Irish Charm

“You’d swear a kid got a box of crayons and painted the sky bright blue, the sand pure gold and the cliffs bright green” – Ireland, as described by Martina Reilly in "The Summer of Secrets"

Oooh Dublin. While this excerpt from my book is beautifully accurate, the memories I bring home with me from Ireland, although full of striking scenery, have surprisingly less to do with the green views and more to do with the people.

I suppose I went to the land of the leprechaun with little to no expectations, but had they been mountainous I believe they still would have been surpassed after interacting with what turned out to be, a ridiculously lovely population. To say that the Irish are “pleasant”, “helpful”, even “jolly”, doesn’t do these people justice, but hopefully the content of this post will.

We’ll start at the beginning.

I really am much more organized and efficient when I have the time to be. I was beginning to think that I was just a natural born disaster, prone to organizational whirlwinds at every step. But turns out I’m not! I was the one guiding everyone out the door this clear morning at 5:30am, a full stomach from a healthy breakfast, and a perfectly packed bag. (Maybe I am capable of becoming an event planner after all!)

I was also the one running ahead of the troops when we were still inevitably late, checking the platform number and hustling each girl onto the train in front of my like a mamma hen. Anyways, we made it, and not a second too soon. It may have been a hell of a night trying to fit everything I need for a week into European bag regulations, and a shock when my alarm went off at 4:30am, but content and anticipating the St. Patty’s Day weekend ahead of me, I was never happier watching the sunrise over Tuscany.



Our bus ride from the airport into Dublin was when the Irish made their first benevolent impression on me. In the midst of casually discussing which stop was ours with my roommates, I felt a little tap tap on my shoulder. I turn around and this woman about my age, who is the spitting image of your typical Irish prototype- clear, creamy skin and the palest blue eyes I have ever seen- helpfully chimes in that she knows where our stop is and she’d be happy to tell us when it’s coming up.

Two minutes later I get another tap tap , and she wonders if we might like to know a couple good pubs near our hotel? By the end of our ride, I have a list of places to visit and hand drawn instructions on how to get to each of them.

(I soon discover that everybody in this delightful little town is the same- offering directions and suggestions, and ALL with a big smile. The way every person also adds “Oh, and enjoy yourself while you’re there!” before they wave you off, you can tell it is genuinely their pleasure to be helping you out.)

Upon meeting with Laurent, Chap, and Natalie at the hotel, we go into town for some traditional Irish nourishment. I get delicious Irish sausage with mustard-infused potatoes and caramelized onions, accompanied with Guinness, obviously.

Then we go out and get lost in the bustling merry streets of Dublin, alive with the spirit of the St. Patty’s holiday. The scene was similar to Vancouver, Canada- crowded streets lined with pubs, and live music flowing out of the doors and into the night air.
Not once did I hear Usher or Pitbull, or any other American pop music (Amen to that). Almost every pub had a live band, playing medlies of traditional Irish music and American oldies, such as “Brown Eyed Girl”, “West Virginia”, and more recent tunes by The Killers, and Death Cab for Cutie.

I. Love. Dublin.

And I love Irish car bombs more than can be explained. I only wish I had experienced this, this… drinkable ice cream earlier on in life, because I’ve missed out on six legal months of enjoying this delicious beverage.

Anyways. Ireland is perhaps the only place where 70-year old birthday boys, mothers, and college students can collectively party together at the same pub, and it is utterly normal. Women who could be my grandmothers dancing on bar tops and grown men linking arms to do an Irish jig- this joyful passion for fun definitely left its impression on me.

“Brian”, the birthday boy I am referring to, upon informing me that it was his special day (I didn’t tell him that the declaration of WELCOME TO THE 70-YEAR OLD CLUB on his neon green t-shirt was a bit obvious), was absolutely smashed. So was everyone else in his cabobbled birthday group, who were all also graying and toothless, and wearing clown wigs, masks, and an assortment of other apparently appropriate accessories.




The next day we wake up and go to the Guinness Storehouse. It’s a gorgeous green day, and I can’t help loving the city’s contagious positive energy.

The Storehouse is nothing short of awesome. I learn the four basic and all natural ingredients of the famous black drink- barley, hops, water, and yeast- and all about its history, production, and distribution. One level teaches you how to properly pour a pint of Guinness. (Not bragging, but they saved my certification paper until last, saying that I was best in the class.)

From there we got to drink the product of our efforts while touring and eventually reaching the seventh level- a gravity bar overlooking all of Dublin. Not only could I see where the millions of pints of Guinness are produced every day, but such monuments as St. Patricks Tower and Trinity College.

Then, sadly, Laurent and Chap had to leave for London, so we said goodbye and I met up with my roommates. (They had just begun the Guinness tour, so unfortunately I had to go back to the gravity bar with them and got stuck with drink tickets the unenlightened couples who gave them to me didn’t want. Bummmer.) Then, we were eventually kicked out, if this eloquent speech can be considered “kicking out”:

“I would like to thank the lot of you for coming and spending this splendid afternoon with us here at the Guinness Storehouse. I’m sure ye’ all know of the rugby match currently a’playin, an’ that none of ye’ are sore losers, so I ask that everybody kindly raise your glass to the Irish Rugby Football Union!”

Laughter

“It pains me to be the bearer of bad news but I ask ye’ to please come and use your tickets if you have not already done so, as we would like to get out and watch the rugby match for ourselves! Please no rush, beer is meant to be enjoyed and enjoy yerselves you will!”

If this charming “last call” is any indication of the capacity of Irish interaction, then you have a slight idea of how the rest of my trip went.

For dinner, I met up with friends from Chapman who were also in Dublin. Sushi was their food of choice, and given that I’ve been craving Asian cuisine for SO long, I was delighted to ignore travel obligations and eat scandalously un-Irish food with them.

I got another display of Irish charm when our food was late and our server took the time, despite the chaos of the restaurant, to describe in detail that the chefs were “tending to every single piece of edamame for us; cuddling them, stroking them, and infusing each individual bean with so much love” that they when they got to the table they would be so “warm and nurtured as to pop with happiness in our mouths!”
I truly think that an Irish person could convey to you the message that the world was ending and somehow you would still walk away feeling delighted.

Better than the food (which when we did get, was incredible), was getting to catch up with people that I hadn’t seen in a long time. Megan is one of my longest college friends, and it was so great to get to connect overseas and catch up with her.

We had one of those long delicious dinners where everyone is still talking hours after the food is gone, fuzzy with alcohol and happiness to be updated on all that has been happening in our very different lives. And then we went out.

Sixth months ago we were dancing at the District together, and here we were in Dublin, singing along to folk music beneath the millions of paper shamrocks and making friends with old men, chatting with London-born French real estate agents, and sampling our first Snake Bites (cider, beer, and vodka).

The 70-year old birthday party group was at the same pub again, and I confused Brian with one of the other old men in wigs. He played along, asking me to take pictures with him and such, until real Brian returned and the imposter just laughed and said he was hoping he could get a kiss out of playing the role.

Those tricky leprechauns.

Sunday morning my roommates were gone by the time I got back to our hotel, so I turned on my iPod and reveled in having all the space to myself. The next bus into town wasn’t for a while, so I leisurely got ready for the day, humming along to Dave Matthews all the while (it must be something about this country, you can’t help but to be happy all the time!)


I made my way back to town, giddy with excitement of getting to explore Dublin on my own.

Sometimes traveling with others and trying to keep everybody happy gets difficult and being alone really frees one up to do whatever they please. And I have to admit that while I was initially skeptical of how far the bus ride into town was, I actually enjoyed being able to see the rural parts of Dublin instead of only the innards of the city center. It gave you time to really take in and process the country you were in instead of simply feeling like a visitor.

I’ve learned that when it comes to travel, quality is much more important than quantity. I'd rather go to fewer places and have an amazing time instead of just flying through a bunch of cities to check them off my list. I’ve also learned that you have to be selfish. You pay a lot for these trip's, it’s important to get out of it what you want.

So I wandered, stopping for a mocha and a white chocolate raspberry muffin so I could people-watch in comfort. I did a little shopping and some site seeing, and eventually met up with Megan and Taylor for fish n’ chips. Unaccustomed to greasy food, I got a terrible stomachache. All the Italian olive oil and fresh food has been spoiling me!

After, we went to this place Megan had heard about. It was an underground pub full of people our actual age, and we cozied up with some Irish coffees in the corner- The perfect way to end my perfectly jubilant weekend :)



On the bus ride back home I asked my driver could he please stop at Kingswood, it was dark and I wasn’t sure I would remember well enough to see my stop. Had he been an American bus driver, cranky at this time of night, the response would have been possibly the same but thick with sarcasm.

My sweet Irish bus driver, however, just smiles and asks in his perfectly cheery way “Sure, love, would you like me to just call back to you?”




I don’t think luck is what gets one around out here; I think it’s simply good-will.

Spoiled brat attack

I was wondering when It would finally rear its ugly head. You know, that sneaky little bugger that is so stealth in its conquest you almost forget it exists. The whole time creeping up on you but so surreptitiously you suppose it just somehow skipped over you and onto the next victim, but then when you least expect it-BAM- you are consumed…with homesickness.

I miss my Starbucks. I miss my car. I miss my friends. I miss driving in my car, drinking my starbucks, with my friends, windows down in sunny California, blasting country music. ( OK so that last part is where my memory becomes fantasy as my friends wouldn’t be caught dead listening to my country music).

I miss running to Target to pick up everything I need at one place.

I miss putting all my bags in my car to transport them home.

I miss running out to grab a Jamba Juice, or a burrito.

I miss to-go beverages in general.

I miss Mikey.

I miss TiVo.

I miss nail salons.

I miss the D. And I miss recovering at Bagel Me with my friends afterward.

I miss my couch.

I miss my backyard and being able to squeeze in a quick tan between classes. Or play beer pong, or whatever.

I miss my slave and my short roommate and my other one.

I miss my hair salon living room.

I miss soft cookies.

I miss my big, soft, comfortable bed.

I miss the beach.

I miss R&D’s cheeseburgers.

I miss going to class in my sweats.

I miss movie nights.

I miss treadmills. And Stairmasters. And 24-hour Fitness in general.

I miss my mom and my dad and my sister and my wiener dog.

I miss Captain Morgan.

And above all, I miss my Fresh and Easy chocolate protein powder.

Whew.

That felt good.

As tempting as it is to wallow in longing for my comfort zone, I know I must snap out of it. Frankly, it’s a great thing that I actively miss so many things. It simply means that I’m a very lucky girl with so much good in my life that I can’t keep it all together at once.

I need to remind myself that all those things are patiently waiting upon my return to California. Right there alongside rent, work, bills, and court.

Wait, yeah, what am I saying? Am I crazy?

I’m living in a beautiful city with no responsibilities, eating lasagna and pizza on the reg., reading and sleeping at my leisure, meeting more awesome people by the hour, traveling to incredible places, and all without anything or anyone to report back to.

I’m going to plead temporary insanity on this one, and pray that I haven’t already jinxed myself. I will gladly stick to my pasta and gelato heaven, thank you.

Confetti for all at Venice Carnival

In America we have Mardi Gras. The one night of the year all bad behavior is excused and even justified, because the next day the sacrificing of whatever one has chosen for Lent (in my case, chocolate), begins.

Well, one night isn’t sufficient for Europeans, who need weeks to purge all of their guilty pleasures, and who’s “Carnival” subsequently lasts upwards of twenty days.

So in Italy, the entire month leading up to Ash Wednesday is characterized by eating, playing, drinking, and all other pleasure-seeking activity.

They have won my heart again.

How did I actively participate? Well, I went to the heart of where it all started of course, Venice. “Carnevale de Venezia” was first recorded in 1926, as a time for celebration and expression throughout the classes, as wearing masks hid any form of identity between social classes. The events, especially during and after the sixteenth century, celebrated prosperity, myths, and culture.

Today this tradition of self-indulgence sees over one million visitors over the weeks of the festival, with excess of 150,000 visitors passing through St. Mark’s Square each weekend day.

Whatever you think Venice looks like, it’s exactly that and more. Colorful buildings partially submerged in the roads of water scattered with gondolas and bridges (over 450 to be exact) connecting the entire pedestrian network. The only difference is that Venice during Carnival is absolutely crawling with people so that when you first dock, all you see is an ocean of bodies.

When you nervously throw yourself into this sea of hedonistic excitement, you notice that everybody is so happy- wandering around in their masks, getting their faces painted, drinking beer, and throwing confetti- simply enjoying the essence of the holiday. We dutifully participated, getting masks and happily indulging in pizza and other goodies.

I note that Carnival is also apparently the time for serious role playing. Couples decked completely from head to toe in 14th-century attire can be seen everywhere you look, strolling along, smiling for photos and dining at restaurants as if it is something they do every day.


At twilight we did what everybody must do in Venice, and went on a gondola ride. It was perfect timing as the sun had just set and most people had head in for dinner, leaving us the glassy channel for ourselves.

I'm sure it would have been quite romantic if I had not been with four girls.

We coast down the Grand Canal, gliding past both Casanova’s house and Marco Polo’s. We also went to the Ponte De Miracle, known for over 400 years as the “The Kissing Bridge”, and under which Kelsey gave our gondola driver what the bridge so subtly suggested.

Almost every building we passed was unoccupied due to water damage, and since it was dark at this point, our ride became slightly eerie between the watery allies and disintegrating homes. Our driver was telling us how people our age have problems getting apartments because so much of the city is uninhabitable.


Anyways.

After our gondola ride we still had time to kill before our bus left so we went to a grocery store and got snacks. Since we weren’t ready for a full meal yet, I got chicken nuggets and potato bites (not very Italian of me).

Then we snacked and wandered the streets, which at this point had transformed from light, frivolous play to full on raucousness. When all the adults and children are put to bed, the youth will play!

There were hundreds of people in costumes, including Ghostbusters wielding wind blowers that spewed Carnival trademark confetti, and enormous nets which they used to capture me from behind, although the blasting theme song and shooting confetti should have given me plenty of warnings to run.


Italian men catching women with nets...something tells me they can only get away with this kind of behavior is on this particular holiday.

Everybody is loud and singing and dancing in the streets, and I must admit, part of me wanted to stay and experience this crazier side of the holiday.

We get back to Florence around 1:30am, and are still buzzing from the energy of Carnival. So we decide to go clubbing- the obvious thing to do after the longest day of your life: keep it going. Until 7am.

Yes, we are champs.

How I woke up in time for my Fiorentina soccer match the next morning, I have no idea.

Expanding my horizons

Is it embarrassing blogging about making friends? I guess. Am I going to anyways? Yes. And will I maybe feel like a first grader doing so? You betcha.

However silly I feel admitting it, I’m excited that I’m making friends outside my Chapman group. Considering that consists of oh, six people, it’s about time I’m branching out. I may not have come to Italy to meet and play and party every night, but I didn’t come solely for solitude either. And partying is part of who I am; it’s nice to find others who share that particular quality.

My friend invited me to come out with her the other night after our cooking class. It was someone in her group’s birthday and they had rented out a private room at one of our bigger dance clubs in the area, so I came along for the ride. It was refreshing to get out and meet other people, because isn’t half the fun of studying abroad getting to do things you wouldn’t otherwise have the chance to?

I had a lot of fun that night, and met back up with the same friend later in the week to try this place called the Shot Café. They accept US dollars as they do Euros, making all of the drinks about a third cheaper than they would be normally. Pretty cool for us starving students. They also have a million different kinds of shots, including ones called the “Sexy Woman”, served with flaming blood orange slices, and which we ordered.

Everything here is such a novelty :)

It's a small world, after all

It really is uncanny how living thousands of miles away from people you know somehow draws them to you even more. It was weird enough running into my sorority “grand-big” at the train station, who completely unbeknownst to me is teaching English in Florence. But then, I get a message from an old family friend, and the next thing you know, I am giving her a tour of my little Italy.

Caitlin and I grew up together at a ski club both our families belonged to. We spent every winter weekend together, along with all of the other children our age, playing in the snow and sipping hot cocoa in the coziness of our large lodge. (And sneaking downstairs at night to watch our parents get drunk and dance on bar tops, but that’s another story). Eventually, kids grow up, life and college happen, and winter friendships become memories. Then five years later you are reconnecting half way across the world.

It was nice to actually wake up before eleven for once, and I even ran to my school to sign up for a chocolate tasting before meeting with Caitlin (it was, tragically, already full).

Then we find each other and catch up over cappuccinos, and I learn out she is living in France teaching English. She gets a comfortable salary, an apartment, long vacations, and works maximum 12 hours a week. Ummm…how can I get in? Considering all you need is three semesters of French to qualify, which I have, it’s safe to say I know what I’ll be doing after college.

Finally up-to-date with each other’s lives, I take Caitlin up to Michelangelo view point, which is beautiful as ever, and relatively tourist free since it is still pretty early.


Then we go back to town and meet up with her friend from high school, Katie, who is also studying in Florence. She takes us to ZaZa’s, where we share gnocchi gorgonzola and each get a caprese salad. And just like that, I have another favorite restaurant.

How can people here every truly have a “favorite”, I wonder, when almost every restaurant is a culinary 10.

The next day Katie and I decide Caitlin needs to experience the Florence night life. Interestingly enough, it is at the suggestion of her hostel roommate, a truly studly Australian who is just floating around Europe on vacation, that we end up at a hole-in-the-wall jazz bar to begin our night. It's the kind of place you only discover if you are brought by a local, or in our Aussie’s case, a local friend’s recommendation.

We relax in the cozy, almost sexy atmosphere you imagine a jazz bar has, think low lights and cocktails, and listen to the sensual music coming from the stage. The bands that perform are truly talented, and it’s refreshing to be somewhere the Florentines aren’t trying to please and profit from the American population in Florence. They are simply doing their thing.

After jazzing it up we go to a club, and my childhood friend has so much fun that I am forced to leave her at 5am, when I am too tired to dance any longer.

All in all, it was awesome to reconnect with Caitlin, and I loved re-exploring what has now become familiar terrain. I rush by national monuments on my way to class every day, and jog past breathtaking views, and forget that, while it may not be new anymore, there is still so much to discover and appreciate about my current home. All it takes is a reminder :)

Home sweet Florence

This weekend I got some quality time with my city. Since I have been off frolicking about Europe for the past couple of weekends, I haven’t actually been in Florence on a Saturday or Sunday in a while.

It was a nice change to be in my own area for once, but I have to admit, I get agitated with the amount of tourists crowding my neighborhood. Sure, I was one not even three weeks ago, but I’m not anymore. And they annoy me. I can’t even see my pretty little river through the sea of bodies, and ok so technically I have a historical monument in my backyard, but can’t people give me a little privacy?

Anyways.

Saturday afternoon we go the Uffizi museum, which is home to the original “Birth of Venus” painting. There are a lot of recognizable names in artist and owner descriptions- Michelangelo this, Medici that. It’s interesting to see all of the palaces and churches these pieces have lived at before eventually arriving to this particular museum. Oh the things they must have seen in their existences.

My roommates bought a museum pass that allows unlimited access to all of the museums in the area, and I can’t decide if it’s worth sacrificing a week of groceries for. Going to the Uffizi was one of those experiences you know you have to do, and it’s interesting, but not something you necessarily want to do all the time. But when will I be around some of the oldest art in the world again?

I’ll have to sleep on it.

Then at night, Hunter, our friend from Chapman who is studying in France, happens to be in Florence, and we take him out.

We bump into Pa on our way out of the apartment, and convince him to come to a bar with us, which he does. After a few beers, he agrees to come to a club with us as well! Somehow, fifty year old men going out dancing isn’t an uncommon thing, and isn’t viewed as odd as it would be in the states. It was like bringing our father to a club. But a hip father, who knows everyone and fits in better than you do.

Long story short, our group gets pissy and doesn’t actually want to stay at the club. So Pa offers to take us back and reopen the restaurant to us, which we decide sounds lovely. We feel like VIP getting let into our favorite little restaurant after hours, but even though we beg Pa doesn’t let us back into the kitchen. He does, however, graciously chop up and bring out some parmesan cheese for us, accompanied with delicious hefeweizens to sip on.

We discuss Italian culture and language, as is our favorite past-time with good ol’ Pa, and when we finally get too sleepy, we simply walk the five feet to our apartment door and go to bed.

Wait, I came here to learn?

One important thing I’ve been unfairly ignoring in this blog is my academic life. My classes, you know, what I “came here” for.

In short, I love them. We already know how I feel about my wine and food pairing, and my language class, but I’m taking 3 other actual “intellectual” ones.


I’m taking Introduction to Environmental Issues Management, which although typically hard to get through without ten cappuccinos from the espresso vending machine (yes, it’s awesome), is fascinating as a whole. It’s actually kind of terrifying as well, because even from the moderate view on global issues, we are basically screwed.

But it’s interesting because I’m definitely noticing myself change some habits, such as turning off all the lights when I leave the room, using the heat less, and drinking tap water instead of bottled water. In fact, Italian tap water is actually better regulated than bottled water here, and more than likely better quality. Good to know! So as long as I keep my scared pessimist locked up, it’s interesting to learn about sustainability, and it’s definitely a concept I want to start making more a part of my life.

Then on to my favorite: International Marketing. It is unquestionably enhanced by the fact that I am taking this class as an American student in Italy, as I’m learning things I definitely would not being taught by an American professor. It doesn’t hurt that I idolize my teacher, Simone. Born and raised in Germany, this little 5-foot woman fell in love with an Italian and moved here so she could start enjoying the more pleasurable style of Italian living. She owns her own event planning and marketing consultation firm, and also teaches in her spare time. She is maybe 30, and looks like a short super model. Now, there’s no way I can change my origin, height, or age, but I’m going to do everything else in my power to be just like her.

I think the Gods agree with this goal, because they also dubbed her professor of my next class, Event Planning. So on Thursdays I have five hours of the most interesting course material ever, taught by my idol, Simone.


For my event planning class this week, we went to a huge dance expo. Our assignment was essentially to evaluate the entire event, from the venue (an old fortress), to the environmental friendliness of the set up, to the amenities offered, and staffing.

It was a little hard to focus on my assignment when I felt like a kid in a candy shop. Dance used to be my life. How can I write about what kind of light bulbs they use when I’m surrounded by elaborate costumes, pointe shoes, and ballet classes? I’m drawn to all of the booths, thinking how great of a color that Capezio leotard is, or how cheap those Gaynor Minden are.

I have to remind myself that I have no use for these things whatsoever at this point- I haven’t taken a ballet class in maybe five years. What the hell would I do with a pair of pointe shoes, dance in my room?

It was still fun.

Next week we are going to a super market with my marketing class. At Chapman I would probably be facebooking to distract myself from freezing to death in Beckman. You certainly won’t catch me complaining about my course load over here :)

Checkpoint

Today is a milestone. I have already completed the first quarter of my study abroad experience, one month- gone forever. I have three more. That is 12 weeks, 90 days, 2160 hours, 128, 600 minutes, 7,776,000 seconds. And by the time I am finished writing this, it will only be 7,775,000 seconds. Yikes!

So I have constructed a road map for success/ bucket list/ general instruction manual to guide me through my remaining time here. I started with one list, but over my four weeks it has expanded and evolved quite a bit. I hope that by looking and updating it frequently, I am never living in the moment so much that I lose too many of them, and subsequently, sight of what’s actually important.

Roadmap/ bucket list/general instruction manual for Florence:

1. Travel to as many places as possible

o Barcelona
o France (Check!)
o Prague
o Amsterdam
o Capri (Booked!)
o Venice (Booked!)
o Dublin (Booked!) - Go to the world famous Guinness Storehouse mmmm
o Rome (Check!)
o Rest of nearby Italy: Verona, Milan, Sienna, Montepulciano, Naples, Pisa

2. Document each of these visits through writing, pictures, and souvenirs.

3. Learn how to balance touristy activities with authentic and personal ones.

4. Make a friend in each place, the more the merrier.

5. Enjoy pasta without eating too much.

6. Find a surrogate Italian family.


7. Try not to stress out about anything, mainly finances, as it will only detract from my experience.

8. Practice living a healthy, balanced lifestyle.

9. Get off my ass. No sleeping in past 9am. *Recently added so I can start maximizing my time

10. Learn the Italian language as best as possible, even if that means teaching myself.



11. Try improving my French or learn a little bit of another language (German perhaps?)

12. Get a tattoo.

13. Eat pizza in Naples.

(Paternal figures, skip to point 15)

14. Buy a sexy Italian lingerie set.

15. Stop facebooking as much. Nobody is having more fun than you Linds, don't worry.
*Note: Twitter exempt

16. Become a food and wine pairing master.

17. Go wine tasting in every region in Italy.

18. Ignore the few pounds I will inevitably put on.

19. Get involved in my classes. I have time here, and no excuse NOT to do all my assignments and readings for once.

20. Apply for internships back home, and keep up to date on all my bills so I’m not overwhelmed when I get back.

21. Party. (I’m only young and abroad once!)


So that’s it! My 21 rules to a successful experience in Italy. I’m sure it will grow as I remember more and more things I find to be important, and amendments will be made to many of the rules, but as a general set of instructions and goals, I think it encompasses pretty much all the essentials.

They say that we will inevitably have regrets. But if I’m careful, and keep up-to-date on my road map for success/ bucket list/ general instruction manual I’m hoping that I can walk away from this experience with as few of them as possible.