Chiesa di Sant'Alessio and il giardino degli aranci. It was a gray afternoon but we sat in the orange grove, on a stone ledge, looking over the city. From an unknown window, we heard a choir singing "bridge over troubled water." It was a surreal moment-a rare coincidence of interior and exterior corolating. Later, in the warmth of our apartment, I checked my email and my breath caught in my throat. A guy that I once had a writing class with informed me that he had been in a motorcycle accident and lost all of his memory. One day he was in the supermarket and he saw a girl who looked like me. He thought and he thought and finally, he recalled my name! Miraculous! After this, he was rehabilitated. He could remember again. I sat with a puzzled expression: what did this mean? was he thanking me? asking for some validation? just excited? And then I stopped analyzing and simply felt happy. I helped someone. And he went out of his way to let me know that in this bizarre, tempestuous, sometimes cruel, cosmos, we were linked. I mention all of this because it's so easy to get bogged down in the day-to-day. The worries, stresses, inconveniences of life, whatever they may be. But we're only here once! And we're all connected! I'm across the pond but I want my loved ones to know how much I really appreciate them. Tomorrow is uncertain. Now is the time to put everything, every last word, in writing and into the universe.

Sant' Eustachio

Do yourself a favor and have a "morchella caffe" from Sant'Eustachio di Roma. After a guided tour (grazie, Prof. Pier Paolo) of the Bufalini Chapel, Becca and I stopped into Sant'Eustachio for a little pick-me-up. I was feeling saucy so I ordered the most voluptuous drink they offered: caffe+cioccolato+panna+ whipped cream. The Chapel was beautiful with its gilded ceilings and dripping colors but this caffe was heavenly. Smooth, sweet, and warming, it was a perfect commencement of fall.

Party and Bullshit

"Party and Bullshit" is a glamorous summary of my time a Roma. Next week the bleary-eyed students of IES have midterms. This is a mild catastrophe. There has been a pandemic of non-working; it took me three weeks to summon the motivation to purchase notebooks. (And I ended up with flimsy ones featuring kittens frolicking). I don't go out that often. Really. The days just seem to slide seamlessly, one into the next. Between the daily caffe, stumbling through class, dancing, cooking, laughing, and general minutia, the time just flies. Next week stands before me, menacing and stress-filled. Do I wish I had cracked open the books earlier? spent some time indoors instead of getting lost on the metro? drinking wine? spying on the neighbors? Nahhh. I'm living the good life! And it doesn't include grading rubrics or circles under my eyes. I love to learn but come on now! As Mark Twain says, I never let my schooling interfere with my education. There is life to be lived, I can read about the lives of others later.

Barthelona

Anything can happen in Barcelona. And most everything does. It wasn't my finest performance, I'll say this for myself. Friday night I was on the metro with my Chicago boys Henry and James, headed for the Barcoleneta stop, when I spotted Maddie Spiker, a friend from high school. "Maddie!" I yelled. "What are you doing here! Are you studying in Barcelona?" "HOLY FUCK!" she replied. "WHAT THE FUCK! I'm studying in Prague, I'm here for the weekend!" We chatted for a second before her friends swept her away. Then I spotted Christina Padilla, a friend from Hopkins. Wtf mate. She and I hugged, before she too was whisked away for dancing. Then I found myself at Cat Walk, the cheeziest of clubs. I was woozy, sick to my stomach, so I sacrificied economic integrity and purchased a £6 bottle of wine. Kill me. I danced with underage Spaniards (oh wait, 13 year olds can get down in Europe, scratch that) and later ended up puking on my heels while three guys laughed. Great. Saturday night was even crazier. Why? you ask. I went out sober. The only thing crazier than getting toasted is keeping your wits about you; you see everything. I went with Zoe and co. to Chupitos, a shot bar, and stood watching the purgatory before me. The bartenders spilled lighter fluid around shot glasses before lighting the arrangement on fire. Drunken sorority girls and their Latin lovers picked up the flaming goodness and knocked it back. I had had enough. Then it was onto Razmataz- a five floor club and each a different rhythm. I loved it, dancing my way through techno, techno, and techno. Sunday we roused ourselves early and took the metro to Sitges for a little r&r on the beach. It was beyond beautiful. A sleepy beach town, we were surrounded by Moorish architecture, palm trees, slim Spaniards, and beach. We baked in the sunlight before eating the most amazing paella con lobster. And then it was back to the city for siesta and packing. Monday morning Zoe and I rose before the sun, boarded the aerobus, and made our way back to a raining Rome. It was an epic weekend and one which I won't forget.

*Dear mom and dad:
we made it to Museo Picasso, Sagrada Familia, and Casa Battiglia. Don't worry. Those locations just didn't provide fodder for my readers. Oh and let's skype soon, shall we?

The WT

Tomorrow, we go Barcelona. It will be a brutal morning. We are leaving the nest at 6:40 am- the underground to Termini, Termini to Fiumincino, and then to the land of wine in leather pouches. What will we find there? Javier Bardem in leather pants, smoking a cigarette and offering sesso? Probably not. Whatever happens, I live for the Weekend Trip (WT). It is a bite- sized bit of happiness. The WT, if done correctly, is affordable, exciting, and fodder for the next social occassion. As Chris McCandles, explorer, said:

"the very basic core of a man's living spirit is his passion for adventure. The joy of life comes from our encounters with new experiences, and hence there is no greater joy than to have an endlessly changing horizon, for each day to have a new and different sun."

And so tonight I will refill my little navy bag with toothbrush, confirmation number, and ipod, and get into bed, awaiting the madness that is to come. It may not be the Alps, but it will be something.

Magari..

D.H. Lawrence and his lover Frieda lived on the cheap, sleeping in haystacks and dancing across the Alps. Yes, yes, it's all very poetic but really, I wouldn't mind some pampering right now. There is hair in the sink and my feet are black like Oliver Twist's. I've discovered some simple pleasures (1 euro wine, a stroll down Fori Imperali) but sometimes I can't help but imagine myself swimming through bubbling waters in a tiled pool, under perfumed lemon trees, my chef Vincenzo waiting to refill my glass.

And so, the wish list:

1 pair Frette sheets

1 pair suede over the knee boots

1 villa in Tuscany-4 bedrooms, 4.5 baths with antique claws and bubble bath

1 relentless metabolism

1 miu miu purse

1 vespa-customized by famous artist for yours truly

1 jumbo jet filled with American family, friends, and dog

1 bear hug from n. van zoeren

I am going to dust off my feet and make some tea. The real world calls!

Know Thyself.

The abroad experience has baggage. It's a four month adventure; a girl has to pack her shoes and chargers and prescriptions. And then there is the other baggage: the 'superior' advice of elders and friends, the "listen! listen! this is what you SHOULD/COULD/MUST DO!" This is the heaviest. There are pub crawls and pastries and and sloppy boys and iced drinks and discos and boutiques and churches overflowing with poetry and music and street festivals and libraries and sculptures and villas and rivers and street signs and cobblestones and maps and metros and I MUST SEE IT ALL! I MUST LIVE! Well. I want it all (well, not all of it) but I can't. There isn't enough of me, the remysponge, to soak it all up. I hope that is ok. And if it isn't, I will simply put my headphones on and drown you out. As the Ancients said 'Know Thyself' and even if kills me a little, I can say that I do.

The Life Aquatic

I spent Sunday afternoon asleep on the stern of a tugboat. The Captain Bruno and his rather robust wife Bruna (it's almost too good) served us cappuccino and spoke over the loudspeaker, ignoring the yawns and hungover expressions of their passengers. As I dozed, I imagined myself in a striped shirt and woolen cap with a pompom atop it, reading my geographical scrolls and drinking tea with lemon. Then I awoke and had to acknowledge that I don't know how to read maps.

The point is, the Life Aquatic will do this to you. You will find yourself dreaming of rowboats and candlelight and mysterious messages sent to your watery doorstep. Let me explain. I traveled to Venezia this past weekend on a school trip and fell in love. If Rome is blistering and hot, raging and sultry, Venice is crisp and tranquil, lovely and unassuming. It's perfect.

In Venice:

I saw the golden ceiling of San Marco, ate some sweets in the Jewish ghetto, and was swept along to the islands of Murano and Burano, known for glass blowing and lace making respectively. I saw the Villa Vildmann, drank some birra at Venetian Oktoberfest, and slept in a bizarre lovenest with a 'shower' that was solely a drain.

Venice is a gangster's paradise. It has a curious yingyang: dirty graffiti on a Shakespearean backdrop, the saltiest seafood in a backdoor restaurant. If all goes well, I will write to you next from my tiny little tugboat, quill pen in hand, B.I.G blasting. If not, I will just have to return.

A presto and book your flight.

Coraggio

This morning I saw a beautiful horse standing unattended in San Pietro. She had black eyes and a lovely sad face and I really wanted to touch her. I didn't. I was afraid her unforeseen owner would slap my hand away.

Later, my petite professoressa spoke of Goethe and his travels to Italy. Goethe saw this adventure as an occasion to 'reinvent himself'. Incognito, he joined the artistic community, painted the city with an artist at his side, and fell desperately in love with a prostitute before returning to the Court of Weinmar.

Why do I mention this? If Goethe had been by my side, with faux mustache and gold pocket watch, he would have urged me to the touch the horse's face. "Go on" he would have said, "you might learn something."

When I see her again, I will reach for her. I think it's the right thing to do.

Jesus Juice

Today, Yom Kippur, is the holiest of days for the Jews. I am not a particularly orthodox girl (do bagels and lox count?) but I am a spiritual one. Rome is an intensely Catholic place; it is impossible to ignore the religious flavor. Jesus is everywhere. The term 'drinking the kool-aid' refers to taking in a philosophy, an experience. I would have to say that I am drinking the Jesus Juice. I can't help but be fascinated. My grandmother is reading this and choking on her challah but don't worry, Gram, I'm not going to don a habit. Instead, I'm opening my eyes. The Vatican may be incapable of fully adapting to the demands of the modern world but her nuns are wearing Gucci shades and taking the metro. And this is where my fascination begins: with the intersection between the ancient world and the one before me. I'm in a class called "Contemporary Issues in the Catholic Church," taught by Father Larrey. Twice a week, he lectures about the gospels, and the Pope (whom he knows personally), and the truths of the bible which are alive for him everyday. I just sit there and drool. I'm a skeptical girl and an indecisive one; I have trouble committing to an entree. And here is a man who believes wholly in the existence of Jesus and who has devoted his life to this divine power. I'm in awe of his piety. And the biblical terms..they are so scandalous. The glorified body, the re-insertion of the soul to the body, the eucharist. Oh dio! Regardless of religious orientation, there is something alluring about the spirituality of the city. Maybe I'm just looking for a higher truth. Stay tuned.

Tanti Auguri

Thursday evening I awoke to my roommate, Zoe, shaking me softly. "We were invited to a birthday party," she said. "I think we should go." I raised my eyebrow. And then I got dressed. Twenty minutes later Zoe and I found ourselves in an exotic courtyard, surrounded by greenery and panties drying on the clothes line above. Our friends Nicole and Maura came down to let us in. In the claustrophobic elevator ride up, we quizzed them. "Ok, on a scale of 1-10, how awkward is this? Did you do that cheek kiss thing or shake hands?" Before they could answer, we arrived at the apartment. We followed the techno and walked onto the balcony. There were about thirty guests, standing, smoking, eyeing us. As Americans, we cope with uncomfortable situations reasonably and with excessive amounts of alcohol. We got cocktails and stood together. A guy in a purple shirt (yes, there was explosive chest hair) came over and introduced himself as Joseph. "Joseph," I said, "I am going to drink and then we are going to speak Italian." He had a little laugh and then asked me to repeat again in Italiano. And so I did. I should explain something to the reader. I have taken four semesters of Italian and my ulcer has grown stronger with each. I love the language but it eludes me. Pronomi combinati? Che? I can't get it together. But I promised myself that I would try and adopted the age old mantra 'fake it till you make it.' So, cutting back to the birthday party. Joseph and I made a pact, and suddenly I was in a whirlwind. I spoke with Claudio about his ski vest, with Valter about his birthday, and with Miriam about American boys. Were these conversations deeply intellectual? Assolutamente no. But I felt, for the first time, that I was living in Roma. I wasn't a tourist but I was just a girl, talking to boys and girls. The night was filled with chocolate cake, club jams, cigarettes, and a few illicit photographs. It was ridiculously fun. We American girls dipped out of going dancing but from our cab, we saw Valter (the birthday boy) get out of the car and dance around in the brilliance of the streetlight. "Magnifico," the driver said. "Si," we agreed. Siamo d'accordo.

Wonder Daze

On the plane from Frankfurt to Rome, I had a panic attack. I awoke to a German woman with watery eyes shoving a cheese sandwich in my face. I smiled and shook my head. I walked to the back of the airplane and stood near cheap curtains feeling sick with nerves; a kindly stewardess with impeccable bone structure poured me a cup of coke. Twenty minutes we landed in la bell' Italia. And this is where the story begins.

My travel sickness has subsided while my serotonin has continued to surge. Each day I walk the forty five minutes to school. I jet past the colosseo, through Piazza Venezia, and along the Tiber. I look like an asshole, dark hair plastered to my forehead, power-walking, a huge grin on my face. I can't help it. I really can't.

The Goddess Roma has welcomed me into her arms and now I never want to leave. Make no mistake: I miss dependable public transportation, feeling 'exotic' amongst my blond fat Americans, and air-conditioning. But these are small losses. And baby I'm only getting richer.

The loot thus far:

*laughing in Vatican City

*a daily panino con salami from my favorite cafe

*dancing on the riverbank at La Maison

*swimming in Sorrento

*learning to cook pasta carbonara

*the phrase 'che cazzo'

It's been three weeks and I feel myself transformed. Am I being dramatic? Ridiculous? Eccentric? To these charges I have one thing to say: when in Rome.

A presto, blogosphere.