'Tis but a dream within a dream

I had a terrible dream last night.

In it, I had suddenly awaken in the States and had completely forgotten to do any of the things I had wanted to before leaving Florence. As time and space have the ability to do in dreams, I had been teleported back to America without my consent, and was frantically realizing everything I didn’t do and couldn’t change.

I had forgotten to get my tattoo; I had forgotten to buy souvenirs, including something leather, which of course I HAD to come back with; I had forgotten to pick up those hand painted jewelry holders for my friends, and that Florence pendent; I had forgotten to say goodbye to the Italian that knows my coffee order by heart, to the cafe owner that gives me lemons to put in my hair when I tan, to the boy at my produce stand who never charges me full price for my bananas and lets me build my own trail mix, and to Pa! Oh my God what had I done?!

Now I was back in the States, and had so much unfinished business that I would never, EVER be able to complete, because I was thousands and thousands of miles away and God knows WHEN I would ever make it back to Italy! Sure it felt so natural and familiar living there, but this place was OCEANS away! It’s not like I could just hop back over and buy that scarf I’d had my eye on real quick.

In this frantic and hopeless dream, I had realized with a sense of growing doom, that I had no physical reminders of Florence. Without something tangible to touch, to feel, to hold, it was very likely that i had, in fact, made up the last four months in my head! Being welcomed by the monstrous beauty of the Duomo every morning as I step out of my apartment, the routine “Buonjourno, Lindsay!” and smile from Pa to start my day off right, the lounging on the river wall, eating my fresh blood oranges in the sun while watching the lively bustle of tourists along the Ponte Vecchio.

Had that all been in my head? Did I create this alternate universe where I had lived in Europe and studied Italian and indulged in nutella croissants every day? Where I drank wine in the streets and visited palaces in my free time and snuck away to viewpoints to watch the sunset over my gorgeous city with friends that I had made from every corner of the world? Where my daily run took me up vine-wrapped cobblestone roads, doing lunges to an incredible view of the Uffizi tower, and where whisking away to another country for the weekend was perfectly normal?

This HAD to have been a dream.

Which is why, in this one that I speak of, I woke up close to tears. Without something to prove to me that this had, in fact, been my reality, I would surely feel like I had made it all up; that I was losing my mind.

Perhaps this was God’s way of giving me an opportunity to avoid this terrible fate, and to prepare so I don’t develop a feeling of insanity when I return to the “real world”.

Because, for today, this is my “real world”. This moment I am here. I am living all these wonderful things, and I don’t ever want to lose the realness of how this feels.

This table in the cafe that I am typing this on, these wall-mounted flat screens playing American music videos around me, Nino (the cafe employee) who regularly stops by to see what I am looking at on Facebook while imparting a few Italian words of wisdom before returning to his duties. This is real.

Being that I don’t actually have any money, it’s not like I can rush to the market and purchase a bunch of pretty things to take back with me. But this dream was a great reminder that my time here is limited, and I must be extremely conscious of these last remaining weeks. When I go back home, I wont be able to just “stop by” Kiko, or Red Garter, or Astor. I won’t be able to pick up fresh vegetables on my way home to prepare zucchini tortellini or Tuscan pomodoro soup.


Sure I’ll be able to start eating peanut butter again, and ketchup, and FINALLY be reunited with my protein powder. But I won’t get the freshest mozzarella in the world or handmade ravioli at the market or heart-shaped pizzas made by cheery Italians who sing as they bake.

But alas, to differentiate between Italy and the US is comparing apples to oranges. There is no bad or good, just what “is”. Now I am in Italy. In two weeks I will be in the States.

And now, I will get off the computer and go soak up my lovely if temporary home.

Wine and food: A duet

As I mentioned before, I want to post my pairing food and wine final paper, which was based on a four-course dinner we had instead of class on Monday. It was, as stated, phenomenal, and I am excited to share the product of my four months of training. I don't just eat and drink (well, ok, maybe mostly), but I learn too. I mean, call it what you want, but I'm pretty much a certified connoisseur at this point. Even using descriptions such as "Fruity Pebbles" and "Golden Grahams" (it's perfectly acceptable in the wine world, honest).

So sit back and try not to laugh at my assignment. Or fall asleep.

A Dining Experience: The transformative power of wine

Our pairing food and wine class dinner at Boccadamo consisted of four parts: an antipasto, a first course, second course, and dessert. Each was served with a wine chosen to enhance the quality of that particular dish, including a white, two reds, and a dessert wine.

We will begin with the antipasto, which was a beautifully displayed prosciutto di pratomagno con mozzarella fior di latte (thinly sliced and salted ham layered over a large ball of fresh mozzarella). A buttery and slightly acidic DOCG from the Forino-Avellino region was chosen to compliment this starter, called “Grecco di Tufo”. The wine had a blonde, yellow color, like that of sunshine. It was fruit on the nose, with notes of vanilla and flowers, and slightly acidic on the palate with a slightly citrusy taste and a medium body.

Tasting the prosciutto and mozzarella subsequently to the wine, I discovered the ham to be saltier and the cheese creamier. The wine seemed much less acidic, and in fact, took on a distinctly buttery flavor while feeling smoother, and more full-bodied feeling in my mouth. It was interesting, because I heard others comment that the wine seemed more acidic with the pairing, and that the food seemed to have less flavor. After hearing this, the prosciutto did seem to taste less salty in contrast to the wine, but that was probably in my head, as my first impression was pretty clear.

Overall I thought it was a lovely pair; the acidity of the wine brought out the flavors of the dish while cutting through the saltiness, leaving a smooth, buttery feel, and ultimately a cleansed palate. Although I enjoyed both the wine and the food alone; their influence on each other made them impossibly more delicious.

Our first course was pasta al forno con polpette, a lasagna dish, paired with a light, woody red wine called “Nero D’Avola”, a Sicilian IGT. It was dark raspberry in color, a sort of “vampire” blood red. On the nose it was very rich with aromas of bark and alcohol. Before the food it seemed light, rather dry, and not woody as it had smelt.

To my pleasure, the pasta made the wine much smoother and took away the dryness. It also tasted a little bit “grapier”. While the wine was better with the food, I’m not sure I felt the same way about the pasta, which I thought felt a little bit lighter and less flavorful with the pair. It’s almost as if the dryness of the wine soaked up the moistness of the tomato sauce, but perhaps it was only cutting through a little bit of the grease. I did notice certain spices, such as garlic, more distinctly in the pasta after the wine.

Overall I thought it was a nice pair; the combination gave me a mouthful of flavor before a feeling of a cleansed palate, and the wine, much better in my opinion after the food, gave the pasta a lighter dynamic, which in retrospect is probably better for a first course.


I had my first sample of Florentine beef with our second course, tagliata di manzo con rucola e grana, paired with a medium-bodied, complex red, which was an IGT from Puglia called “Primitivo Matane”. The wine was a deep garnet color, a light shade of blackberry. It’s was very interesting, as it smelt warm and dirty, earthy, and chocolatey, with aromas of vegetables.

Before trying it with food, the red was seemingly dry and acidic at the same time, tasting herbaceous and fruity. After tasting the beef, the wine lost any hint of dryness, and I noticed only its acidity, which cut straight through the fattiness of the steak becoming full and smooth in my mouth. The meat tasted almost sweeter before the wine, but all of its levels of flavor were brought out with the wine, ranging form sweet to salty, and tasted juicier rather than “fatty”.

This was an amazing pair in my opinion; all of the flavors that were brought out in the complex red, the perfectly cooked steak, and even the arugula and parmesan side were not only compatible together, but a result of each other. The textures and flavors could not have gone any better together.

For dessert, we had torta mimosa, a delicious, citrusy cake. A vino liquoroso from the Sicilian region, called “Florio Ambar Moscato”, was chosen for this final dish. It was a yellow, golden color, and quite brilliant, with an interesting nose of fruity pebbles, golden grahams, and butter. It tasted just as sweet as it smelt, like peach and honey, with a medium-heavy body and smooth sensation; similar to, but not as thick as a syrup.

The fluffy, cake-like dessert was somehow even lighter and more delicious with the pairing of the wine. Every combination is different in its own way, and this match was no exception. I felt like not only did the wine and dessert compliment one another, but actually became more complex and flavorful with each sip and bite. The textures and flavors built upon one another, releasing different notes of peach, honey, lemon, and cream, until you almost couldn’t tell where they were coming from- the wine or the cake.

Had the wine been any sweeter it would have overpowered the cake, and any less sweet it would have been lost in the cake. Similarly, if the cake’s texture had been any lighter it would have been swallowed up by the wine, and any heavier, the wine wouldn’t have seemed so smooth and honey-like in contrast. Of all the pairs I had this evening, I felt that this was perhaps the most satisfying.

Overall I was very pleased with my experience at Boccadamo’s. I absolutely loved the food, and I felt that each chosen wine did its job expertly.

The first combination was just light and flavorful enough to tease my taste buds, while the second pair was delicious and subtle enough to enjoy without detracting from the main course. The meat was definitely a main event, the wine and steak complimenting and assisting each other with equally bold, complex flavors. And at last, the grand finale, a delectable duo that made the meal one to remember.

No two pairs are going to be alike, and this dinner was a good learning experience for me to recognize the different purposes of pairs, and how together, they can transform a simple dinner to a multi-faceted, complex, and delicious experience.

Bon Appetite!

Although I’ve neglected posting about it, between all my globe-trotting, I have still been attending a weekly wine and food pairing class. I always knew it would be both interesting and informative, but I never could have predicted how much it would have revolutionized my relationship with food.

The cumulative power of every small technique and method I have learned in class has, for all intents and purposes, turned me into a culinary goddess. Where I used to boast the fine talent of egg scrambling, or expertly pouring marinara over noodles (very useful skills, I’ll admit), I now have drastically expanded my repertoire. I would like to introduce to you the new and improved Lindsay Anderson: college student and master chef.

I’m not kidding- last week I improvised a vegetarian carbonara that would have you begging me to move in with you. I’m talkin’ rosemary tuscan filets with gorgonzola cream sauce here people. Beef tenderloin, pork, and sausage skewers. Chicken with shaved onion rings, grilled swordfish with Mediterranean vegetables, olive meatloaf, pumpkin risotto, spoon chocolate cake, apple torts, biscotti, lemon meatballs, homemade pesto. Even leek and pancetta frittatas, which I’ve never even heard of.

You name it, I’ve done it. (And, when I remake it at my apartment, modified the ingredients slightly to...protect my figure).

No, you are not misreading my cockiness, I am fully, 100% bragging. Because I am proud. And I will make my husband very happy someday. But in the mean time, my friends can simply bask in the mouth-watering joy of my culinary prowess, and I’ll probably use my newly developed skills as leverage to get people to do things for me.

This Monday, instead of fine-tuning our mastery, we took our lesson to Boccadamo, a small restaurant in Santa Croce, to experience a true Tuscan meal.


Armed with pens and paper, we sat down to take notes on what would be our final report due at the end of the semester. I’ve had worse assignments.

I am planning on reposting the essay I wrote on the dinner, for attempting to summarize the best traditional meal I have had in Italy would be an injustice. What I will say, however, is that 5 glasses of wine later (if you ignore finishing the bottles with Erin and Kyle after everyone left), I had become besties with Prof. Maria Petracca. I mean, we’d been pretty tight before but this sealed the deal.

Probably my most eclectic professor, she comes to each class in all her curvaceous glory, invariably wearing multiple pieces and shades of purple. I think its a Florentine thing, since purple is their color. But still, eggplant eyeshadow and violet parachute pants are not a good look on anyone.

Whatever though, she has an affinity for Motown, which she plays whenever we cook, along with the Beatles and Beach boys. I can’t complain. Maria is my homie, and I left the dinner with a list of coastal cities to visit, along with the best wine tasting cellars in Chianti...annnnd a recommendation to drink lots of water.

This dinner, aside from being the longest, most pleasurable of my life, actually taught me so much. I’ve had excellent Italian meals since I’ve been here, but this was the traditional Italian feast I have always wanted to experience. More than the food or the wine or the friends though, it was so culturally enlightening. Food and wine really are a whole magical realm that when done right, can cause a simple meal to transcend to a true experience. And now I can make them myself!

I may come home with an empty bank account, but my culinary arsenal should make up for it.

It's worth looking into whether my landlord will accept Sicilian artichoke risotto, or perhaps torta di ricotta. If anything, Europe has taught me that bartering is not dead so you never know!

Captivated by Capri

No matter how many hours of sleep I get, I will never learn to enjoy waking up before dawn. The granola, yogurt, and fresh coffee helped though, and by 7 we are marching through town toward the ferries. Sorrento is gorgeous this early in the day, and I enjoy the view from this angle just as much as I did from above.

After a quick zip over to Capri, we board the boat that will be giving our group a private tour of the the magical little island.

Because the weather had been so nice until this point, we are optimistic in our shorts and tank tops. Unfortunately Capri isn't on the same page (at least until later, as we thankfully discover).

We don't notice our goosebumps for long, lost in the magic of coastal cliffs and caves carved by years of lapping, green waves.

We stop at the famous "Blue Grotto", where we climb into tiny little boats manned by singing gondoliers (they must have gotten their training in Venice). I hope that I'm not already developing desensitization to amazing things, but I honestly wasn't impressed with this national attraction.

As we crouch down in the tiny boats to avoid hitting our heads on the low cave roof, I am fully prepared to lose my breath in wonder over the beauty of this reputedly ethereal water.

Maybe my expectations were too high, and yes, the water in the cave is an out-of-this-world blue, but we're back out into the open sea after 30 expensive seconds, and I felt like I'd been a little duped. It would have been cooler if we could have swam in it maybe, or if mermaids came out and sung to us. I don't know.

Back on land, Kelsey and I wonder, rather pessimistically, how we are to entertain ourselves for the next five hours before our bus leaves.



We figure pizza will perk us up, and share one with gorgonzola and artichoke at a restaurant overlooking the coast.

The bill, however, complete with not only a $6 water fee, but a "service" AND a separate "cover" charge, disillusions us entirely. We sulk out, bitter about our $35 pizza, and sit on a wall, since we've already come to the conclusion that everything here is overpriced and too touristy.

Complacency doesn't sit well with me, however, and pretty soon we were off searching for a (free) adventure.

I bump into Luca, my professor and Italian guide. Although the last two times he gave us directions they were terrible and got us lost, I tried the "third time's a charm" approach, and asked about a certain stair case he had mentioned on the bus.

We set about finding them, and stumble upon an overlook of Capri that was unquestionably worth leaving our stone wall for. Jaw dropping, might be a good description. This was what we came here for, I think, not overpriced pizzas.

We find the "stair case", which is really just a steep, winding ramp all the way down from our cliff's peak to where the ocean waves are crashing among the rocks. It's too bad the public beach is on the other side of the island, we sigh, but walk down the path anyways, as we have nothing better to do.

In the next ten minutes, my world changes drastically. We find a decrepit arch, with Italian signage conveying a "closed restaurant", and a secret, hidden path. I can't resist a good mystery.

We weave our way down this overlooked trail at the exact moment that the sun chooses to reveal itself in all its glory, and by the time we hit the white, sandy beach, my impression of Capri has done a complete 180.

I am in heaven.

Despite the early overcast weather, I had the foresight to pack my bathing suit, and ten minutes later, Keith Urban is providing the soundtrack to the best tanning experience of my life.

Our secluded paradise doesn't remain private for long, as a group of guys from our program had followed us. Luckily, we make friend's easily, and used one of them to touch the jelly fish in the water to see if they stung or not. Verified harmless, we jump from our tanning rock into the aquamarine water, which now that the sun is out, is a million times more gorgeous to me. And feels fantastic.

I didn't realize how much I had missed the ocean until right now.

Hours pass in tropical perfection, bronzing and frolicking in Mediterranean waters. I know our bus is probably coming soon, but I really can't imagine how I'm going to peel myself away from this nirvana now that I've found it. In fact, I come up with all sorts of viable excuses that I plan to have the rest of the group tell our program coordinator so that I don't have to go back.

"She fell off a rock drifted out to sea before any of us could save her! She's long gone, no point in trying to rescue her now." Or maybe, a swarm of jellyfish suddenly formed around me, and drug me out to live with them as their Queen. Or, my favorite, that a boat filming Pirates of the Caribbean 4 sailed by and thought that I was perfect for a role, and could they please use me in the film as Johnny Depp's love interest? Hey, it could happen.

But if I stayed on the beach forever I wouldn't be able to have Pa's lasagna again, and that is too devastating a thought. Much sooner than I would have liked, I was back on the bus to Florence. Beach hair and sticky skin from the salt water served as a happy reminder, however, of my day in Paradise.

I didn't end up with any of the cool nautical things I had originally wanted in Capri, and my sunburn was only a temporary souvenir.

But the smooth white rocks I "borrowed" from the beach will always remind me that sometimes the unexpected beats anything you could have planned.

Limoncello and good night, Sorrento

The soft rays of the afternoon sun slant through the bus windows, providing a hazy, luxurious feel to my dreamworld as we climb the cliffs into Sorrento. When I had last closed my eyes it was amidst the dilapidating stone buildings of a lost city.

Now, opening them, I find myself gazing thousands of feet out over a very dazzling, down right mesmerizing view of the Mediterranean Sea. So this is what all the hype is about, I think. It is positively picturesque.

Despite the fact that this is Italy, not Los Angeles, we are stuck in traffic. All the luckier am I, to sit back and enjoy this five star view in comfort.

We get to the hotel later than expected, and have just enough time to clean up before dinner, which is conveniently located on the ground floor.

Kelsey and I grab beers and enjoy a few minutes of solitude on our balcony before heading down to the masses. For dinner we have "Capri style" ravioli (whatever that means), locally caught fish, and white wine, followed by lemon vanilla cake.

In keeping with this yellow citrus theme of the Italian Riviera experience, dinner is succeeded with a limoncello tasting down the street.

We get to the packed shop and find little old men, excited to be sharing their pride and joy with all the eager students, hastily pouring everybody samples of their lemon syrups and cream liqueurs. While we wait for the next round of too-sweet-for-my-preference liquors, a platter of assorted lemon chocolate candies is passed around (much more my style).

And then, to my utmost embarrassment, I crash. I consider myself a generally enthusiastic enough traveler to summon energy even when I think I have none, and to always explore new terrain like a modern Marco Polo…but my strength chooses this moment to betray me.



Despite a desire to experience all that the coastal night life has to offer, Kelsey and I are in bed, reading by 10:30. In fact, I don't even remember finishing my first page before enveloped by a blissful void. Buona sera, Sorrento.

A world (un)forgotten- Pompeii

I am running; weaving between stone buildings and narrow cobblestone alleys, dodging fire balls as I struggle to see through the soot to my home, where I must rescue my most prized possession before the city is overflown with lava- my chocolate stash.

Actually, I am leisurely meandering down an ancient road, with a clear blue sky unfolding above me, imagining what took place in this very spot nearly 2,000 years ago, and what would be important enough for me to sacrifice my life rushing back into a disintegrating city for. I might be making a little bit of a satire out of an infamous yet fascinating tragedy, but that's exactly what happened in this perfectly preserved ancient Roman town.

The two-day eruption of Mount Vesuvius in 79 A.D. killed most of the population with it's initial heat and ash, and then, upon finishing its lengthy spew, released a pressure which dropped 48-hours worth of accumulated ash straight down onto those who had bravely re-entered the city to recscue people and belongings.

Thus, the city and it's inhabitants were, for all intents and purposes, exterminated and basically mummified. "The Living City" they call it. And upon its discovery 500 years ago, Pompeii has given authors, historians, and artists enough material to weave fiction or perfectly accurate and equally interesting historical stories to last another 2,000 years. This is the stuff legends are made out of (and mystery series', such as one by Iris Johansen that I was once enthralled with).

Despite the dust in my contacts (or, I guess, the ashes of ancient civilization), and my stupid H&M tennis shoes causing serious toe crampage, I hardly notice my discomfort through a daze of fascination with our tour. Which was, to both my disdain and pleasure, lead by my science teacher. You can tell Prof. Luca was a stud in his youthful prime, wearing his eco-friendly pants and a small hoop in his left ear. He's even pretty funny- smiling as he encourages us to layer up "like onions", and reminding us to avoid wearing "flit flots".

Yet, as he tends to do the classroom, he has a habit of droning on and on…. and on, in a monotonous voice that after four hours of treading cobblestone, makes escaping sound rather lovely. But alas, there is no where to escape to unless I want to risk ending up lost in a street, that looks just like every other street, unable to find my way out until the next volcano erupts. The only telling difference between roads is the placement of phallic symbols, which used to represent fertility and good luck to this immortal city.


After seeing what used to be bakeries, bars, beds, bathrooms, public gathering, the colosseum, and, with fascinating morbidity, preserved human bodies- all in exactly the shape they had died in, curled with their arms around each other as they took their last, sooty, breaths- we ended up at what had been the local marketplace.

Other notable events in Pompeii, occurring outside of the actual ruins, include a small child harassing Kelsey for a bite of her apple and a high volume of massive lemons strategically placed everywhere. Ever-the-diligent tourists, we tried fried calzones typical of Southern Italy,which boasts the freshest mozzarella and tomatoes in the entire country. After sampling the wares, I believe this to be the truth.

We finally re-board the bus to begin our journey to Sorrento. Kelsey and I had stayed out at at a club the night before, setting our alarms for 4am so we had just enough time to head home, grab our bags, and make our 5am bus.

Needless to say, the moment I closed my eyes on the bus, I was already dreaming of ancient kings and treasures and raining fire.

The hair experience

So I've been needing to get my hair done for a while now. But I've been compartmentalizing that increasingly noticeable fact because I'm terrified to take action on it while in a different country. Any fellow blonde will understand my reticence; it is a much easier service to get wrong than to get right, and once it's done, well, you're stuck for a while.

So I pretend its not that bad, and Italians won't notice anyways, for a little bit of blonde goes a longgg way with them. And honestly, who am I to be vain while none of my experiences rely on the state of my hair for their quality? Capri isn't going to judge my grow out and I certainly can't foresee Pompeii pointing and laughing.

But although I shove my hair qualms to the way back of my brain, they still resurface. Every time I look in a mirror my roots scream at me. "Negligence!" They wail. "Do you have no respect for us? For yourself?!"

So I've been avoiding mirrors.

And throughout the week I make a point to stop in the occasional hair salon getting "price quotes" but sneakily judging the space, the hairstylists, and the magazines on display with a very critical eye.

There is this one salon I check out called "Sabrina's", and although it's small, it has a comfortable charm and Sabrina has really good english. I seem to pass this particular salon twenty times throughout the week, even though it's not on my daily route.

Yet, I'm still not ready to bite the bullet.

Finally on a return trip from my cell phone shop, I stumble upon Sabrina's again. Ready or not, it's a sign. And I'm sick of being bullied by my reflection.


As if the fates had arranged it, Sabrina has an availability right then and there.

Cautiously, I perch in her chair as she drapes a cape over me. Here we go, I think, Doomsday.

But the moment Sabrina parts my hair into the familiar triangle foil pattern so typically practiced by those trained through Toni & Guy (I worked at a hair salon for a long time), and I subsequently find that she had, in fact, been trained by them in New York, I am at ease.

It's all I can do not to interrogate her on what brand of color she uses (which later, to my satisfaction, I discover is L'oreal). Italians don't like being bombarded with questions, you must coax these kinds of things out of them.

At one point her assistant- adorable, skinny Eduardo- asks if he can get me something from the bar while he's there. I look at him, dressed in all white and garnished with a little Italian flag pin in recognition of the country's 150th anniversary, and shake my head no, thank you. But despite my polite declination he returns with two large spritzers and snacks.

Not one to argue, I contentedly nibble on cheese puffs and pretzels as I read my Italian In-Style, trying desperately to absorb the language, as it's probably more relevant than the things I learn in my Italian classes.

I become bored while I process, as I ultimately can't understand any of my magazines.

I look over to find Eduardo in the corner, minding his own business. I ask him a question or two about how long he has worked with Sabrina, and finally realizing I'm searching for conversation, he comes and sits at the station next to me.

Once unleashed he is a fountain of information. I find out that he too was trained in New York, and that his third dream in life is to get an apartment there with his boyfriend. New York, he says, is his favorite- "the city of his soul". His eyes roll back in his head as he exclaims how much he loves the positive energy of the place.

On this note, his second dream in life (but really tied for first with going to Argentina, and still ultimately before moving to NY) is to visit California. "I want to see all of it," he breathes excitedly. "San Francisco, LA, San Diego, Laguna, Santa Monica…"

He is going to Thailand next week with his boyfriend, and highly recommends both that for my future travels, and Cuba, where the "sand is white and the water progresses from turquoise to blue to purple, and is too beautiful for words". (I disagree, I think- despite the language barrier he seems actually quite gifted with descriptions).

He also says I have white teeth and nice hair. This one's a keeper, I think ;)

All in all I am very satisfied with my experience. My hair looks wonderful, the price was great, and anyways, you can't put a price on good company.

London, until we meet again...

I'll be honest, London wasn't on my list of places to travel while in Europe. If not because it was so similar to the states, because I'd heard it was the most expensive city, and also that it was often gloomy, and let's be real, I don't do well with gloom.

You're probably wondering why I ended up here then. Well, I don't know. Things just happen I guess. Spring break plans fell through, I had time, and Laurent was there. I am a leaf in the wind.



Anyways. I came, I toured, I fell in love.

As a firm believer in signs and the validity of gut feelings, every arrow I came across in this large, admittedly expensive yet incredible city, pointed to me coming back after college.

In fact, I even know where I want to live. It's called Patemoster Square, a lovely little metropolitan area by St. Paul's Church. Clean and perfectly designed to accommodate it's young working class residents, this part of the city is characterized by coffee shops on every corner, yoga studios, and organic cafes, and whoever isn't walking through dressed to impress for a day at the Wall Street Journal or Tate & Associates is jogging or enjoying a fresh salad in the sun. I've never felt more at home.

I may have never planned to experience London outside of the Heathrow Airport, but as it always does, Fate's gentle push lead me right where I was meant to be.

Day one in my future hometown, I settle at my hostel and get busy exploring the city. Laurent, Chap, and I make our way towards Harrods, a world-famous (and UK's largest) high-end department store.

Aside from its 330 departments, and million square feet of selling space, Harrods is known for its aesthetic luxury (think inner balconies and Egyptian Sphinx made of gold), and also for it's Food Hall, which was, unsurprisingly, my personal favorite.

It had walls of beautifully packaged tea and coffees of every assortment, as well as equally lovingly packaged chocolates and every other type of crumpet one might enjoy during their afternoon tea.

My one souvenir from London (other than an empty bank account), was loose-leaf afternoon tea from here. I chose a pink and gold tin can featuring Harrod's beautiful storefront, complete with quaint green awnings and one of the red busses London is so characterized by. I figure its representative of the history and culture, and once I drink the tea, I can reuse the tin to store things like flowers and jewelry, thus serving as a daily reminder of what I have to look forward to.



We went to a typical London pub for dinner, where I was finally able to order a decent salad. (I had a bite of Laurent's fish and chips, and yes, they were as mouth-watering as they are rumored to be here).

Colleen met up with us at this point, and we picked up a few English beers to enjoy in Trafalgar Square, where there was a huge digital countdown to the Olympics. Laurent "iced" Colleen here, which is something I'm sure most Americans who participate in this game wont think of doing in another country.

Day two in my future hometown was chalk-full of site-seeing to make up for how little I did in Dublin. I saw Big Ben, Westminster Abbey, The Tower of London, the Tower Bridge, St. Paul's Cathedral, and Buckingham Palace.

I also spent a lot of time beneath this monstrously large city hopping on and off the tube, which is sort of like playing a game. You have to be strategic and the better you get at it the more fun it is.

I wonder how long it will take Orange County to catch on to this incredible and efficient underworld, and why they haven't already. Can you imagine taking a 10 minute subway to Newport instead of sitting for an hour in traffic? My tan would sure appreciate it. Just sayin'.

Just a small, slightly embarrassing side-note: It began innocently enough, when I started accidentally calling things "lovely" or "brilliant". A hint of an English accent may have crept into my speech once or twice, but nothing I couldn't laugh off as a "joke". But spouting out "bloody hell" when I couldn't find my pen at one, telling, moment...well, this can't continue. At least until I am officially a UK citizen...It's just embarrassing.





Anyhow. After dutifully hitting up at least some of London's main attractions, we came to the sad realization that this was Laurent and Chap's last night in Europe, as their program in Rome had already ended and their after-program traveling had come to an end.

So we had a celebratory dinner of ginormous and wonderful burgers (a particular dish I haven't enjoyed since my last trip to In N' Out), and sat for hours nostalgically discussing the many adventures been on together.

Laurent, Chap, and I have met up all over the globe at this point, which is something most people can't boast of getting to do with their high school friends. Seattle, Newport, Florence, Rome, Dublin, and London are among the cities we have explored together, in each one having unforgettable memories (and perhaps the occasional lack thereof). It really is something special.


I saw them off the next morning, and instead of heading to the airport with them to wait for my later flight as I had originally planned, the beauty of the afternoon, the vitality of the city I was in, and the scolding of my travel bug for not maximizing my time abroad had me resolved to explore London on my own.

So I wander past the History of Natural Science Museum, Imperial College, and the Royal Albert Hall (one of the biggest music venues in London), and end up at Hyde Park.

I stroll through, ending up at Kensington Palace and, unable to afford the current Princess exhibit (yes, my inner-princess is terribly disappointed), I settle for laying in the grass in Kensington Gardens. The sun feels incredible on my back, and my deathly pale arms are just sucking up these my needed (yeah blah cancer blah) ultra violet rays.

As I lie here aside the "Round Pond" within the gardens, I realize that I am completely alone. Not figuratively, as I always have myself to keep me company, but physically. I mean, in this park, in this city, in this country, hell, this continent. Ridin' solo.

The peculiar thing about being in a foreign city alone is that, for someone not used to doing what they feel like, rather what they need to or should do- its hard to keep what I want to do straight.

For example, I decide that I want to find a place to sit and write, and I don't think the pond is the best spot so I decide to find a more private garden, but then I decide my feet hurt so I lay in the grass and end up writing after all. Then I decide its time to head towards the airport, but then I see a bench surrounded by flowers and I am inspired so I sit and write, shortly accompanied by a sweet little old lady who's feet don't even touch the ground so she keeps lifting them and clicking her little heels together.

The freedom of it all is so nice- to be able to up and change plans according to my mood or how interesting something I may stumble across is, but its still so odd to never really know exactly what it is that I want. Like a slave suddenly told- "ok, deals off, you're free, to go do as you please". Where do they even begin? At least there is some degree of security in slavery.

But basking in the sun, surrounded by daffodils, and chirping birds, I can't imagine being happier under any other circumstances. I lazily flip through a few pages of the book I picked up in Dublin, which ironically describes the main character traveling back home to Dublin after living in London for her adult life. The passage I end at seems too symbolic not to note:

"Though for the first time in ages I feel as if I’m actually alive. Maybe it's the breeze in my face, or the sun on my back or the colors of the grass. And the freedom of the open space and knowing that I can go anywhere and do anything I want. I’m in touch with a small part of myself that I thought might be gone and it’s the most wonderful feeling, as if I’m coming home, back to myself, after a terrible separation. I am, I realize with a jolt, content." - Martina Reilly in "The Summer of Secrets"

Although not quite as jolting of a realization for me, as I've been given a few months to slowly slip into this contentment, this paragraph fits like a puzzle piece right into my heart.


I didn't get to do half of the things I wanted to in London, including the Harry Potter tour and the Jack the Ripper walking tour, but I quickly came to terms with the fact that this trip was more or less a "window shopping" experience.

I already have elaborate plans of the things I will be doing in the future (shopping at Harrods being at the top of the list), and am not walking away feeling deprived, since I have a strong feeling I will be back in the near future.



An image of myself materializes, respectfully put together as all Londoners seem to be, holding a coffee in one hand, passing Westminster Abbey as I walk towards my modern corporate building, hippie flat, drinks with friends, or wherever my twenties find me. It's too clear to be called anything but a premonition ;)

Until next time London…