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.