Dublin Day #2

The next day, which would have been Tuesday, was another jammed-packed one.  First, we went on a free three hour walking tour.  We walked (once again) the entire city, and saw everything from Trinity College to the Haypenny bridge.  It was a great tour and I highly suggest it to anyone who visits Dublin.  It's with a group called NewEurope and the tour guides are awesome and ridiculously well-informed.  They work only for much deserved tips. 

Peter, the guide, sitting in front of the door behind which the amazing Jonathan Swift was born.

On the tip we met a some kids and all decided to get some pub grub for lunch.  Once again we found ourselves at O'Neills (where we had dinner the first night), and once again it was amazing.  I branched way out of my comfort zone and got Irish Beef and Guinnes stew with cooked carrots, potatoes and cabbage.  Just thinking of it right now is making my mouth water in reverie.  I don't know how the obesity rates in Ireland are not higher.  They're food is so rich, but you can't stop eating it.  It reminded me of the pot roast and cabbage dinners we have out at the cabin, except ... better (sorry to any family reading this...)  Which brings me to the conclusion:  I need to learn how to make Irish food.  

Irish Beef and Guinness Stew

After lunch, we headed back to the National Archeology museum where we learned a lot about the Vikings in Irish history.  Then we crossed over to the National Library where they had a Yeats exhibit.  We went up to the reading room.  It was beautiful.  I found a book that just listed all the names of people who died in the Northern Ireland conflict throughout the years.  It was basically a book of obituaries.  Some light reading for vacation, right?  The Yeats exhibit was really cool, though.  I was surprised.  It was very well put together.  I'm not really a Yeats expert.  I'm not really a poetry expert for that matter.  But this definitely got me interested in him.  His life would make a great film... hmm, idea perhaps?

We returned to our hostel where we met our roommates Lauren and Chantel.  Lauren's from Belfast and Chantel is from Australia.  They all wanted a bite to eat, so I accompanied them to McDonald's.  I didn't indulge though.   I refuse to.  (But fun fact, Irish McDonald's has "twisty fries", and another fun fact, they're delicious).  We were there for quite some time discussing the cultural difference between the three countries.  Did you know toilets in Australia flush the opposite direction? The more you know...

We realized how late it was and made a bee-line for Temple Bar.  We had agreed to meet up with some people from the tour there.  This trip to the bar gave me some revelations:

1.  Swedish people are awesome in nearly every way and their English sounds very Americanized. 
2.  Bars in Ireland are way cooler than any bars I've seen in America and/or Italy.
3.  I know every word to "Whiskey in the Jar" which every Irish band and their mother cover.
4.  Getting drunk in Ireland; way more fun than getting drunk anywhere else, until..
5.  I start to think way too much when I'm drunk.  Seriously after I've had two Jack and Cokes (yes, I'm that much of a lightweight), I am a goddamn philosopher/expert on gender relations. 

So we walked home, well Kassie walked, I sort of stumbled home, and crawled into bed. 

Dublin Day 1

Wow, this last week has been crazy.

After my midterms, I was ready for a break.  My roommate and I decided to go to Dublin for fall break shortly after we arrived here.  So Sunday we boarded a train to Pisa where we would catch our flight to Ireland.  It is seriously a day of travel between the hour and half train ride, the waiting in the airport for two hours, the two and a half hour plan ride and the ride into Dublin itself.  We left at 12:30 and got in around 8:00 that night.

After checking into the Hostel, my hunger crept up on me and attacked my stomach.  I asked the check-in girl (very pretty with rockin hair and glasses) where the best place to get pub grub was.  She directed me to O'Neills.  It was delicious.  I originally wanted shepard's pie but a nice toasted cheese and onion sandwich sounded far more appealing at that point. 

We kind of called it an early night after that. But the next day was jam-packed.

We woke up early to grab some continental breakfast.  This was my first experience with peanut butter in two months.  This may seem unimpressive to you, but I literally eat peanut butter in some form, ( peanut butter toast or peanut butter banana smoothie or Organic Peanut Butter Panda Puffs from Trader Joe's for example). on a daily basis back in the states.  So my peanut butter toast on this day is definitely worth mention.

We ventured out of the Hostel with no particular destination in mind.  We were told it was "bank holiday" several times, but I have yet to figure out what holiday we were exactly celebrating.  Luckily, there is at least one company that doesn't shut down on holidays.  The Guinness factory.

Classy, right?

It was huge.  Massive.  Actually, I would swear the Guinness factory and the surrounding area forms its own town.  For eleven euros and hours of entertainment, it was defintely worth the very long walk.  (We walked the entire river Liffy to get there, I swear). Although it was very entertaining and surprisingly educational, I have one confession.  I don't like beer.  I know.  Shocker, right?  I should be predisposed to it, as I am largely Irish.  But I don't like beer and as good as Guinness claims to be, I don't like it either.  Blasphemy, I know, but I am just being honest.

By the time we got out of the storehouse, we were starving.  We ducked into a very elegant eating establishment for some fried goods, Burger King.  Don't judge.  After dinner we headed to our first movie (in a real cinema) since the summer.  We saw The Social Network.  Amazing.  Everyone reading this should go see it.  Aaron Sorkin, my homie, did a fantastic job, as usual.

We returned to the hostel and I made a quick call to Matthew.  Somehow it turned into a rather heated discussion about male-female relationships.  I can't quite recall what...but I know it ended with me running out for a box of Cadbury chocolate chip cookies and plowing through nearly the entire box.

The weather was very nice that day.

Questa Settimana

This week was one of those that just eats away at you until you become nothing more than a sniveling little shallow puddle of a person.  AKA this week was midterms.  I've now gone through five semesters worth of midterms, and I can safely say these were the worst.  Rather, I've never been so glad to be done with midterms in my life.  Ever.  I have never studied so hard for tests ever.  It's not that these classes are even particularly hard.  There's just so much busy work.  It's like they know if we don't have homework we'll start drinking at 9 a.m. just to kill the time here. So they pile that shit on.  What they don't understand is that meaningless work makes us want to drink.  Nay, need to drink.  It's absurd how much reading I've had to do.  But I'm not complaining.  To put into perspective, I remind myself that the room I'm doing this reading from has a view of the Duomo.

I should stop right here to inform you all that I do not always have this sunny of an outlook.  Oh no.  This week I've been more than a sniveling little shallow puddle of a person.  I've been a catty, negative and moody stench walking this earth.  When time gets tough I tend to shut myself down.  All the progress I made in my journey of self-discovery, and dear I say "self-love",  completely shattered this week.  I feel myself slipping into my old ways and grasping for anyone or anything to grab my hand and pull me to safety.  The fact is, there won't always be someone there to grab my hand.  I need to be able to pull myself out of the quicksand.  This is what I've been attempting to do this entire trip.

I came here in a fairly low state as a human being and while I have good days, recently it was pretty bad.  I was constantly deflating myself, always berating my work, dogging on myself for every imperfection I saw, etc. etc.  Usually this never reaches beyond the realms of my own self-worth, but this last week got really rough.  I started to internally berate everyone else I know.  Everything everyone did was wrong, annoying and stupid.  It takes a lot for me to lash out at a person, so thankfully there were never any blow-ups, but that doesn't mean the internal dialogue isn't just as frustrating.  In fact it may even be more so.  I have this tendency to keep things inside of me.  Things that I find annoying or rude or even disrespectful.  Then finally when I can't take the inner voices anymore, I started bitching about them constantly.  Mainly to my incredibly patient boyfriend.  I always think this will make it better.  I'll just vomit it out to him, and it'll go away.  The exact opposite happens.  Talking about it all just makes me more and more furious with the situation.  But will I ever confront what I'm upset about?  No.

This goes across the board with all people.  For reasons from my past, (which I will spare you from hearing), I cannot bring myself to confront people.  This allows people to take advantage of me, use me, and keep me in a very submissive position in the relationship.  And this needs to change, now.  I can no longer be the meak girl I was in high school.  Hollywood is vicious.  And while my skin is thick, my tongue isn't.  If I continue my life this way, I will always be in a state of anger.  A state of "what-ifs" and "I-should-haves".  But worst of all I will be in a state of harsh judgment and thus a state of loneliness.  I don't want to be in this state anymore. 

The French Riviera

Now before Alli anyone jumps down my throat let me say I recognize I haven't updated in a while.  I'm not a particularly lazy person, but this week has been kind of hellish between homework, studying for midterms, and a heinous cold.  I don't have much to report on the week since I spent most of it sleeping/in my bright green slippers.  But last weekend is another story.

When I signed up to study abroad ("signed" being the most simplistic way I can put it) I was able to choose two from eight different weekend trips throughout the semester.  The first I chose was a trip through Montecarlo and the French Riviera.

As most trips begin, this too commenced at what I could call the "ass-crack of dawn".  And I'm more of a morning person, so the 4:45 a.m. call time was ridiculous even for me.  We got on the bus to be proceeded by the most uncomfortable attempted four hours of sleep of my life. We arrived in Monaco around 11.  It was beautiful.  I can't imagine why Grace Kelly uprooted her life to live there.  But seriously, gorgeous.  It was gorgeous.  In fact they maintain such a perfection in aesthetics that even the guards of the palace are considered to be the most beautiful of the French soldiers.  After seeing them, I think that's an actual requirement.  Unfortunately we only had time for a quick lunch (omelette for me.  Delicious) and a quick walking tour around the city of Monte Carlo.  Then back on the bus.

Montecarlo

After a few more hours of driving, which I spent focusing on not throwing up, we arrived in Nice France.  It was an adorable little medieval city with narrow streets.  They all have narrow streets in Europe.  That night we were catered a delicious french meal of tuna salad, roasted chicken with potatoes, and pistachio ice cream.  My mouth is watering right now just reminiscing about it.  After dinner we, Kassie, Bree, Erica, Nicole and myself, wanted to head out to the bars to celebrate Kassie's 21st.  It's unfortunate that the first bar we stopped at did nothing to help the snooty french stereotype.  Not only were we forced to wait as a crowd of people were let in before us, they told us we had to check our coats for three euros (a requirement of no one else) and they had the audacity to card us.  So we blew that popsicle joint and headed to the King's Pub.  Now this was more of my style.  There was a live classic rock band playing and despite paying 9 euros for a jack and coke, I was feeling pretty good by the time we left. 

Nice men,

The next morning was another early one and this time we headed to Saint Paul de Vence.  It was nice, but a little too small and nothing was open.  But because Kassie and I overslept and didn't have time to grab the continental breakfast, this forced us to get a croissant and some coffee.  I have never had such flakey goodness pass through my lips.  It was delicious and oh-so-French I was tempted to pull out my beret then and there. 

Saint Paul de Vence

Our next stop was by far my favorite.  Cannes.  It was basically like any other overpriced beach city which you get used to living in Caifornia.  I was on cloud nine though.  Right as the bus stopped, I made a mad dash to the Claude Debussy Theatre where they hold the film festival.  One girl said it was very anti-climactic considering what it's used for.  But I protest.  Galleries are not meant to be gawdy and extravagant because the art itself is kept inside.  This is my feeling about the theatre. And also, you put a giant red carpet on ascending stairs it's always going to be a little bit classier.  Not to mention add flashing cameras, screaming fans and of course the stars, the theatre would ineherently transform.  After ogling the theatre for a while we decided to meander through the city a bit.  You know so I can get acclimated for the next few years when I return.  We stopped on the very windy beach for a photo op and bought ourselves some postcards.  I decided to get one of the opening night of the festival.  I'll hang it above my desk so I can always know what my goal is.  Or maybe on my fridge because then it will be a constant reminder considering my eating habits.  Speaking of which, we ended our trip to Cannes with what was easily the best sandwich I ever had in my entire life.  French bread toasted with prosciutto, guyere cheese and mustard.  I died and went to heaven on the first bite.  (I think I have a slight obsession with food...)

I feel like this pose would be inappropriate the next time I'm there i.e. at the festival.

We have the same size hands.  Life's good.

Our final stop was at the small town of Eze.  There's a very old and famous perfume factory there named Fragonard.  We spent what little time we had there taking a tour and I even splurged on myself.  As part of me finding my identity, I've decided I need a smell.  So I chose one that was fresh and feminine but not overpowering.  Just a kiss you could say, which is ironic because that's the name of the scent I bought.  I fell in love with it.  Or perhaps all the fumes had gone to my head.  I don't care. 

So that was last weekend.  Sorry it was late, Alli.  But better late than never. 

Uno di Quei Giorni.

Today has just been "one of those days".  One of those glorious yet simplistic days where nothing particularly special happens, but life seems perfect none the less.  I haven't had one of these days in a long time.

As usual, getting out of bed was difficult.  My body desperately wants to conform with the Italian tradition of sleeping late, but my school schedule forbids it.  I scampered to my Italian class in dread.  I'm finding that I can speak Italian perfectly fine, I have a harder time trying to understand it.  Which in regards to my class means that, I would answer the question beautifully if I knew what she was asking.  Today was the exception though.  The words just seemed to flow over me and before I realized it, I was walking out of the class with my head held high and ready to conquer the Italian world. 

After Italian, I had my third yoga class.  My body wasn't screaming at me (as loud) this time around.  I was focusing solely on my movements.  I can feel my body already strengthening and toning itself.  For the first time during a yoga session, I felt graceful.  I felt the energy in my body really pulsing through my veins.  And even though the last five minutes are meant to calm the mind, I couldn't help racing through all the things I wanted to accomplish.  Not only today.  Not only in Florence,  but in my life.  I left feeling invigorated and inspired. 

After I got cleaned up, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and the person staring back wasn't the normal Elizabeth.  This woman was full of confidence and drive.  And for some reason she appeared taller than normal.  I haven't seen this woman in a long time.

After a quick lunch of a fried egg I was off to learn how to make gelato.  I had it set in my mind that this quick gelato lesson would provide me with the tools to make gelato whenever I wanted from now on.  (I live in a dreamer's world).  It would be some easy recipe and I could steal borrow my father's ice cream maker to do it.  It couldn't be that difficult, right?  Well, it's not.  It's not difficult at all actually.  You basically mix together cocoa powder, sugar, confectioner's suger, milk and bowling water.  Then you add the ice cream base (made from cream and sugar) and churn it. Here comes the discouraging part, the two machines used to churn the gelato costs approximately 50.000 euros.  Then on top of that, I would naturally have to spend 50.000 euros on an expanding wardrobe if I did have the capability to make my own gelato.  So that's on the back burner, for now.


I ran over to the library  to watch Mamma Roma with Maddie.  When it was finished ("Fine" as Pasolini put it), we stepped out of the viewing room into the library where we met another classmate.  She asked us how it was. I stand by my opinion.  I didn't like it.  And I told her this.  And I told the eavesdropping librarian this.  The eavesdropping librarian who happens to be an ex "Histroy of Italian Cinema" professor.  Yes, only I have the impeccable timing to insult Pasolini in front of an Italian Cinema expert.  Maddie, dodging the ensuing debate, made an excuse and got the hell out of there.  Now, I don't like to personify any stereotypes of the pretentious film student, but when someone looks at me like "little girl what could you possibly know about cinema?" I am so ready to thrown down.  Like that time I was working my grocery store job and a man started rambling on about how films today don't have good plots (which I agree with).  Then assuming that my only interests in life were price checks and produce codes, he leaned across the check out stand and asked, as if I was three years old, "Do you know what plot is"?  To which I responded, "You know I'm not a big fan of plot, but I love a good story."  Flim jab.  Burn.  All my film homies should appreciate that one.  Anyone?  Anyone?  Bueller?  Bueller?


Now I'm just rambling nonsense.  Basically I've had a bomb day and I'm hoping this high continues forever.  (I live in a dreamer's world). 

Cortona

Yesterday morning my roommates, Kassie and Hannah, and I woke up to rush to catch the train to Cortona.  After some confusion about which train to take (it's not marked well), we managed to find the right one and hopped on.  Seventeen stops, yes seventeen, and two hours later we arrived in Camucia.  Cortona is basically a fortress city on a hill which makes arrival by train difficult to say the least.  So one takes the train to Camucia and buses up to the city of Cortona.  The road is basically a  winding "s" for three miles.  Very glad we chose the bus.

I stepped off the bus and right away by breath caught in my chest.  The view was so spectacular neither words or my amateur photography skills can capture it properly.  Everything was so lush and vivacious.  The olive trees and vineyards speckle the hills like little tombstones in a veritable garden of Eden. 

Toscana

I can see why Frances Meyer's lives heres...

We reluctantly ventured away from the view to find some lunch.  We had read in a local newspaper article to try Trattoria la Grotta.  (What can I say?  I'm a slave to the printed word).  It was a charming little restaurant tucked away in a nook between apartment buildings.  We sat outside in the afternoon sun to enjoy our delicious meal.  Everything we ordered was fantastic from the bruschetta, to the gnocchi, to the roasted potatoes.  It was all fantastic.  I even went out on my own limb and ordered sformantina di melanzane alla parmigiana, eggplant in marinara sauce with parmigiano.  It was quite literally to die for.  Despite being surrounded by the best carbs life has to offer, namely pasta, I find I eat far more vegetables here than I do in America.  Hopefully, this will be one of the many Italian practices I take home with me. 

It was much more appealing in person, I swear.

Okay, so now I just have to digress a bit and rant about European bathrooms.  Not to sound pretentious, but I consider myself a fairly savvy traveler when it comes to Italy.  I can speak the language enough to at least communicate and I try to keep my head down and my voice low to avoid unwanted attention, but I have to admit, I cannot figure out European public bathrooms to save my life.  Not necessarily the functionality of them, I can do that.  It's more of an identification problem.  I've found that most bathrooms in Italy are unisex.  No problem.  Basically, you wander back to the bathroom to find the men and women share a sink and mirror area and the actual stalls break off into the specific genders.  No cause for alarm, right?  Wrong.  The individual stalls would be great, if they were more clearly marked.  Often times the men's stall is marked and the other is left blank.  I assume, as I hope the natives do, that this means the unmarked/unmanned stall is meant for women.  I could be coming out of left field with this logic, but I'm pretty sure I've used at least three bathrooms meant for men.  But I digress.

After lunch, we wanted to meander around the hills streets.  We started down one particular road only to be met by a car.  We split off to either side of the road.  Hannah and I to the left; Kassie to the right.  Well, somehow or another, a ceramic pot holding a plant was knocked over and shattered.  I maintain the car did it, and Kassie denies touching it.  So we just sort of fled the scene while a waiter from the respective restaurant screamed vanities at us, none of which I will repeat here.  So much for keeping our heads down... 

After that fiasco we decided to take a more calming turn and wandered into another museum.  The Museo di Disceon to be precise.  It was a church converted into a museum to house some of Cortona's local famous artists and other gems.  It was a great way to spend a few hours and five euros.  I adored every minute of it.  Like most museums in Italy, the art mainly depicts religious events.  This usually pertains directly to Mary.  I'm very interested in artistic interpretations of the Madonna.  (If you ever wanto to hear me ramble mindlessly, bring this up).  Usually, the Madonna is depicted as a fairly adrogynous, apart from her face.  However, most of these paintings showed her in full third trimester of her pregnancy.  Just something, I found interesting, you may not though.  

We wandered back up to the bus stop, not before grabbing Hannah some mediocre cheesecake gelato.  As we were waiting for the bus, there were two little boys running around.  They were brothers, and, in the Italian fashion, they were showing their strength in front of a beautiful older woman to gain her attention.  As we were getting on the bus,  the younger boy, maybe seven, said to her, "Hai bella faccia, bella faccia".   "You have a beautiful face, a beautiful face".  Which, if that doesn't melt your heart, nothing will.  

Offuscato - Blur

Literally, the last few days weeks have been a blur.  I've already been here for a little over a month and it's just flown by.  I haven't been properly updating, but I hope this will change. (Fat chance).  I should rewind past my last entry to my parents visit. 

They came on September 18th and left the 28th to give you an idea of how out of touch I am with my fan base (consisting of Matthew, Jessica and Alli).  They were here and it was wonderful.  You see, I left home at an early age, 16, to go to boarding school.  So while most people became sick of their parents their final two years of high school, I wasn't around mine.  I feel like this has been both an advantage and disadvantage to my growth as an adult.  While most people are on mediocre to temultuous grounds with their parents, I have a great relationship with both of mine.  We rarely fight and for the most part, I feel like I can be completely open with them; however, at times it feels like my sixteen year-old self stills clings to them at times.  Sometimes I feel like it hinders my growth into a fully independent woman.  I often time find myself seeking their approval and sometimes for things they really have no say over.  Most of the time this is all in my head though.  They sound surprised sometimes when I "just check if it's okay".  (This wasn't meant to be the subject of this entry, but get me on my soap box and it's hard to shut me up).

You think we're related?

It was nice having them around if not for the company but for the free meals and day trips around Italy that were not part of my shoe-string budget.  Since they were in Florence for so long, we decided to take a few trips to cities around the area.

First we went to Pisa.  And let me say, if you can at all avoid this city, do.  It's a complete and total tourist trap full of fake bags, gypsies and overpriced lunches.  Don't even get me started on that last one.  But despite the price, I can officially say I had a piece of pizza in Pisa.  And I can also officially say, it was fantastic.  I had no idea how much I liked tonno (tuna) until I came here.  I'd eat it everyday if it weren't for the pesky mercury.   

From Pisa, we took a bus to Lucca.  And on the bus ride I almost got to enjoy the pizza a second time.  But Lucca was so quaint and adorable it almost made up for Pisa's misgivings.  Almost.  No one speaks English there because they're a self-sufficient community that doesn't need to cater to American tourists to keep their economy afloat.  This is in large part thanks to the Kleenex factory just outside of the city.  (I hope you realize I don't have the time or energy to make a fact like that up).  Anyway, the whole no-english thing gave me a great excuse/forced me to use my Italian.  It went surprisingly well apart from a very rude shoe salesman.  Not to mention, I had my first harsh lesson in bra shopping in Italy in Lucca.  Apparently, Italian women don't have breasts bigger than a C cup.  (A fact I don't quite believe but the lingerie shops do). 


But all in all, Lucca was adorable, the church was quaint, the food: fantastic and the people charming (for the most part).  I wish I had more time to update or even some vast self-realization on the trip I could go into, but I don't.  So those will have to wait until tomorrow or Sunday.  Right now I'm off to sleep for a few hours before catching a train to Cortona.  Man, life in Italy is just so hard with all this travel, food and wine.  I don't know if I can keep up...

Mercoledi Notte

It's amazing how every Wednesday night I come home feeling completely invigorated.  At times I feel like a new person with a new goal in my life.  This is mainly because my final class on Wednesday nights is taught by an amazing woman with a wild unruly gray afro and delicate but dramatic finger gestures.  Without realizing it, she enlightens me on a weekly basis.  True, she's teaching a course on "Women Characters of 20th Century Fiction" and thus I am immediately intrigued being a.) a woman and b.) a writer. 

Tonight she enlightened me to a world outside of Florence.  A world full of real Italians.  She told me to go to places where I will be forced (yes, forced) to speak my horrendous endearing Italian to locals.  Hopefully they will have pity on me. 

My list of places to visit have expanded, but not beyond borders.  I want to travel to the south for sure.  I was reluctant of this at first, but I've come to understand this is where you can find authentic Italians.  Perhaps I can even find Matthew's family down there.  Morelli's not a common name here, right? 

I also want to travel to Sicily.  I was told you cannot experience real Italy without going to Sicily.  So Sicily here I come.  And apparently Turin is the place to be.  Fun history fact:  Turin was an epicenter for anti-fascists Jews prior to WWII.  Which means Turin is a double place for me to be. 

In the next few days I will update on my trips with my parents.  And maybe between now and then I'll have some deep revelation about myself.  But nothing yet. 

Ciao!

Why I Really Came Here.

Like most people coming to live in another counrtry, I, too, am running away: a confession I'm not ashamed to admit.  Some people think they're running towards the country.  Towards the parties, culture, or family.  But doesn't running towards something inherently mean you're leaving something behind? 

Don't get me wrong, my life back home is nothing to scoff at.  I have a loving and supportive family, close knit friends, a fairly sucessful academic career at a prestigious university and an adoring boyfriend.  It is generally assumed that adding these things together equals a happy life, and I'm no exception but, a happy life doesn't necessarily equal a happy person.

For the last few years I suffered with crippling insecurity.  I put my self-worth in superficial things.  My success was measured by a means so ridiculous I can't bring myself to mention it here.  (Not yet at least).  All of this meant my life back in California crumbled.  I watched as it fell to the ground and scatter around my feet.  I stretched myself far too thin.  I was working not one, but two jobs I came to resent.  I was pouring myself into my writing and other work all while grasping at the few flailing relationships I had left.  All in all, at the end of my sophomore year, I was one hot mess. 

Through the summer I tried to reconstruct myself.  I focused on very little other than my job, reading and writing.  At times things seemed to get even worse.  I was away from my support group.  Namely, I was away from Matthew (the adoring boyfriend as mentioned above).  It was like, as soon as I began to pick up the pieces of my disintigrating self-esteem, something as minuscule a gust of wind would come and level it again.  I was having a hard time thinking of the next day, let alone trying to rationalize a move to Italy. 

But the day of my flight came and went and before I realized it, I was being shoved into a taxi with a man who resembled Nintendo's Mario.  (Apologies for the stereotype, but it's the most accurate way I can describe this man).  So here I am.  A run away.  Along with hundreds of other students who also ran away whether they know it or not.  But now that I'm here, things are going to change. 

I could make this blog very generic; simply listing my activities and boasting of how many shots I can take before some skeazy native cops a feel.  But I won't.  From this moment on, this blog is not just a normal blog.  It's a sanctuary.  I honestly have no idea who reads it and I don't believe one can write only for themselves.  So I'm writing this for you.  You who question your place in the world.  You who sometimes feel darkness swirling around you, encapsilating your life.  You who wonder, when you look back on your life will you like what you see? You who are struggling with self-acceptance, let alone self-love.  This is for you, ragazzi. 

Oggi (Today)

Okay, so I planned on writing an entry today anyway, but due to a series of crazy events I was unable to until now.  And instead of rewriting it all out for you, I'm just going to copy and paste the e-mail I wrote to my parents discussing it all.  Yes, I am that lazy.

Dear Mom and Pops,

I realize you called me today, but I have an epic reason as to why I was unable to answer.  So I kind of had a very lazy morning today and didn't get up till 11.  I tooled around for a bit and cleaned up the kitchen to include disposing of the garbage.  I wrapped it up only to find that one of the girls cannot properly dispose of garbage and thus liquid was dripping from the bottom.  I didn't realize this until I had stepped out of my apartment.  So I ran back in, grabbed a second bag to cover the bottom and dropped out in the dumpster.  I came back inside I started to clean up the liquid in the hallway, leaving the door open a crack.  Unfortunately, gust of wind came in and shut the door, locking me out and everything, my phone, keys and money inside.  This is only the beginning of the story so you should sit down if you haven't already. 

After knocking on every door in the building, I finally came upon a nice Sri Lankan Buddhist who was kind enough to take me in for a few hours.  He spoke little English and perfect Italian while I spoke a little Italian and absolutely no Sinhala or Tamil.  Communication was difficult to say the least.  We tried to pick the lock for nearly an hour with two screwdrivers and another key even removing the plate the lock was on.  Let me just say, I will never worry about the security of this apartment.  That lock, only one of the seven we have, was not gonna budge.  So I borrowed some money from the Sri Lankan Buddhist (his name escapes me at the moment), and ran to an internet cafe, where I was lucky enough to find Nicole, roommate, who was in Venice online.  I explained the situation to her and she gave me Lucy (our landlord's number).  Of course, Lucy's out of town. She told me this only after raking me across the coals for locking myself out.  "Why did you leave without your keys?  Never leave without your keys.  Don't do that again."  I didn't have the energy to rehash the actual reason I was locked out, so I apologized profusely for my stupidity.    And it being Sunday the school is completely shut down on.  So no help there either, but Nicole said she would be home at 8 though so I only had about five hours to kill at this point. 

The Sri Lankan invited me back up to his house and fed me this delicious curry dish, that I have to get the recipe for, and a glass of coke.  We discussed many things to include yoga, food, vino (which he deosn't drink but hoards) and he even showed me some Sir Lankan pop music.  (Very entertaining).  He was, as he liked to put it "an honest man" (pronounced with a hard "h").  He was incredibly kind and genuinely sympathetic to my situation, but he had to go to a soccer game so I had to hit the road.

Not knowing what to do without money or a phone, I went to the Duomo.  Churches are about the only things free in the city.  There I ran into four Australians touring around Europe.  We started talking and discussing the city and rehashing our life stories.   They ended up inviting me to go with them to watch the sunset on Piazza Michealangelo, which is across the ponte vecchio up a hill and I will take you there because the view of the city is phenomenal and you can't miss it.  We stayed up there for a few hours playing cards, drinking vino and shooting the breeze.

We trotted back down to the city and caught up with a wine tasting festival going on where we parted ways.  Nicole just got home and was able to let me back into the apartment from which I am writing this email.  I'm completely fine and safe.  And despite a possibly terrible situation, this has been by far the best day I've had here yet. 

Ciao Ciao,

Elizabeth

Il Mio Primo Giorno della Scuola (My First Day of School) By: Elizabeth Whitten

The irreverent beeping of my alarm clock came far too early this morning.  I was having such a pleasant dream.  I can’t remember the details, but it was one of those dreams where nothing ludicrous happens so it seems super ultra real. I never wanted to leave the cozy world my subconscious created for me.  That is until I realized where I was waking up.  Italy. How easy it is to forget where one is, when one becomes integrated into one’s new world.  I’ve even adjusted my eating schedule.  Last night I had dinner at nine.  Nine o’clock.  Eating after Jeopardy?  The world’s gone mad.

I feel the arms of the city taking me in and hugging me to its breast.  The language is so enticing it’s hard not to “Ciao” at everyone I pass on the streets.  But there is one major difference between the city and I. 

I am the elusive “morning person.”  Now, you could assume with the world-renowned espressos and cappuccinos Italy collectively is a morning people.  Far from it.  In fact, you would be hard pressed to find a caffé opened before ten a.m.  It’s a simple case of supply and demand.  Italians don’t wake up until noon, why would any respectable caffé owner? 

When the city sleeps peaceful, I wander and really take it all in.  There’s no hustle and bustle of tourist buying knock off designer bags. No Italian man cat-calling American girls.  No vespas whizzing by.  And while Italy is not known for its subdued nature, there is a tranquility in the hush of the city streets.

My first class this morning was The Holocaust and the Christian Response.  The title is very misleading it’s more a history of Jews in Italy and Italy during World War II.  My professor took us down to the Piazza della Repubblica where the old Jewish Ghetto was.  In the center of the city there used to be an enclosed community.  The idea of the ghetto is a tough one to swallow for anyone, but what I can’t understand is that in a city gleaming with art and culture why it would force a group of people, who had nothing but to add to the cities already booming metropolis, to remain within specific confines.  Hitler actually took the idea of the ghetto from the Italians.  The first official Jewish ghetto was in Venice, but after the embarrassment of World War II, the Florentines stripped the city of the ghetto history.  There’s no trace to be found other than a lone Latin inscription on the wall of the Orsanmichele Church.  

For my second class, Current Trends in Italian Cuisine, we also took a small field trip to the heart of town.  Not to discuss Anti-Semitism (although that was mentioned), but to explore the best ristoranti, caffé, and gelaterias in the city.  Can you believe there are caffé stands over a century and a half old still in operation?  My professor, Maria Renata (a beautiful woman with a beautiful name), also informed us the more you use an espresso machine the better the coffee tastes.  Which means the youngest caffé in Firenze makes Starbucks look like child’s play.  (This coming from a born and bred Washingtonian). 

After class came my real lesson of the day: how to line dry bed sheets from windows.  I would say it was an overall success; I managed to drop only one clothespin. 

At this point I became kind of depressed and paranoid.  You see for the last few months every time I spoke of this trip I was met with worried eyes and stern looks.  And of course any mention of the movie Taken was unappreciated, but brought up nonetheless.  But after a rather abrasive pep talk from my boy back home, I put on my big girl boots, (I literally put on boots, just so you know), and marched my way back down to the Piazza della Reppublica to buy myself a nice trippa (tripe) sandwich.  I ended up passing on the sandwich, but hey I made it out through the city by myself. We all start somewhere. 

L'Arrivo

I don’t mean to make anyone jealous, but right now, I’m eating Nutella from the jar, in my adorably Florentine apartment listening to Nino Rota.  I live above a gelateria, and pasta shop.  We live next to the largest market in Firenze. (Yes, I’ll be pretentious and use the correct name).  And when I say “next to”, I don’t mean a block or two away.  I mean when I stepped out of my apartment I could smell the fresh basil.  Perhaps this is how Italy smells though. 

It’s surreal to be here.  Not because it’s quaint and charming with European eccentricities (although it is).  It’s surreal because I’ve been jet lagged for three days.  In Italy it’s almost midnight.  In Elizabeth’s body it’s three in the afternoon. 

It felt unreal when we started this journey.  (The thought of twenty hours of straight travel can be a bit daunting).  And by “we” I mean Jessica, Beatrice, Kara and I.  Four girls from Chapman.  Four girls completely unprepared for the next four months.  We began our trip in LAX.  I like to think of this as Dante’s journey through Hell.  A short jaunt to Chicago.  Then maneuvering our way through O’Hare airport.  Luckily my Eagle-Scout father sat me down to map out the Chicago airport days before leaving.  From Chicago to Zurich and barring a catty middle-aged American woman, it was quite pleasant.  Then from Zurich to Firenze.  Then came the arduous task of Italian customs and immigration. 

Our passports, with our useless visas. *Not pictured: Me*

Basically you get off the plane.  Yeah.  That’s about it, which is just super considering that amount of energy it takes to get a visa for this country.  To get my visa I literally hunted down the Italian Vice Consulate in Seattle and accosted him at his house. 

So, we get out of the airport and into a taxi.  Apparently, the four words of Italian I spoke to our rather hefty driver was enough to tell him, “we mean business”.  Now, I’ve seen ridiculous drivers; I live in California.  But this man, and all the other vehicles for that matter, had no regard for lanes or stop signs or pedestrians.  At one point we passed a bus on a one lane street (completely illegal in America).  When the bus driver flipped us off, our driver proceeded to insult said bus driver’s innocent mother.  Ah, the sounds of the city.

Not the best picture, but you get the idea.

Basically, from there we got checked into our apartments.  That night I was too exhausted to make food and too overwhelmed to go out searching for a restaurant so I just settled on gelato.  Yeah.  I settled for gelato.  This was my first experience with real gelato.  And to quote the great Gershwin boys, “how long has this been going on?”  How could I have possibly lived twenty years without this?  And now that I’ve had it, I realize those twenty years have been spent in misery.  No one should be without gelato.  No one. 

I have so much more to say.  That’s just the first few hours of being here.  Everything is so vibrant.  The shutters of the windows.  The smell of leather and basil and mozzarella fill the crisp air.  It would take me a lifetime of nothing but writing to do this city justice.  But Nino got it write with a few chromatic notes.

Let me end this entry with an apology for my avid followers.  I’ve been without internet since arriving in Firenze. Now, we have limited connection.  One girl can be on at a time.  There are six of us.  And the chord to get connected is in two of the girls’ bedroom.  It’s been an incredibly frustrating situation to say the least.  Our landlord has been so considerate and desperately trying to help us, but the people at the internet company keep telling us we need to re-configure our computers (we don’t).  Suffice to say, an Italian IT guy is about to get my American Chuck Taylor’s shoved up their -- you get the idea, right? Frustrating.

Buona Notte Ragazzi. A domani!

Elisabetta

(I think I'm taking this thing a little too far...)

Now I'm in California, Love.

I made it, and boyfriend lovingly met me inside the airport.  (I think he read previous post).  It's been lovely since I came back, apart from Green, my best friend, running off to San Diego.  Damn her.  I'll just have to lure her to hang out with my with Panda Express.  She can never say no to greasy Chinese food.  Not the main, but a rather vital aspect to our friendship. 

It's orientation week on campus, and I am happy to say I am in no way involved in any aspect of it.  Hands-off this year.  After spending ten hours in the ninety degree heat handing out rented grocery shopping carts to Freshman (who more times that not had way too much attitude for the campus babies).  Even worse were the parents.  "Well, I just don't understand why I can't just cut to the front of the line or just march up to my daughter, Tiffany's, room right now.  I don't want to have to deal with everyone else.  We came all the way from LA. We don't have time for this."

And it's just too damn hot.  All I want to do is sleep.  But instead I watch reruns of Barefoot Contessa and Giada at Home.  Nothing like food porn on a hot Thursday afternoon.

It hasn't all been unproductive though.  We had breakfast at Cafe Lucca's. (Gearing myself up for Italy).  Boyfriend had a shot of espresso.  He said it was too sweet, I think it tasted like tar.  Then went out searching for an apartment.  Most people wouldn't let us past the front gate.  But eventually we meandered our way away from campus, where it's cheaper and safer.  I fell in love with a little one bedroom by the tracks.  Of course there's no way to tell if there will be openings in January (apparently you can't just look that up on the nifty office computer).  But I'm hopeful.

And desperate.

California

So tomorrow I'm leaving at the ass-crack of dawn to catch a flight to California where I will be undoubtedly met by my many ardent admirers.  If I were to venture a guess I would say there will be at least twenty people waiting anxiously as I descend the escalator (yeah, I'm lazy what of it?), down to the baggage claim of John Wayne International Airport.  (I'm not sure if it's actually international, but it's got like four baggage carousels, so that's impressive for an airport named after a man who starred in westerns.)  There will be hugs, tears, and a mass amount of rose pedals thrown beneath my feet. 

I paint quite the picture don't I?  In sad actuality, the only person who will be there is my boyfriend.  Who does love me but is more or less obligated to pick me up.  And instead of my baggage claim fantasy I'll probably have to run and try (very hard) to catch him outside near the taxis.  He should come in and actually see me, but his father never taught him proper airport etiquette.  I would try to correct this, but I have to choose my battles and getting him to quit smoking takes precedence over chivalry anyday.

Anyway, I'll probably have to wait for him outside of the large golden statue of John Wayne.  This is the brilliance of their "pick-up" area.  It's this dank tunnel with three lanes, so if party A (those who are doing the picking up) is not in the closest lane to the curb, then party B (person sans a car of their own) has to frantically wave them down knocking over her two suitcases, hitting an Asian tourist in the face and making small children cry, all while party A just drives on by unaware.   And yes, this may have been a personal experience. 

But at least I get to see this boyfriend.  I mean he's pretty cute.  Funny.  Charming.  A soon-to-be-non-smoker.  And I don't know anyone else to pick me up, so guess he's my knight in shining armore. (Ha, see what I did there?)

So in summation, to whomever reads this, that will be one aspect of my day tomorrow.  Have a good sleep.  (...Or morning.  I don't know where my fanbase is located.  I figure I have more of an East Coast vibe).

Tomorrow Starts in 36 Minutes

Things I need to get done tomorrow:
* Return library books.
* Get my hair done, and with it a brand new vote of self-confidence.
*  Do all my laundry and begin to pack for Italy.  Minimalism will be my motto for the next three months.
* Buy whatever else I need for Italy.  This will require a very reluctant trip out to Wal-Mart  (I can't believe I just admitted that on the interwebs).
* Dinner with my grandparents.  Mock Chicken legs ... yum!
* Write something... anything.
* Sleep.


That sounds nice.  Doesn't it?

Foreward

I think I should start from the beginning.  Rather, I should start this entire blog over.  So let's begin, shall we?

Hi.  My name is Elizabeth.  I'm originally from a small town in Washington state.  And when I mean small, I'm not talking about a suburb outside of a city.  When I say small, I don't mean 50,000 people.  I mean 4,000 people.  Instead of a mall we have a Super Wal-Mart.  Instead of restaurants we have a McDonald's.  Instead of art galleries, museums, and culture, we have rodeos, backyard barbecues and shot gun weddings.  While, this may appeal to some, it didn't to me.  So I left at sixteen, moved to California to a boarding school.  Now I'm at college in LA and about to take another culture dive.  In exactly eleven days, I depart America to spend three months (three entirely glorious months) in Florence, Italy. 

I realize blogs are the hip new thing to do.  And normally, I'm not "in" enough to partake in such activities, but, I'm a writer, and this is a way for me to feel productive in my "craft" (I hate that word) without having to beg publishers, producers, agents, actors, and the general public to give me the time of day.   You see, it really doesn't matter to me if anyone reads this.  In fact, if I make myself believe that no one is (which won't be difficult), I can be honest about everything.  So, while I appreciate anyone who reads this thoroughly, for my own sanity, I'll just pretend you're imaginary, like my other friends.

Did I mention I'm twenty years old?