How Biking and Ogling Can Get You Killed.. or at least damage your ego

It was the end of summer and one of my best friends, Cassie (who's insanely gorgeous, like routinely stops-traffic-pretty I'm not kidding) and I were enjoying the last few minutes of twilight summertime sunshine while walking around the apartment we stayed in for a week outside of Milan, Italy. Two boys that we grew quite close to left for America that morning and a sort of sadness followed us around that day, even though we were in the middle of Italy on this amazing adventure, the boys leaving proved that summer always turns into fall and the adventure, for the time being, was ending.

Cassie and I were playing our favorite game of Would You Rather.. (which involves two scenarios: both of equally disturbing nature meant to disgust and hopefully upset the person you're playing with - it's a real ladylike game) while walking back to the dingy flat. There were families packing up from a nighttime picnic and couples walking hand-in-hand as we exited the park and veered away from the bike path we were walking on. On our left, a bicycle whizzed by with a young man on it (with Italian men it's always hard to guess ages, especially when flying by on their bicycles. The blur of shiny, red sneakers could really be worn by any age/sexual orientation group) as he and his bike continued on, his face and eyes stayed glued onto my best friend and I. While ogling, he grinned and purred, "buonaa serrraaa" the English equivalent to good evening but the emotional equivalent to oh, the things I'd do to you....

Now, this poor gentleman probably thought he really hit the jackpot: two sweet-looking American girls without a boyfriend in sight, in a foreign land, ready to swoon into the arms of an Italian lover. Unluckily for him, a tree stopped this thought process.

In a matter of a half a second, the poor boy slammed directly into a tree as the last slimy 'a' fell out of his mouth.

Any sadness we had about that day, quickly vanished as we ran away in a fit of giggles and two years later still invokes an unstoppable amount of laughter whenever Cassie and I ooze buona sera to each other.

Would you rather bike into a tree while trying to impress someone or....

So, Have You Got a Boyfriend?

    I don't mind people being noisy, in fact, I kinda like when people are so interested in my life that they cut polite small talk and ask blunt questions. I write this now, but in most moments like these I like throwing up an awkward turtle hand sign instead of answering the looming, direct question.

    However, one of the things I quickly realized while living in Italy was that customary, polite American small talk frankly bored Italians. They like to talk: about you, about them, about what they're going to eat and who they're going to eat with. Never in a malicious tone (unless you sayin' sumin about their mommas) but in a never-ending dialogue about the activities surrounding them.

    The way Italians commentate on soccer matches, they commentate on people. She lives in Florida but is here just to teach, imagine her poor mom! away from her all this time! I eventually got used to being asked where I was going, who I was going with, had I been to the place before, did I know the owner? but the first time I faced the loss American polite-ness in a business setting, I was a bit taken back.

    After a chain of emails and highly-awkward broken up Skype convo (broken because I couldn't figure out how to turn my microphone on, so all my future bosses saw was a slightly blushed blond girl waving manically at the camera and pointing to my mouth. Why they hired me, I'm still confused about) However, they offered me the job of teaching English part-time at a private language school in Salerno.

    Within a week of the offer, I packed all my worldly possessions (I love the expression wordly possessions, because in this case it just makes the two unnecessarily large suitcase full of clothes seem a whole lot more meaningful than Forever 21 sale items) and jetted across the Atlantic towards Rome. With no more than a phone number for my school and an address for a hostel I booked only three nights at, I was onto the next adventure.

    The first day I showed up early in the morning to what I thought would be a casual get-to-know-you-meeting, I mean this was la dolce vita after all, at my school.

    "Ah! Sarrraaaa! Hello! one moment, please." The two owners of the school, who I recognized from our awkward Skype conversation were in the middle of heated discussion with another woman. They guided me to a small meeting room and asked me to wait. 10 minutes... 15 mintues.. 30 minutes later they came in, all smiles and rainbows like I hadn't flown halfway across the world, left my worldly possessions in an unlocked locker inside the hostel, got lost coming to the school and when I asked for directions from the sweet old lady standing at the corner, she promptly told me she did not live here. hmph.

     "So, for the interview.." Anna started. wait, interview? I thought I had the job, I would not have sold my beloved Jeep, left all that was familiar to me and start a crazy adventure if I knew I wouldn't have some sort of steady income. ok, "breath," I told myself, if this doesn't work out, you can always fly back home and have a great story to tell over happy hour. oh no, I am not going back to happy hour.

    "Have you got a boyfriend?" Anna smiled sweetly and Paula raised her eyebrows in expectation. A boyfriend? They want to know if there is a boy I sleep with on a regular basis who referrers to me not as "some girl" but his girlfriend. They don't want to see my visa, my passport, hell, if I even really speak English that well, that want to know if I have a bloody boyfriend!

    "Well, errrmm. No, in fact, I do not." I half smiled, half stammered.

    "Oh well, that'll change!" pipped up Paula. fat chance, but aren't we here to talk about school?

    "Ok, then, here's your schedule, we'll pay you 10 euro an hour and you start tomorrow. Ciao, bella!"

    My interview had consisted of my bosses prying into my non-existent love life. ah, la dolce vita indeed.

Just How Did I End Up Here?

Throughout high school, I gave into my anti-social tendencies and passed up Friday night football games so I could get to my early Saturday morning SAT prep class. My PSAT scores were scary-low and I knew I wouldn't be able to get them up without the aide of someone smarter. Luckily, that paid off and I got into college and subsequently went to the only college my then-boyfriend got into. sigh, if I could only talk to my 17 year old self. Then again, I wouldn't have listened. I wouldn't be able to get over the fact that I still have acne at 25 years old.

In college, amongst hangovers and regret, when I'd let that creepy feeling of what-are-you-really-going-to-do-after-you-graduate pop in, I'd take a few career tests to ease my racing mind and then quickly jump into the next beer pong tourney. My social life was full (I even kept a calender full of things like Day at the Derby party and Breakfast for Dinner at the Sigma Chi house, who does that?) and then, bam! I was walking across a stage with a ridiculous hat (they should really teach us where motar boards come from) and a hot polyester gown and somehow ended up with a degree in Mass Communications. Which USF later took away, but that's for another post. so, two weeks after that awkward stride pride across the stage to receive my (fake) degree I was strapped into a 747 flying across the Atlantic heading towards London.

In my sweet, little, sheltered life I had heard rumors in books and AP classes about how Italians had a different way of looking at life. La dolce vita. Which frankly, made me want to chow down on some creme bruele (it's european sounding...) My American brain didn't understand a place that not everyone worked  9 - 5, where people took the entire month of August off and above all, didn't define success as how much you've accomplished but rather how much you intend to. My mind was always blown by these eye-talians.

I went to Europe to work a English summer camps in Italy and at first, I was highly annoyed (and me being annoyed is saying something, I once had someone try Chinese water torture on me, just to see and I fell asleep) that my 10 and 11 year old students could not be prompt and ready to learn English at 8 am. sharp! Didn't they want a crazed American blond girl singing about Austrian yodelers in their faces? Didn't they look forward to the craft of Write Your Future Husband/Wife a Love Letter? I probably would have slept in too.

But once their sweet little faces slowly trickled in the door, they smiled and played along, probably because they were afraid of how crazy I'd really get if they didn't. But I started to realize that the whole timetable I set up for them during the day was more of a guideline than set in solid stone. guidelines? I don't do guidelines. My times were drawn in blood. Not for these 10 year olds though. At 10, they'd master the art of doing what they pleased, when they pleased. It was like being in a classroom full of little Italians, oh. well, I was in a classroom full of little Italians. My 22 years of life experience hadn't even brought me close to the cool-ness these pre-teens already possessed.

They enchanted me of stories of parents taking months off to stay at their beachside villa (which I ended up staying at, but again, for another blog post) I dissapointed them with childhood vacations that we're rushed to the grandparents in upstate New York for seven days.

Over the months I spent with these kids, I let the Italian-ness settle in. I slowed my actual pace (which wasn't hard since I easily gained 5 pounds in pasta, but again all in the effort to become more Italian) I sipped cappuccinos and let the foam stay as a mustache for a minute too long, I stopped making to-do lists and filling up my now useless calendar, and then, I started to be late. As my five mintue-ish tardiness became habitual, my kids caught on and would giggle in delight as the crazy, blond American finally adopted la dolce vita and didn't crave creme brule while she did so.

Spring Break part due

I booked myself at Hotel Aldobrandini through www.bookings.com and eagerly put directions from the train station to the hostel in my iPod. However, in God’s infinite humor, it started to downpour the moment I stepped out of the train. I put my hood up and carried my two bags like the ghetto woman that I am, and headed in the general direction of the hotel. After a few wrong turns, I found myself at iron gates with the words hotel written next to a buzzer. I was buzzed in and started to not believe my luck: there was an elevator, a fountain in the courtyard! This place was going to get a huge 5 star rating from me on hostelworld.com. In my state of joy, I went to the concierge, (they even had a concierge!) and gave him my passport. After a few frustrated taps on his computer, he informed me that I did not have a reservation here. My mind started to run, like it always does in times when I just need it to stop. Maybe I can get back on another train and back it back to Salerno in time for dinner, no! I’ve made it this far, dammit! I’m staying! I took my drowned rat self and walked to the nearest piazza. 

I sat down next to the fountain and started to look at the address for the hotel. Just as I was starting to hyperventilate, I watched an older German couple, complete with leaderhosen and suitcases, walk to a hidden alleyway. (because, how could you not, even in times of pending homelessness, watch German couples) I followed them and sure enough, my correct hotel was hidden from me and the Germs lead me right to it!

Of course this hotel was more of what I had in mind, it was on the third floor of an office building, with no elevator. As I walked in, a maid with a button up dress, two sizes too large, came stomping down the staircase. After leaning over and grabbing me my key and exposing her whole chestles to me, I opened the door to my closet of a room. There was no shower and only a toilet. Oookk then. I dropped off my bags and quickly picked up my camera. The rain had let up and I was able to explore the city. 

One of my favorite things in life is the smell of wet concert after the rain. As soon as I inhaled that smell, I knew Florence and I were going to have a love affair. I strolled for hours in Piazza Signori, under the Uffizzi Museum and over Ponte Vecchio.

Ponte Vecchio

Hotel Aldobrandini

the last line says, "I want you to be my wife."

Spring Break part uno

In March I knew my time in Italy was coming to an end. The shiny new-ness of living somewhere foreign was starting to fade. The long, slimy stare the cashier at the grocery store gave me was no longer authentic and nowhere near as exciting. It was downright annoying: give me my effin buffalo mozzarella, gyp me out of 5 cents and let’s stop pretending I’d sleep with you, you’re 55 and live with your mom, she owns the place. 

The sun was starting to make a daily appearance and my English lessons were finally starting to see that I had something more to teach them besides duck-duck-GOOSE! Life was good. I thought I’d push my luck and book an Easter trip to Florence.  

By myself.  Alone. Solo io. 

Moving to a foreign country by myself seemed a league below booking a vacation just. For. Me. The move to Italy was clouded with “where will I live?” “What will I make for dinner?” but a vacation, I’d actually have to start enjoying time with myself. Alone. Did I mention I was going unaccompanied? 

I heard mysterious praises for Florence but most intriguing were from a half-drunken fraternity boy that spent a promiscuous semester abroad and said it was “totally awesome”. Sold. 

I booked my train tickets through tren italia, which gave me a 20% discount for booking online and two weeks in advance.  I browsed the borrowed guide books,  Frommer's and Let's Go, asked the hedonistic frat boy for ideas on where to stay and packed a bag full of layers. 

With my iPod full of new music, my camera’s batteries charged , numerous emails to local friends and family in America with exact address and phone numbers just in case. With my bravery at an all time high, I was on my way. 

Senora's Monies

I had been living in my new posh (cough) apartment for about three weeks and was still getting used to the intercom system. Who would have thought a country that was just introduced the iPhone a few months prior would have a high class intercom system enabled in a 4^th century building, but that’s for another post. 

My apartment shared an entrance with my landlord and therefore also a doorbell (ah ha! I knew the backward-ness would catch up somewhere here)  One day, while prepping for my English lesson: downing espressos and catching up on the latest Gossip Girl, the doorbell rang. This just wasn’t any doorbell, mind you. This doorbell commanded you to jump up and swear the carabinieri found out your visa isn’t legit and they were coming to deport you. After convincing myself that returning home wouldn’t be that bad, hey I could keep up with Gossip Girl easier, I peered outside. I could see a hunched over senora, pulling a trolley full of plastic bags and staring three floors up at me.  Intrigued by what may happen, and how well my grasp of Italian would get me, I booked it downstairs. 

At the ancient entrance, the senora  gave me a serious up down (I may not have changed out of my sweatpants, practically a death sentence in Italy) she handed over 350 euro and bobbled away. I asked who it was for and she said, “just take it!” Unable to believe my seriously good luck, I was basically making out with the multi colored monies. I was basking in the fact that all my good karma must have aided in this serious blessing. I could already see the new rain boots I was going to purchase at Pull and Bear, the new coat I was spying at United Colors of Benetton. 

I got to my shared front door where my landlord graciously met me, scoop up the money and said, “Thank you for doing that!” hmph. Back to subject predicate readings, I mean…. what’s Serena Van der Woodsen up to these days…

The Ancient Door: Where I was given those sweet 300 euros

Months later I ran into the senora, and pretended to take a picture of the church ;)

Riding in Cars with Francescos

Fact: There are 27.2 million Francesco’s in Italy

In April, I was asked to teach English at a weekend camp in a hotel just outside of the city I was living in. They’d pay me 200 euro plus room and board and I get to see Paestum for free. Done. I was asked to take the train from Salerno and Francesco would be waiting for me in Paestum and take me to meet the kids at the hotel. I hadn’t met Francesco but was given his number and had come to accept the general “eh, it’ll all work out” attitude of the Italians.

So I boarded the train, exited at Paestum and texted mysterious Francesco “Sono qui I’m here!” No response. Alight. Let me plug in my iPod and start enjoying the much needed warm weather.

Shortly after, a small white car approached the station and a portly, balding, fat old man got out and gave me a smile, “well, this must be him,” I thought.

“Ciao, stai Francesco, si?” You’re Francesco, right?

“SI!” said Francesco, his eyes undressing me and licking his lips (which is sad to say, I really got used to and didn’t think twice about)

“Allora, andeamo!” Alright, let’s go! I loaded my things into his car and away we went.

“Where’s the hotel?”

“Hotel? Oh wow, you want to go to the hotel? Let’s take a walk around the Paestum ruins first, then we can go to the hotel.”

“umm.. aren’t there kids waiting to learn the great language of English?”

“Kids? What kids?”

Crap. Crap, crap, crap, crap. Tell me I had not just gotten into some strange man’s car and he now thinks I want to go to a hotel with him! Please tell me this isn’t real life.

Oh, it’s real life.

“Who are you? Why were you at the train station?”

“I’m Francesco, I was at the train station to pick up a friend but then I saw you and left with you!”

“Take me back to the station now. NOW!”

He starts giggling and I start realizing that I might have to make an escape by rolling out the door. He turns his impossibly small Fiat around and brings me back to the station.

“Creep,” I spat at him. “Bella,” he crooned at me.

I’d like to say that I got on the next train and headed home. But I didn’t. I approached the only man at the station and asked if he too was Francesco. He was. The right Francesco.

maybe the ruins were worth it

where it all went down. not literally.

ok, it was worth it.

Cheap Flights = Scary Nights

27 euro Paris - Marsielle. Did you just pee your pants? Cause I did.

I thought flying from Paris to Marseille with Ryan Air would be cheaper, faster and more fun. Ha. I have more fun plucking my Grandma’s chin hairs. Forget about the 15 euro for a bus from the center of Paris to the RyanAir-only airport and  you can forget the 50 euro extra charge for heavy bags (anyone keeping track? That’s 155.) it was the delay and the havoc it caused.

We were meant to leave Paris at 6 and arrive in Marseille at 7.  Enough time to see the city, eat at a sidewalk café and get some sleep. Oh plans, how funny you are.

6:00 pm rolls around, “Zour flight iz delayed.” Ok, we had an hour to play with. We looked at French gossip magazines and talked to fellow backpackers.

7 o’clock: “Zee flight iz delayed more.” Hpmh. Our hostel for the night assured me they could pick us up at the airport but the shuttle service would promptly stop at 9. Ok, ok, breathe. There was still a little time to play with here.

8 o’clock: “zee plane will be boarding now.” Worse than the Southwest cattle call, French babies, French baby mommas and French men with one leg started running for the gate, legit running. Coming from a culture where we appreciate a good line, this was intense. Another check for stereotypes came true: Frenchies hate lines and avoid them, even if it means one-legged man would trample French baby – it happens.

Boarding the annoyingly orange plane, we found ourselves even more delayed on the tarmac. And then the panic set in: I took one year of French… in 6^th grade… 10 years ago. I also, in my pursuit of knowing everything, stupidly read reviews about how unsafe Marseille is.  How was I going to get us from the airport to our hostel with no map, 50 euros cash between us and only remembering, “Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir”?

It was now 11:00 and outside the airport. And then the rain started. 

Me, to nice-enough-looking-French-woman: “pardon, parla-vous ingelse?”

The worst up-down of my life: “scof, non!”

Ooook then. People were rapidly leaving the airport and security guards just locked the doors behind us.

An orange taxi approached, “would you ladies like a ride?” I could hear my mom’s voice, “Don’t get in cars with strange men!” This was a strange man, and this was his car, and we were getting in it!

My sister and I were glued to the rate meter. 15 euro..25 euro…30 euro…..45 euro…..50 euro. And we hit our limit. I mimed our predicament and the taxi driver drove us into some small town (at this point, I kinda knew we were going to die tonight) and stopped in front of an atm. aaand it had stopped raining. Ok, maybe we weren’t going to die that night.

The taxi driver dropped us off in front of the train station and pointed down the road to our hostel. We threw money at him and proceeded down the road. 1456,1457, 1459… wait we need address 1458. And it started to rain again. Up and down we walked, searching in vain for 1458. There’s not a soul on any street, it’s pouring buckets and we’re both so sleepy, we’re picking fights about whom to blame for this predicament (which is RyanAir, btw)

One of us decided that we should try the train station. It’s midnight now and the doors are locked. Just as Karin was fighting back tears and I was sweating my face off in the middle of a rainstorm, three security guards approached us. They could not speak a lick of English and started singing Michael Jackson’s “Billy Jean is not my loverrrrr!!” and miming directions to our hostel “gauche….eerrmm, left?”

We found it, checked into our hostel , got into our room and our male roommates were snoring.

I can’t make this stuff up.

My Life as a Nanny

My life is full of some seriously unbelievable stories. My need to share them with not just my friends has been nagging at me for awhile. 

Once I do tell my friends all the bat crazy shit that’s happened, they can’t seem to believe me and then shout, in public areas, that I’m lying about whatever misadventure I’m retelling. Maybe writing this will add to my non-existent street cred, doubtful but can you blame me for trying?

On that note, the tipping point getting me to write this blog was me sharing a story to my dearest (and married) friends at the mall: 

As I was pulling extra baby wipes out of my uncommonly-large-but-perfect-shade-of-red Berksha messenger bag, for my friend’s one-year-old, they commented, “you’re like our nanny!” That N word produced a negative physical reaction. My eyebrows started sweating, I replied “I was a nanny.” 

I said it like I had been a former coke addict and a line was sitting in front of my while my tweeked out friends talked about how sweet the wallpaper dance was. I sheepishly handed over the baby wipes when my surprised friends asked me why I wasn’t a nanny anymore. 

And then, calm-as-day, I replied “while I was going to the toilet, they unhooked a shower head and sprayed me.”

Pause.

“You’re lying.”

“No, how could I make that up? It’s what nightmares are made up of. The kids had timed me in the toilet and knew, umm.. when I’d be a bit longer in there. They picked the lock, ran to the shower and sprayed me like the water contained nanny-repellent”

“You’re seriously lying now,” said my friend, who still hasn’t moved from the crowded walkway of the food court and was attracting looks by his increasingly loud exclamations.

“I don’t have proof besides the emotional scarring 6 and 8 yr old Italian boys can leave on a 22 year old American girl.”

“God, your life is interesting.”

Devil Children

Touristy, Relaxed Vacations are Not a Myth

This was my expertise in booking a trip: nothing.

Our family ‘vacations’ (if the torture of being surrounding by your immediate family for 365740 hours straight could qualify as a vacation) consisted of loading up the ’91 Toyota Previa, spending 4 days en route to New York, seeing 'South of the Border' and staying at whichever hotel my dad's rewards points would grant us.

Our stay-cations (which is now my favorite word and would have been used by my 12-yr old self incessantly had it existed) had my sister and I swimming at the local Hyatt while my mom ordered chicken fingers at the bar (we're spending money!)

While at college, I was lucky enough to spend spring break at a friend's house in Jamaica and didn't have to plan a thing and enjoyed every hazy moment.

A week before our flight across the world, my sister, the planner extraordinaire, came down with the 'flu' aka I'm-not-being-held-responsible-for-booking-our-trip-cough-cough. So, I was left with google search and my lack of planning abilities.

So, here I am, 22 years old, planning an European Grand Adventure with my sister. I was figuring out hostels, b&b's, hotels, airplanes, reviews, stars, in-room sinks and train schedules in military time.


This is how I pinched Euros, hung out with locals, and enjoyed tourist traps all while having a real vacation.