The attempted pub crawl

Straight from dinner, I got a call from a friend saying that there was a pub crawl with students from our school, and they were all meeting right by where we were.

Yay! I thought. An opportunity to make new friends and drink beer. Perfect :)

So we find ourselves at “The Red Garter”, surrounded by our own kind, for once. As we look around, however, we realize that we have actually transported to Cabo Wabo during Spring Break. People are chugging from fishbowls, singing karaoke, and drunkenly dancing on a stage. I thought I came here to become more cultured. (Ok and obviously party). But if I wanted to go to Mexico, I would have just booked a much cheaper flight to Puerta Vallarta. (I'm sure in retrospect that if I was that girl on stage, I would have been having a blast, but luckily I wasn't on that level.)

So we leave and go to a place Pa had recommended if we wanted to experience a true Italian bar, called “Slowly” (yes everything here has an American name).

I feel out of place immediately. Everyone is staring at us as we are sat at a table. Little blonde Americans in a sea of locals. At least the music is on our sides (yes, all they play here is American, too).

The older Italian gentlemen next to us are friendly though (as most of them are to us), and ten minutes later we have champagne bottle service. We spend the rest of the evening laughing and bantering back and forth in English and Italian with what turn out to be a doctor and a businessman. We learn how to say “stop” (“fermo”), and “shut up” ("stai zitto"). The language barrier makes everything hilarious and we literally laugh all night.
I can see my mother reading this with horror on her face. It’s ok mom, I didn't go into any dark alleys or give my apartment keys, or social security number to these guys.

We leave (by ourselves) around 2 and conclude our attempted pub crawl/local bar adventure with, at the least, a couple new Italian words in our vocabulary.
And, a pretty sweet picture of the doctor throwing up the Gamma, although despite all our efforts, he never understood what we meant by sorority ;)

Pa

What words come to mind when you think of the Italian culture? For me I think: family, food, wine, etc. I haven’t quite gotten that from much of Florence, as it tends to cater to its largely American population. I’ve heard, however, that there are plenty of places characterized by the Italian charm that brings people here in the first place- its just a matter of finding them. And last night I was lucky enough to find one.

As chance would have it, it was a charming little restaurant not ten feet from my apartment. My roommates had gone there the night before and raved about the ravioli, so we thought we’d go back for round two.
The meal begins with your standard sourdough bread slices, but when the server recognizes my roommates, she takes it back and brings it out again grilled and drizzled in olive oil. Sophia and I start by sharing a caprese salad, which was a piece of art, and contained absolutely the freshest mozzarella, tomatoes, and basil I have ever tasted. Then, for our main dish we split spinach risotto.

I was expecting pasta, and had to be a good sport when they brought out balls of steamed balls of creamy spinach topped with huge slices of reggiano cheese in butter sauce. Where were my carbs? Once I got over my disappointment, and manned up enough to try it, I found that it was absolutely delicious, if not still...spinachy.

I can't really complain, either, because I got to try the other girls' food, and although it gets old saying how amazing everything is, I swear this place has the best ravioli I have ever had in my entire life. What the hell do they do to make it THAT good, I wonder? Extra love? Magic? It came out in individual ceramic bowls, bubbling and obviously straight out of…Heaven, I guess.

Enter, Pa. Because we couldn’t pronounce his actual name, the restaurant owner tells us to call him “Pa”, what his “historical friends” call him. He asks us everything about home, our program, our school, and is genuinely interested. We invite him to sit after 15 minutes of chatting, "aww thank you thank you," he says like we'd never ask, collapsing into a chair.

“We laugh,” he confides in us, leaning forward, his hands out in front of his face, emphasizing the point. “When you say ‘Grazie’. I mean, we really laugh.”
We look at each other, confused. Isn’t that how you say ‘thank you’?
“It’s ‘gratzi-ay’, not ‘gratz-eee’,” he explains, enunciating the ending. “With you Americans it’s gratzeee, gratzeeee, gratzeeee. And we laugh at you."

Oops.

He continues on, teaching us all the secrets of blending into our cultural surroundings. We even teach him a thing or two, such as what it means when you get shivers and bumps on your arms- “Goosebumps”, and where you can find the best deserts in America- his favorite geographical location as he is not partial to the bustle of Los Angeles.

At some point he summons shots of Limoncello (after two bottles of wine with dinner we were already feeling very cozy in this little place). Throughout all of this the restaurant has filled up and others are eager to take our table. We decide to make room for them by quickly taking our shots and leaving, but Pa is shocked, insisting that we drink them at our leisure. “This is not America”, he says. “Enjoy it.”

So we slowly finish our little lemon shots, laughing and joking with Pa some more. We accidentally overpay and insist they keep the extra as a tip, but Pa pushes it back at us. There is a short battle of “no, you take it”s, and then Pa’s face gets serious. “We want you to feel like this is your home and we are your family.” Then keep it and take it off our next bill, we say, because we will be back tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after. :)

Walking off the gelato

Since today was Laurent’s last day before heading back to Rome, we filled it with fun. For lunch we got sandwiches at The Oil Shoppe, which is one of the most popular American places, and absolutely bomb.com. There is a sign-in book there with hundreds of college students from back home, and I added myself to that, obviously.

Then we hiked to the Michelangelo viewpoint. How I did not come here my first day, I do not know, as it is more breathtaking than anything I have seen so far, and pointless to even try describing.It was all uphill and maybe fourteen million stairs, but probably for the best considering how big my sandwich was earlier. (On that note, I have somehow, despite the gelato, the cheese, the ciabattas, and the mozzarella, lost weight).

God I love Italy.



After our long journey, we rewarded ourselves with a glass of wine. Every night around 5 they have what’s called “apertivo”, which is basically a free buffet of appetizers to accompany your drinks.

I may never come home.

My first adventure

A 20-hour night sleep was just what I needed to shed off the last of my jet lag, and had me up and raring to go at…6:45am. So I decided to go on a solo field trip. I’ve been surrounded by friends since the moment I got here, and I felt like in order to truly absorb everything around me I must create time to explore on my own.
My destination was the Ponte Vecchio Bridge. The sun had just risen by the time I got there, and was reflecting, along with the lines of architecture, in the most amazing way. All I could think was that I am living in a movie.

After taking my photos I came back to a café I had passed on the way and made a mental note to come back to called La Borsa. I had my cappuccino, read my student newspaper, and relaxed. I think it is very nice here that something as common as getting an espresso is still considered a meal, and therefore respected as a leisure activity. No one will ever bring you a check unless you ask, and when you’re finally finished, you initiate the conclusion to your meal.




Another thought.
Never since I’ve been here have I heard a request for a “venti nonfat sugarfree vanilla iced coffee with room for cream”, or anything else of the sort. Here it is: “cappuccino”, or “espresso”.

Simplicity at its best.



As I walk back to my apartment, I heard my name being called and ran into a couple friends from Laurent’s UW group that I had been with the other night. Even in Florence it’s a small world. They invited me to go to Barcelona with them next weekend, which I’ll have to think long and hard about (not).

Life is perfect.

First full day

After my moving in fiasco yesterday, things got infinitely better. Jordan and Riley met me at my apartment, and we adventured out to an authentic little restaurant to have our first meal of the day- Ricotta and spinach tortellini, alfredo gnocchi, and a margarita pizza. I won’t even attempt to find the words necessary to do these dishes justice.

We spent the rest of the afternoon wandering the bustling, beautiful streets of our new city, indulging in everything along the way (gelato, biscotti, cappuccinos, etc). I befriended one barista (do they even call them that here?), who taught me how to say “how do you say”, which is really the most practical thing to learn in Italy when you don’t know even enough to attempt to speak the language. They get so pissy if you speak English (understandable), so the Golden Ticket is to ask how to say what you really want to say.


Example: While in H&M, asking a sales lady how to say “pea coat”, because then she knows what you are looking for without rudely making her cross the language barrier that is technically your problem, not hers.

Anyways.


Eventually we were hungry for dinner, and while I could have happily continued my pizza/pasta binge, Jordan decided she HAD to have…Chinese food. Our taxi driver was a little confused when asked him to take us to find this particular cuisine, but still took us to what turned out to be possibly the best Chinese food I have ever eaten. The service, however, was terrible, and management clearly had distaste for Americans which was kind of disheartening as I am trying very hard to blend in.
After dinner, I was on my way home when I got notice that my other five roommates had arrived, and wanted me to meet them at a sandwich shop near our apartment. As three of them are friends in my sorority, I’d been excited for them to get here. Our happy little family of six chattered away until rounds of shots were brought over to us from the shop owner. If they make 151 in Italy that tastes like winter fresh maple syrup, this was it, and I was not a fan.
Today was long and grueling school orientation, which I won’t even waste words on. What is worth mentioning, however, is the blackberry dark chocolate gelato I got afterwards :)

Ciao for now!

Italy

If somebody had sat down and planned a scavenger hunt for me in on how to get settled in Florence in the most challenging and least likely way for me to succeed, I don’t think they could have created a better scenario than what actually occurred. It began favorably enough, as I stepped out onto the cobblestone, squinting through my hangover to see how beautiful and clear this gorgeous Italian day was. Laurent, my high school friend who had picked me up from the train station the night before and had been kind enough to let me crash with, scoops up my two fifty pound bags (thank you, Lord) and marches confidently down the street towards my school (of where I have NO clue is located) and where I will receive my apartment key. Things go smoothly as we part ways and I get all of my paperwork.

I share a cab and eventually find my apartment building (you would think it was a secret hidden gate to the underworld it is so hard to find, but I manage). A friendly Italian working at the Pizza place next to me offers to help when he notices me struggling to get my key to work. After convincing the 500-year-old lock to give, we are inside! The building. I have another door to get to the second floor, another to get onto the outside corridor, another to get into my apartment suite, and another to get into my room, for a total of 5 ancient, defiant locks.
I eagerly twist the final key into the final lock, and as I am doing so, can already feel the hot water of my first shower in 3 days, releasing the weight of these inhumanely heavy bags, and falling onto the heaven that is my single bed. And then there is a snap. I look down to discover that my ancient key has broken inside my ancient lock.
I am silent, and frozen, hoping I don’t cry in front of my friendly Italian pizza man because I don’t know how I can survive another ten minutes without. A damn. Shower.

Friendly Italian Pizza Man asks can I call anyone?
Well. Considering my phone is dead, no. And considering I was dancing the night before away at a discotheque, my thoughts weren’t exactly on precautionary measures to bail myself out in the event that I lock myself out of my apartment before I ever even get into it. Maybe I should rearrange my priorities.
So pizza man calls my landlord on his phone, speaks with her, and tells me that maybe she will have somebody come by in the next few hours to have a look. Maybe?

He recommends a good espresso place around the corner, where I can wait, I “Grazie” him in my best Italian, and I stop inside the café, hoping I can at least eat while I figure out my next move. After digging through my purse I realize that I had only one Euro. And my debit card is nowhere to be found. So I use the one little coin Euro I find to buy a water bottle, which of course, is actually disgusting sparkling water, and ask the man behind the counter where I can plug my phone in to charge it. He plugs it in behind the counter for me, and a moment later, it is back on!

But low and behold, I have zero service in the little café. After repeatedly trying and failing to call Athena’s Emergency number, Laurent, my mom, and my landlord, I give up. I can’t shower because I can’t get into my apartment, I can’t taxi back to school because I have no more money, I can’t take out more money because I don’t have a debit card, and I can’t get ahold of anyone to ask for help because my phone doesn’t work. And I can’t do anything else because I am in a foreign city, speaking foreign language, and don’t. Know. What. To. Do.

So I cry.

And the father-like chubby Italian man who had plugged my phone in for me, notices, and comes around the counter. He wipes my eyes and says “don’t cry, Bella, don’t cry”. And so I stop. Because he is right and I shouldn’t cry and I am happy to be on an adventure even if it sucks at that moment. I “Grazie” him for his help, and go back to my apartment. I realize that the Gods must have finally tired of messing with me and thrown me a bone, for my first roommate of six had arrived, and I am suddenly, no longer alone.


Moments later a key repair man appears, lets us into our spacious apartment overlooking the Duomo church (aka magnificent), and all the trials of the morning are ancient history as I am finally standing under a cascade of hot, perfect, water.

London

I read these words on my coffee cup and I immediately love London:


“The bubble size is crucial. The smaller the bubbles, the more delicious the drink. Obsessive but important”.

I may have only been here for a few hours (admittedly without leaving the airport), but this short stay has taught me several things:

1) I am in love with ham and cheese croissants.
2) Espresso in Europe makes me embarrassed to own a Starbucks gold card. If coffee is my drug, European coffee is like, the holy goddess queen of it all.
3) I would fit in well if I ever chose to live in London because a) There is an apparent love of flannel, b) everybody talks in such chipper accents they always sound so positive even if they are saying something mundane and annoying and c) I love saying “two pence”; pounds are such a cool currency and so much more fun to say then “nickel”.

The most important thing I learned in London, however, is this:

That just when I thought I was leaving my comfort zone, I was actually entering it. My happiness does not revolve around consistency or daily routine; in fact, I feel caged in when things get that way. My comfort zone is to be exploring, learning, and experiencing new things- and not with the assistance of others, but on my very own.

So as I sit here all by myself on the opposite side of the world, with my little mocha and my little notebook, I realize that I could not possibly feel any more at home.

The Journey Begins

I am sitting in LAX, with time to kill before my 10-hour flight to Europe. After a 3 hour layover in London, I will fly 3 hours to Pisa, where I will buy a train ticket, and wait another 4 hours until I can make the final leg of my journey to Florence. That is approximately… one full day of traveling (A day and a half if you factor in the time zone), not to mention daunting, and scary, and sounds like a lot of bullshit to get through before I can finally shower again.

Why was it that I wanted to study abroad so bad? Frankly this just sounds like a lot to do when at the moment I just want to stay and live my perfect little California life with my perfect little friends, and perfect little routine. If I had a choice, I would gladly be rescued from this god forsaken airport, drive back home jamming to Lupe Fiasco, windows down in this gorgeous weather, and pick up where I left off drinking margaritas with my friends. But I am sitting with my taped up computer, not wanting to call anyone because I’ll get sad having to say goodbye again, and watching a fidgety Canadian woman twitter about the gate (I know she is Canadian because she ends up sitting next to me on the plane, taking shots of scotch and chattering about her children until I respectfully put my headphones in).

Of course this sounds immature and naïve, as most people will never have the opportunity I have laid out in front of me.

But it is simply how I feel at the moment.