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.