Newsflash: Sleep is not a myth

Normally when one is sick, they should stay low, take their vitamins, medication, etc. At the very least get eight hours of sleep a night.

See, I’m an optimist. I like to think that anything is possible; that you have control of your destiny, and can create the physical and mental state of your choosing through the power of sheer will. So when I convince myself that it’s all in my head and go out ten nights in a row, remedying a head and chest cold with sleepless nights, loud music, and beer, I should be less surprised that I am sick as a dog. And now I am paying the price for my “optimism”.

I’ve been in bed all week, surprisingly without coughing up any organs (but close). I’ve ingested enough oranges and bananas to feed a small tribe for a year, and I have not even picked up a textbook. I’ve seen the entire sixth season of Criminal Minds, five episodes of Modern family, and begun Californication from the beginning of the first season. I haven’t even had the energy to get Grom gelato after dinner, and that is saying a LOT considering it is ten feet from my apartment and how strong my, um, addiction is.

On Wednesday I decided that some fresh air might do the old lady good and went for a “brisk walk” to the river, where I did yoga and some circuit training. I was hoping that jump starting my immune system would help to kick out this pesky cold faster, but it didn’t, and I didn’t leave my bed the next day.

So we’ll consider this a learning experience; a week investment towards the rebuilding of energy and brain cells and a lesson to be more careful in the future.

I want to spend as little time in my bed as possible while I'm abroad, so next time I go out partying while sick, I’ll remember to mix some Emergen-C with my chaser ;)

"One is silver, and the other gold"

“We have a lot to do in a week. Like what? Sightseeing. Boozing. Reminiscing. Time-consuming, intense stuff”- "Something Borrowed", Emily Giffin

Sunday morning, instead of taking the train home, I decide to just, not. And stay in Rome. Maybe a day, maybe a week, maybe forever. What, I could skip my classes and I it's not as if I have a flight home yet…

It’s just that I love Laurent’s friends, I love Rome, I love that I am experiencing such cool stuff with such cool people.

So although everybody is tired from being good hosts to me for the past two days, and would rather sleep in, they mask their sleepiness and take me to the best gelato place in town instead. It’s called Giolitti, and I get a cone with three flavors and whipped cream. When in Rome…

Note that this is also after my amazing breakfast that Chap made this morning: French toast with a fresh loaf of bread. No butter or syrup, just toast, caramelized powdered sugar and cinnamon. Yum, yum, and yum.

Then we wander, checking out a couple other must-sees and I pick out a painting from a local artist in Piazza Navona (impulse buy).

Laurent suggests a park with a view of the city and one things leads to another, and next thing you know, we are perched on blankets with fresh bread, cheese, cold cuts, (and Pringles), and peacefully sipping some white wine. It’s a little breezier today so we are all bundled up in cozy sweatshirts and cuddled together for warmth.


Laurent and Chap kick a soccer ball around for a while and after a few hours of chatting, laughing, and dozing off to Bob Marley, we head home for a real dinner.

We eat at one of their favorite places, and I have another round of delicious carbonara while I can still justify my vacation carbs. And then, despite lack of sleep and dehydration, Laurent and friends are determined to give me a fun last night so we go out for a few beers after dinner.

It’s low key, as we are all on our, maybe 8th night of going out, but we get a private little covered booth, and I’m happy to be spending my last night in Rome cozied up with my new friends debating the legitimacy of Glee over a Guinness.

Then finally, Doomsday comes and I must return to Florence. And surprise, surprise, I get lost on my way to the train station (everyone had class so I was on my own). Let me tell you, being lost in Rome is a much different story than being lost in Florence.


Things usually seem to work out for me, but after following directions from a local professor (I mispronounced where I was going), and ending up veryy far off the beaten path, I had a few seconds of sheer panic. And I think, welp, you gave it a good go, now you get to be homeless in Rome for the rest of your life. Worse things could happen. I get lost on my way to the grocery store in Florence, but something familiar is always just a few steps away. Rome can swallow me alive.

But then I remember, hey, I’m from a big city, this can’t be that hard to get out of. My confidence thankfully isn’t put the test because Laurent finally returns my fifteen desperate phone calls and helps navigate me to the bus stop.

I am saved.



I don’t think I’m allowed to feel less-than-enthusiastic about returning back to Florence. Isn’t that against some sort of law of the universe? That when you leave one paradise to go to another, you aren’t entitled to feel like you’re getting jipped? It’s still paradise. But I still can’t help but think about if and when and how soon I can make it back to Rome.

Maybe I am just sad because I got a lot out of my weekend. For example:


A new favorite beer- Guinness. HOW did I never think it could be good before?

Some pretty great pictures.

(A tighter butt, from all the walking I did).

And new friends.

A realization that although so much of what I see, learn, and do in a day is incredible on its own, it’s that much better doing it with people on my level. Experiences can be enhanced so much by the people you’re with.

Sure it will be nice not to have to shower with boys two-in-one shampoo and sleep in a real bed- but I would sleep on the floor forever if every weekend could be like this one.

(I say this now, but I know I’m going to be paying the price for this fun-filled weekend, as my eyes feel like they are going to fall out of my head and my back hurts and I could use an entire bottle of Advil. I don’t think my body would be capable of doing this every weekend.)

Either way, we didn’t do anything particularly wild, or any grand, once in a lifetime things. But just hanging out in Rome, catching up with the old friends while making new ones, and just enjoying being alive and abroad and happy, is, actually, a once in a life time thing.

Roma- Part One

One roundtrip train ticket- 36 Euro

Dining- 50 Euro

Sunglasses for the unexpected sun- 10 Euro

Eating a margarita pizza in front of the Colosseum with your best friend from high school- priceless


Rome.

Where can I even begin.

Well, how about night one?

Ok, I’ll admit it. There have been many times in the past where I’ve been annoyed by Laurent’s ever-present camera. Hid behind my hands or whined that he delete a picture. Well, I would like to take this time to confess to the world (begrudgingly), that Laurent is smarter than I pegged him to for. Seven years later, I have to admit that I am actually quite thankful for the adolescent insight that lead him to capture what we would later look back on with so much nostalgic fondness.

While my computer has crashed, and friends have discarded or abandoned reminders of our teenage years as irrelevant or pointless, Laurent’s little Mac is loaded with arsenal- It is, in essence, the digital portal to my past.

Kudos to the kid with the afro.

You would think I would have better things to do my first night in Rome than to sit on a computer, but that’s exactly what we do, spending hours clicking through thousands of photos (most making me cringe), of every Christmas party, school dance, football game, and all the in betweens that made my four years some of the best, and worst, of my life.


His musical documentation is equally impressive, as his iTunes library holds all of the best and also most embarrassing songs of our past. Panic! at the Disco; Earth, Wind, and Fire; Keith Urban; Common; and the millions of other notes, lyrics, and interludes that sang us through our youth. They bring back such intense memories as the sound of boats at Groveland, the color of Katie’s hookah, the smell of my ex-boyfriends car.


Sure we took a breather at one point to get dinner and go to a couple bars, but let’s be honest, my first night in Rome was spent down memory lane.

But once that was out of my system, my full attention was turned to the incredible, ancient, world-altering city I was smack in the center of. Conveniently enough for my tourist purposes in Rome, Laurent and two of his roommates (Chap, short for John Chapman, and Sean), had an assignment to basically document one of Rome’s regions.

So when light hits, we are up and armed with backpacks, cameras, and our game faces. We also fortify ourselves with sunglasses and forties of Peroni (Cheap Italian Beer), as it is a gorgeous day and we are fully prepared to enjoy it to the hilt.

We have to make a quick pit stop at the girl’s apartment because although I know it’s completely out of character for me, I forgot to bring a blow drier or a hair straightener. Sorry people, tourists gotta’ look good.

But then we are off exploring one of the oldest and most influential cities in the world. As we walk down these beautiful, ancient streets, sipping our Perones and basking in the incredible weather Mother Nature chose to privilege us with, I think that I could not possibly be any happier than at this very moment.


We see where the prime minister lives, the president, the Pantheon, etc. At some point we stumble upon this little building called the Colosseum, you might have heard of it. Hungry from all our walking, we get a couple margarita pizzas and post up right on the barracks where gladiators once prepared to fight, and enjoy our lunch with years of history surrounding us.

We continue on with our journey and find a park overlooking a part of the city. There are a bunch of kids playing soccer (who I must note are really, really good), and Laurent comments that he hopes they know how lucky they are. And he is so right.

The sun is setting so Chap and Sean whip out their last forty and we once again settle and relax, taking in our surroundings. I am trying to absorb this instant in time forever.


There are moments in life (which I have just about every other moment since coming to Italy), where you have to physically stop and recognize how completely perfect your current setting is. You wish you could literally stop time and freeze this scene: the smells, the sounds, the precise way you are feeling that very second and live in the eternal perfection of that moment. But you can’t.

So you take a deep breath and a mental snapshot, and try to remember every single detail you can so you can catalog it and pull it back out of your mental library in the future. Probably when you’re feeling down and need a pick-me-up, and you pull up this snapshot in time and smile, thinking “ah, yes, when life was perfect”.


Despite thinking the day couldn’t get any better, it does. We get back to the boys apartment, and they have already bought all of the makings for carbonara. One of the girls on the trip supposedly makes the best they have ever had, and has promised to come over and cook for all of us.

So Colleen and Kara arrive, setting about filling the kitchen with delicious smells and a coziness that only comes from good people and good food settles over the apartment. (I will admit I dozed on the couch while all of this was taking place, but I was mentally very present and content with the event). The carbonaras is excellent, as claimed, and bellies full, our wine-buzz on, we are ready for a night out.

We go to a sports bar to watch the UW basketball game (which we lose by one point), and the night doesn’t end until finally, back at the apartment, somebody points out that the birds are chirping.

Eze- The Fragonard perfume factory

Eze is again, on the peak of a mountain. There is nothing very special about this village, other than that it sounds cool to say and takes 763 stairs (an estimate, not a fact) to get to.

However. What I discover to be enormously exciting (and to the dismay of all the testosterone on the bus), is that Eze is also the home to a very prestigious“Fragonard”, a French perfume factory. We get what I consider to be one of the coolest tours ever: walking room to room, learning how essence is distilled, mixed, formed, painted, packaged- the works. (Did you know that it takes three tons of rose petals to produce one kilo of rose essence? Well, now you do!)

It was awesome to see the chemical lab where the “noses” (those born with a gift of smell and total around fifty in the entire world) do the most important work. These special people, from what our guide tells us, are only allowed to work a maximum of two hours a day (or else their noses get overworked), and make bank.

Hmmmmm I may have terrible vision, but I’ve always thought I had a pretty decent sense of smell, and this would be a lot more interesting than writing business plans…

Finally we enter the gift shop, otherwise known as a candy store for perfume lovers like myself. A hundred scent-crazed girls try on every kind of fragrance offered and right before we become overwhelmed by the smell, I settle on one and escape to the fresh air.



The one I choose is characterized by vanilla, flowers, and a little bit of musk, and its name, Éclat, means “sparkle” :)


Finally, to the joy of my over-tired legs, everybody piles back on the bus around 5 o’clock (again, I don’t think the boys are pleased by our obnoxious smell). I plug in my headphones so A Fine Frenzy can serenade me throughout this beautiful drive down and out of this little paradise, this Cote d’Azur, this exclusive, architectural and artistic stretch of coast, the French Riviera.

It is dark, and though I am tired, I can’t fall asleep. I spend the majority of this five hour journey back to Florence absorbed self-reflection.

A song came on the night before while dancing at the club in Nice, and after Firenzo belted out the lyrics with everyone else, he pulled me over.

“That sentence,” he said. “It is my favorite in any song.”

They come to mind now, as I am cruising through the Italian countryside in the dark.

“And since I made it here, I can make it anywhere,” Jay-Z so eloquently raps in Empire State of Mind.

I laughed it off at the time, thinking how goofy this career-motivated, English speaking French boy was, the sentence isn’t anything that special. But maybe it hits a little closer to home that I thought.

Here I am, suspended somewhere between Italy and France, and I think how much work it took to make it to this point. All of the paperwork, the extra hours at the restaurant, the lack of sleep, the housing arrangements, the packing, the goodbyes, the fear of the unknown. The dread that it wouldn’t be worth it.

But you can’t put a price or measure the sacrifice of what is worthy for what I have experienced these past few weeks.

To say it has been “worth it” to date, is a gross understatement. This isn’t implying that I live in Paradise- because I don’t. There are plenty of things I both like and dislike about Europe. But just being here I can feel my mind unfolding from all the day-to-day things it has been wrapped around for so long. I don’t stress out about getting to work on time, car repairs, making sure I have gas in my tank, utilities, rent. I left all of those things across the ocean. And although it took a while to get adjusted to this different state of mind, I must say that I finally feel like I actually have one.

Maybe I’m so ditzy back home because all my brain cells are dedicated to other, more important, matters. Or maybe I’m just ditzy.

Either way, I’ve rediscovered one of the most important and yet intangible entities in the world- time. I am able to think more clearly about who I am, and where I’ve been, and where I want to go, and what I want and, well, everything. Back home I don’t have much time to unwind from point A to point B, I just get a Starbucks to get to point C, and what is left over is who I (generally over caffeinated),am.

But despite what it feels has been blindly hauling through life, I somehow ended up exactly where I want to be. I’ve always known everything happens for a reason, but here I am, able to finally be who I want to be, aside from the job, the school, the sorority, and all the other establishments that I love, but am really, really, enjoying being away from. For the moment. And with such an open mind, everything feels so new and fresh. Everything is inspiring.

In the corner of an Italian cafe, or exploring the coast of France, or wherever I will be tomorrow, I am so happy to finally just, be.

Jay-Z may not have realized it at the time, but he was writing my anthem. At least for this week ;)

“These streets will make you feel brand new, the lights will inspire you”

Cannes- The French Hollywood

After exploring the classical art of France, we change gears and move onto the art of entertainment- Cannes, home to one of the world’s largest international film festivals. I have to say, I expected it to be cooler. But alas, the weather is crappy, and I am tired, and instead of exploring, we find a restaurant corner where we cozy up and order crepes- a must while in France.

After we eat, I make a point to go to a bakery, because as I know from past experience that they make the very best bread in the whole wide world here. When I come out, excited with my long, kalamata olive, loaf, I notice my roommates have made a friend while they were waiting outside for me. A sixty year old lady (who honestly looks like an escaped hospital patient), has kindly asked Kelsey to back her motorized bike up the small cobblestone hill, which she graciously does.



She proceeds to sit there, on her bike, goggles securely positioned (yes, goggles), poised and ready, it appears, to zoom down the hill. At this point, a crowd has started to form, and everybody is waiting for the grand finale of what this little lady and her goggles plan to do with the effort it has taken to get her up there. We almost get bored and leave, but finally, she lifts her feet and after all the suspense, flieeees down the hill at the grand speed of… 10 miles an hour (tops),sputtering around the corner and out of sight. I maybe haven’t laughed that hard since I’ve been in Europe, Steph took a video so it should be put up somewhere soon probably.



We check out the building that hosts the film festival, noting all the hand prints in the cement outside, similar to the Hollywood stars. Jane Fonda and Mickey Mouse are the most prominent I find, but a lot are unrecognizably European and we don’t make it by every handprint. Finally, we have been sufficiently entertained in this town and get back on the bus. The sun suddenly comes out, just in time for our final destination.

St. Paul de Vence- Village of the Artists

Our first stop of the day is St. Paul de Vence, the “Village of the Artists”. It is in this little mountainous town where many of the most famous poets, artists, and writers have produced their work, as the clean air and light quality is allegedly conducive to creating masterpieces.

Now, art doesn’t exactly rev my engine enough to get me out of bed three hours after I crawl into it, but I have no choice. I try to put myself together and meet downstairs with the group in time to grab some nutella toast and a cappuccino. Then we arrive in this itsy bitsy beautiful village. It is built on the peak of a mountain, as many other cities in the French Riviera are, to make it difficult for pirates from the Mediterranean to get to. So their sky high vantage point, while gorgeous, is really just a defense mechanism.



Most shops are closed when we get there at the ungodly hour that we do, but eventually they open up and we discover all sorts of wonderful, personally hand-crafted art within them: paintings, candles, furniture, wall pieces, furniture, and everything you can imagine. When I am rich, I will come back here to acquire things to decorate my home- I’m obsessed.





In every bite-size piazza we find stone fountains and ivy, and even the outside walls of buildings have tiny gardens built into them, as every single square inch of this city has been crafted with utmost care and near-religious detail.

(Mel, you would no doubt find inspiration here. No need to thank me now; when you visit in the future and create award-winning pieces, you can just dedicate them to me for the tip.)

Nice- The Cote d'Azur up close

We drive down and out of the scenic little paradise of Monaco, until we end up at the water. The “Cote d’Azur” (literally, The Blue Coast), as the French call this lovely stretch of the Mediterranean, is just as beautiful up close as it appeared from our view in Monaco. Apparently St. Tropez is right around the corner from this pretty little nook, which is where P. Diddy hosts his annual white party. Nice is also where Angelina and Brad gave birth to one of their children. Interesting factoid.


Since the beach is rocky, as oppose to sandy, we each take a pretty little stone as a keepsake (Shh).

We check into our hotel, which is right in the center of what appears to be an elaborate festival, and soon find out that Carnivale begins next week (a month-long version of our Mardi Gras). Thus the main square is richly decorated with carnival-type activities, ferris wheel and all.

In the late 19th century, Nice changed hands from the Italians to the French, and the government consequently poured a ton of money into essentially “French-ifying” Nice. At the time, they were going through a period called “Belle Époque” (try saying, it sounds beautiful out loud), also known as the Golden Age. Thus all the new buildings created as part of the remodel are characterized by this grand, sophisticated, feminine yet European-Gothic architecture.

Even today, all of the main entrances to these buildings face away from the beach, because even though the elite that traveled to the French Riviera for the climate, they didn’t actually want to be in the sun as acquiring even the slightest tan would make them appear lower-class. So everything is designed to keep them in the shade, away from the reflection of the sun on the sea.

Anyways. The city itself is pretty awesome, and reminds me in a lot of ways of both Seattle and San Francisco. There is a stretch along the water where people go running and walk their dogs, and in the main part of city, every street is lined with outdoor covered bars where there are a million different happy hours to choose from.

We have a “typical French dinner” with our group and it is excellent: Eggplant penne as a starter, pork and french fries as a main dish, and finally a fluffy vanilla cake with whipped cream. And a bottle of Chianti, of course.

And then comes the best part, when I meet my French B.F.F.s

We go to a local-recommended bar, and if you were to replace drunk college kids with French adults, it’s basically the same crazy scene as the Dirty D back home, but with interesting French accents on all the American lyrics being burst out. Certain things don’t change from country to country.

Luckily, right before we are to call it a night, French angels swoop in and save the day. They were not like the creepy Europeans we had been dodging all night, but nice, clean, polite guys. Ten minutes later we are the only Americans in a private club with bottle service and eight nouveaux amis . My five years of French are a Godsend here, where I can much more easily communicate with the locals. I talk music with one guitarist, who is very jealous that I have seen King’s of Leon in concert, but boasts that he has seen The Strokes, and also confesses that he hates the rap music they play at these places. (I don’t know if I’ve ever seen anybody dance so goofy in my life, this tall, gangly, musician).

I am mistaken by a couple different people as a U.K. citizen, which was quite the compliment, because it means that my French is good enough to differentiate me from the general American population who have a bad reputation in this department.


Firenzo, the musician’s best friend, has near perfect English, which is funny because the musician can barely speak a work and supposedly they were in the same class their entire life. Either way, when I tell him he has impeccable English he said it is okay, but not good enough to get a good job, and knowing English is an absolute requirement as you must be fluent to get any kind of career. Interesting, because that sort of thing is just considered “bonus points” in America.

“There are some phrases you must know here,” Firenzo further enlightens me. The first: "Baise, donnez-moi un bois”. I laugh, already knowing the latter half. Apparently Firenzo thinks the most important thing to know how to say in France is “Fuck, get me a drink.”

At some point I realize our bus leaves Nice in 3 hours so I round up the troops and we head home for a quick midnight nap before we begin the next leg of our journey.

Monaco- Bonjour, Paradise

The French Riviera is characterized by tall mountainous terrain that plunges into crystal waters and is home to many very different and equally amazing cities. Originally, tourists came to this region from faraway places, because the fresh sea breeze and lovely climate were known to cure illnesses and ailments, such as Tuberculosis.

After witnessing its magnificence, I have no doubt why anybody would come for any kind of restorative treatment, be it mental, physical, or emotional. Although the drive along the Italian country side is peaceful and charming, the view upon entering the French Riviera literally makes my breath catch in my chest.

It could just be because my first stop is Monaco, which is quite possibly the most beautiful place I have, and ever will, travel to. (But I have equally complimentary things to say about the next four cities I visit in the French Riviera so I won’t get ahead of myself.)

My little adventure includes five stops, but I am going to give each a post of their own because to lump them all together would not only be a disservice to anybody reading about them, but deprives each of the character and uniqueness it has earned after hundreds of years of existence.

So we will begin with Monaco.


Called “The Small Paradise” by its residents, I can see why Monaco remains one of the most desirable and exclusive places to live in the world. The waters are a dazzling blue, around which the entire city and all of is perfectly maintained greenery, is centered. Bordered entirely by France (Monaco is its own country and also the second smallest in the world), it can only grow by building up or down. Basically, it is one big rock with layers and levels of things built into it, fraught with tunnels and escalators to get between everything. For this reason, residents also joke that the “underground Monaco” is just as large as the above.

We get a private guided tour, and are mesmerized by all of the historical and scenic information we are taking in. For example, we see and hear how Grace Kelly was invited to the Principality by Prince Albert who fell in love with her after she filmed “How to Catch a Thief” in Monaco. She accepted his invitation, fell in love, became the Princess of Monaco, and birthed one of the most influential heirs in history. How’s that for a fairy tale romance.

We also learn that it costs $75,000 per ten square feet in real estate to live here. Essentially, that makes every single inhabitant of this city, or country, or whatever, a millionaire. (Bill Gates has a house on one of the most prestigious Capes but we only got to see it from a distance.) Other well known occupants of this area include Miss Tina Turner, who is a Citizen of Honor of the Ville Francese area, and Sir Elton John, who has a summer house a little closer to Nice.

Monaco is also the home of Monte Carlo, the O.G. of all casinos. At least in Europe. When Prince Charles the 3rd was searching for ways to bring tourists who traveled to the French Riviera up to Monaco, he decided the best way to do so would be to build a casino. Not wanting to affiliate such a sinful place with his pristine country, he renamed the hill it was built on, Monte Carlo, which literally means the Hill of Charles. It did just that, and went on to be one of the most famous casinos in the world, ones that many today are named after (think Vegas, people). It brought so many visitors back in its day that it is now difficult just to get into the country.

In fact, the residents keep it so well protected that should any visitor ever commit even the smallest crime, one of the over 400 video cameras monitoring the city will catch it and the criminal will immediately be taken to jail. (Being as every prison cell has a view of the Mediterranean Sea and a flat screen TV, I would just about steal a vespa just to get a free five star stay.)

We eat a small lunch and check out an incredible view of the Formula One race track where there are speed competitions throughout the rocky tunnels and along the sea every year.

As an independent woman, I have never given thought to needing a husband, or marrying rich. But ifffff I were to meet an established Monacan gentleman, well, let’s just say he would have my full attention.

Non Capisco

I’m sick of not being able to communicate with anyone here. And by any one I mean the people who have lived here for hundreds and hundreds of years. So this morning, after locating the post office finally (yay me!) I lock myself in a café, armed with the largest cappuccino they make and a chocolate croissant.

And I study Italian.

I do not leave until I learn how to say “I would like your house red, please” and they have started apertivo for the night. Next Wednesday I will come back and order everything in Italian. And if I’m feeling real crazy, I’ll even strike up a conversation with the friendly woman that works there.

Ciao a presto!

Cave Woman Mondays

The closest thing I can describe my room here as would be a cave. A wonderfully dark, warm, comfortable, little cave. The brilliant blue Florence sky is still there waiting for me after I open my shutters, which do their job so successfully I can’t even guess whether it is morning or night unless I look at my phone.

All of this couldn’t be any more welcome on Monday morning when, unable to convince myself to actually get out of bed, I decide to just stay right where I am. It’s high time for a veg-day, and I am mentally and physically exhausted from the weekend.

So I download every episode of Jersey Shore, Modern family, and Glee that I have missed to date, and proceed to watch them all back to back. Then, I watch Eat, Pray, Love, even though I stop it half way through because it is terrible. (This was extremely disappointing, as the novel is my personal bible.) But then I watch Grown Ups instead and it’s redeems my cinematic expectations.

Eventually I realize it’s time to go to my wine and food pairing lesson, and use every ounce of strength to get ready, wishing desperately that it was acceptable to wear sweats and Uggs to class.

Tonight we make:
Spicy Spaghetti Carbonara, paired with a white wine from Lazio(Frascati Superiore 2009, type of grape: Trebbiano Greco)

For our second course we have:
Crocchette di collo al timo (Friend Chicken Balls with Thyme)which we paired with a white wine from Umbra (Orvieto Classico 2009, type of grape: Greco and Frebbiano)

And finally, for dessert:
Torta di pinoli (Pine nut cake)

Its odd to me that they don't put the type of grape they use in wines on the labels here in Italy. I haven't seen anything advertising a "merlot" or a "cabernet", and you definitely don't see any "chardonnay"s or "pinot grigio", which makes it difficult for me to know anything about them since they only information I've been taught is on these obvious types. But I suppose this is what they call a "learning opportunity".


I may have left my cave the troll I had been all day, but I must admit- it was worth getting out of bed for.

Another thing that was worth leaving my cave to see: The look my professor gave this future Jersey Shore cast member in class when she asks for Ketchup with our Chicken Dumplings.

Taking a break from playing Italian

I have started getting my first American cravings. Chipotle, for example, and Bagel Me. Even if they did have those things here (which they definitely don’t) I would be determined to hold out. I fully believe that in order to get the most out of this experience I must eat, sleep, breath, and live like the Italians do. And that unfortunately eliminates Mexican food and “take-away” smoothies.

However. The pinnacle of American sports is tonight, the Superbowl, bringing with it too many reminders of home that I am not strong enough to resist. After a long day in Lucca, my defenses are down and…I give in and get a Cheeseburger at McDonalds. And french fries. And a chocolate milkshake. (It was no In N Out ladies and gentlemen, but it was exactly what I needed.)

Since I have already relapsed into my American ways, I figure I might as well continue. I go home and get ready for the Superbowl, which is to begin at 12:30 a.m. my time. Since I don’t have any American sports apparel here I wear my purple “I <3 Florence” T-shirt. (haha)

Apparently we missed the memo and didn’t prepay for spots at the few places playing the game here, so everywhere we go is packed. Astor has room, but the last time I went there I had to sneak out with a coat over my head, hidden between my friends, so Georgio wouldn’t catch me leaving. (Maybe I left that out of my post, but it turns out I need to be a little less friendly after all.)

Eventually, we get to a place called The Club House and I finally just lie and say we have reservations. One perk of the language barrier is they don’t ask questions and simply guide us straight to the best table in the house, which is right in the middle and conveniently set for 8. So we spread out in our little haven amidst an overcrowded bar and order our first round, happy as clams.

(“Virginia”, according to the placemat, was scheduled to come for this table three hours ago. Sorry Virginia, I think, as I sneak the placemat into my bag, cleverly hiding the evidence. Lost your chance, girl.)

I make it all the way to half time, snacking on fried chicken and rooting for the Packers. But The Black Eyed Pea’s performance marks the end of my endurance (it was 3 a.m. by this time) and Sophia and I finally drag our tired butts home.

Between the chocolate festival, Dantes, our Italian Pub, biking in Lucca, McDonalds, and football- It had been a long night, long day, even longer weekend. I am sooooo ready for bed.

I would also like to note that it was very gratifying to relax into my American ways for just one night. I can start playing Italian again tomorrow :)

Lucca Lovin'

“Imagine a beautiful little Tuscan town protected by massively thick 16th-century walls, featuring some of Italy's finest medieval and Renaissance architecture, superb dining, antique markets, classical and rock music festivals, easy access to stunning nearby villas in the surrounding hills and with endless beaches less than half an hour away. Lucca is one of Tuscany's best-kept secrets.”

This description was the only reason I woke up at the crack of dawn this morning. Apparently it still didn’t suffice for the rest of the roommates, as Sophia and I were the only two that managed to be at the train station early enough to begin our adventure. As lovely as sleeping in sounded,“we have a world of pleasures to win, and nothing to lose but boredom.” (Quote cred. to Court).

I have, and always will, loved riding on trains. There is a certain tranquility that comes with observing scenery speeding by from your own comfortable solitude, free to read or snooze, or whatever you want, completely at your leisure.

People have complained that they get bored too quickly traveling this way, but I never run out of ways to entertain myself. At the very least it beats the hell out of LA traffic.


We arrive to Lucca too soon….and are immediately disappointed. It doesn’t look like all it’s cracked up to be. The walls are literally the size of buildings, completely enclosing the entire city, and we can’t figure out how to actually get in.

But alas we find the secret path that leads us beneath the giant brick wall and after a brief climb we are overlooking fields of green from ten stories high. We come across a bike rental, which is the “thing” to do here, and cycle around the entire city.

I must say, after wandering all of Florence, this mode of touring gives a wonderfully different perspective of seeing the city; almost like a bird’s eye view. But not quite.

After our peaceful cruise, we sit in a sunny little piazza and grab a beer. (Note to family: I am aware that these last couple posts make me sound like maybe I drink kind of a lot, but I’m really just living every moment as enjoyably as possible. And if that involves one…or two drinks, well then that’s what it’s going to be).

We catch the train home before it gets dark, and as the steady chugging puts us to sleep, I get a glimpse of the sun setting in Tuscany.

Teach me how to "Pub-ie"

Although suffering a slight sugar hangover from my chocolate bender, a group of us went out Saturday night to eat at Dantes, a place that was rumored to give free wine and breadsticks to students. This turns out to be delightfully true.

(And apparently Limoncello, which it seems a lot of restaurants do)

One delicious pizza and two bottles of red wine later, we are ready to explore the night life on the other side of the Ponte Vecchio, where Dante’s is located. We are already sick of the bars in our area anddd…. according to Pa this is where all the young Italian locals hang out. ;)





Unable to find anything on our own, I ask a man locking up his motorcycle if he might be able to recommend a good spot for us. Conveniently enough he was on his way to one and offers to escort us personally. As we walk I interrogate this friendly Italian biker in my journalistic and slightly obtrusive way and learn that he has been to more places in America than I have, a Texan girlfriend, and likes live music.

And although he has many recommendations where to travel in Europe, I make him narrow it down to his top three ending up with: Prague, Galway (because it’s less touristy than Dublin), and the broader Tuscany area (preferably by rental car so we can go to more places in a shorter time, and also so we can better absorb the brilliant scenery).

These Florentines are such a wealth of information, I tell you.

We arrive at a tiny pub with a cute Irish bartender, and I order my first real Italian beer. After dinky plastic cups of watered down nonsense at all these American spots, this pint of cold, frothy deliciousness couldn’t have tasted any better. Eventually we begin to blend in better with the Italian crowd, humming along to the crappy band playing Beatles tunes, and making new friends.

Overall the night is a success as I now at least know where to get a good beer. Not to mention, had I been teaching Italians how to "dougie” (a favorite around here) with millions of other Americans at The Red Garter, I wouldn’t have gained such great insight on European travel.