Anna's Italian Adventures

The 100 mL Airplane Rule

2010-06-03T10:22:00.000-07:00

The next morning in Dublin, I decided to sleep in. I was on vacation, and I could use the rest. After I woke up and showered, I went to the supermarket. I needed new shampoo and conditioner anyways, and I was going to look for some more peanut butter. I walked in…it looked more like a Wal-Mart than what I’m used too! I grabbed legit sandwich bread (which is hard to find in Italy) and Italian soda bread right when I walk in. I peruse through the aisles and find peanut butter! Ironically, it was deemed “American style.”

I guess we Americans do peanut butter goooooood.

I make my way to the hair products aisle. Expecting to find something similar to Italy where every bottle is 1/3 of the size that I am used to in the States and twice as expensive, I was pleasantly surprised to find decent size shampoos and conditioners for a decent price!

Have I mentioned I LOVE Ireland?

Unfortunately, I have realized that Tresemme Blonde shampoo and conditioner is impossible to find outside of the U.S., which makes me even happier about being an American. So, I grabbed the next best thing: Pantene Pro-V Color Care. I used to be a Pantene-er before I found Tresemme, and it does smell lovely.

After grabbing said Pantene shampoo and conditioner, I walked the aisles to make sure I wasn’t forgetting anything. And that’s when I saw them…REAL chocolate chip cookies. Similar to Chips Ahoy, only not as good. But real chocolate chip cookies, nonetheless. Not these poser-things Italy has.

I grabbed 2 packages.

Yes, I know that makes me a fatty. But I couldn’t help it! I hadn’t had authentic chocolate chip cookies since before I left. Plus, I could make them last. And it was a tiny roll; nothing compared to the packages of cookies we offer in the great United States.

I walked back to my hotel room, a successful grocery store run behind me. Please believe, once I crossed into my room I broke out those chocolate chip cookies. Delicious.

After I packed everything away, I decided to walk down to Trinity College. The campus was beautiful, and quite a walk from my hotel. I definitely got my exercise in that day. I sat in the park and played with my camera and my artistic side, then, at the cue of my growling stomach, I decided to get some lunch.

My tour guide from the other day had recommended this cute little Irish pub called Bennigan’s for a good lunch. I walked that way, and looked at the menu outside. After decided on a BLT for lunch, I walked up to the bar and told the waiter what I wanted.

“Oh, that’s the dinner menu,” he said. “This is the lunch menu,” and he nods his head to a piece of computer paper taped to the wall. Thank goodness I could still get a sandwich! He told me I could get whatever I wanted on it, so I got ham, cheese, lettuce and tomatoes. Most of the seats were taken, but I managed to grab one right next to the door.

The sweet barman brought my sandwich over to me, and I bit in. Oh. My. Gosh. THIS HAS CHEDDAR CHEESE ON IT!!! I hadn’t tasted cheddar cheese, my absolute favorite cheese, in far too long. And here it was, in it’s yellow-orange glory, on my wonderful Irish sandwich.

Have I mentioned that I LOVE Ireland?

After lunch I did a little more walking around the town. I was planning on going to the Guiness Brewery, but I didn’t feel like spending any more money, kinda wanted a relaxed afternoon, wasn’t planning on drinking the beer anyways, and couldn’t figure out the bus system. 4 valid reasons to just hang out for the afternoon.

I did a little more shopping around, just looking at things through the windows. I decided not to visit the Starbucks again, simply because their drinks are expensive. And loaded with calories. I did not need to be losing more of the first and gaining more of the second. That evening, when I arrived at my hotel, I asked the front desk to call me a cab. I had a 6:00 AM flight, meaning I needed to be at the airport by 4:30. Okay, 3:45 in the morning, please. Ugh.

I spend the rest of the evening eating chocolate chip cookies, figuring out to work the tiny kettle in my room (it was difficult!), sipping on Irish tea, and watching episodes of Gossip Girl. I had a whole season to catch up on. I packed, and debated about whether to put my make-up or my newly bought perfume in my carry-on. I decided on the perfume, because I would much rather have my make-up at risk of being crushed during travel than my perfume.

The next morning, my alarm went off at the butt crack of dawn. Correction: the sun doesn’t even get up this early, so no human being should have to. But, my cab awaited.

I have decided that cab rides are just awkward, unless you know the driver. My cabbie and I even speak the same language, and we didn’t say much the entire time. I guess their job is to drive you to your destination, not talk to you like your best friend. Good thing it was early; I wasn’t really up for conversation anyways.

Once I was dropped off at the airport, I made my way to check in and check my luggage. I swear, I can never escape the idiots, despite whether I’m in Arkansas, Italy or on an island (like Ireland). Maybe it’s just me, but I honestly don’t know what is so difficult about checking in at an airport. You bring your passport, you tell them your name, you give them your passport, you put your luggage on the weight belt, you get your boarding pass, you say “Thank you,” and you move on to security.

What is so hard about this process?

Apparently, everything. There was couple in front of me who took literally 10 minutes to check in. Apparently they had many questions. Ask those BEFORE you arrive, please!

I need to learn patience, apparently. Not one of my strong points.

After I finally got through my check in (which took about, oh 1 minute), I proceeded to security. I put my computer in its separate container, pulled off my coat, put my computer bag on another container, and walked through the metal detector. Nothing. Well of course not; I ain’t no terrorist.

They asked me if my computer was, in fact, mine, and when I said “Yes,” they asked me to open it. This is weird, I thought. I opened it, and they wiped the inside down with this cloth, and then wiped the outsides. I don’t know what they were looking for, but my MacBook passed with flying colors. Then the lady at the end of the rolly-pin things where all carry-ons come after being scanned motioned for me to come over. She pulled out my triple-combo set of my new perfume/body wash/lotion.

“It’s too big,” she says.

I thought, “What do you mean, ‘It’s too big’? It fits perfectly in my computer bag.” I think she saw the confusion on my face, because she took out the perfume and said, “This can go. The others can’t.”

Oh no. That 100 mL rule. My lotion and body wash were over 100 mL. You have got to be kidding me.

I asked what my options were. Obviously my bag was already checked and gone towards the airplane. And the box itself was too tiny to check. Meaning, I would have to check my entire computer bag for my body wash and lotion to make it back to Italy.

There was no way in Hades that I was checking my MacBook to have it thrown around like all the other luggage. I closed my eyes, said a secret goodbye to my lovely body wash and lotion, and told the lady to just throw them in “The Box” (where all other treasured yet banned items go to rest). It hurt me inside.

I wonder what they do with everything they confiscate? Some Irish airport security lady is probably LOVING my Love Etc. lotion and body wash. Good. I hope you enjoy it. Grr. I should have known, but it just slipped my mind. I was kicking myself, but I had almost packed my make-up in my carry-on instead. Which would have met the requirements. But no, I packed my perfume set.

I will never forget that dumb 100 mL rule again.

After those disheartening 3 minutes, I proceeded to look around at the overpriced airport shops then head to my gate. The thing with RyanAir: It’s incredibly inexpensive, but there are not assigned seats. So these crazy Europeans start lining up, in a single-file line, and hour before the flight so they can get there desired seat on the plane. If you are at the front of the line, you get your boarding passed checked first, and you get to go to the plane first.

What I don’t get is that most of the time RyanAir flights do not taxi into the airport gate, meaning we all get on buses and are driven to the jet. Of course, being a solo flyer is easier, but I was near the middle of the line and ended up being one of the first on the plane. The key is to get a good spot in the bus, not the line. The bus doors open, and these people literally start running to the plane.

I didn’t know plane seats were so different from each other. I’ve been proved wrong, I guess.

The flight was normal, I got into Rome Ciampino airport, grabbed my checked luggage, and asked the guy at the bus booth what the fastest way to get back into town would be. He said to take a bus to the train station, then a train to Termini. Then I could catch my usual metro to Tiburtina, and bus back to Teramo. Perfect.

The bus left right on time and dropped us off at the train station. I walked quickly to catch the next train. It had left about 5 minutes ago. The next train wasn’t arriving for another 30 minutes.

I thought the dude said this was the FASTEST way to get back to town?

I should have just taken the direct bus. I sat waiting for the train. I hadn’t eaten breakfast yet, and in this tiny town outside the airport nothing was open. So I bought Peanut M&Ms out of the vending machine. Another thing about Europe: all their chocolate candy that is the same as ours in the U.S. tastes funny. I like the American ones better.

Finally after 30 minutes that felt like an hour I jumped on the train. I wasn’t sure if it was even the right train, so I asked around. It was. Thank goodness. My nerves were already frayed.

I got to the Termini, bought a metro ticket and headed down to the lines. This lady and man were telling people things that I couldn’t understand, so I just kept walking. It looked oddly empty.

“Ma’am, where are you going? There’s been an accident. You have to take the bus.”

I was stressed out even more. Well, at least I wasn’t on the metro when the accident happened. But, still, the bus system? Does that mean I have to buy a new ticket? Ticked off, I climbed the stairs back up above ground, lugging my 30 pound bag with me. I got outside to where the buses line up. Only, this is Rome, and there are 20 different bus lines. I had no idea where I was supposed to be going.

After wandering around for 5 minutes, I walked over to the information booth where about 50 other people were trying to ask questions. The gentleman gave me the bus number I needed and pointed me in the general direction. But there were no bus signs with that bus number. Great.

I turned and saw the bus I needed, about 200 feet away stuck in traffic. Apparently it had just left. And I had just missed it. Meaning, I would be waiting another 10 minutes for a bus. Yes, it finally did arrive. And about 35 people tried to pile on. I was squished between these two gypsy ladies, trying to watch my bag and my purse and not having much fresh air. It is the hottest day in Rome so far, and I’m wearing this huge red coat, because I thought it would be freezing in Ireland (which I was also wrong about).

In short, that was the most uncomfortable bus ride that I have ever had to deal with.

To make things worse, the stop for Tiburtina was the last stop on the line. And the crowd barely thinned on the way there. I guess this is what happens when the metro lines aren’t open. That means EVERYONE has to use the buses. Never. Again.

Hot, sweaty, and tired of lugging a computer bag, a travel bag, and a huge red coat around, I managed to make it to the Tiburtina. Come to find out, I had also just missed the bus to Teramo. The next bus stopped in L’Aquila and wasn’t for another hour and a half. Well, at least I didn’t have to change buses in L’Aquila. So I bought the ticket and headed for the bar to buy a water and a Coca Cola.

I downed the water, as I was completely dehydrated from that bus ride from hell. And I saved the Coke for the ride home. When the bus finally came, I got into my seat, after some moving of seats by other passengers. Your ticket has a seat number on it, but apparently people don’t follow that. But, I’ve always been one for following rules.

Once the bus started rolling, I decided I would break open my Coke. It had been resting in my computer bag the entire time, so I reached down to grab it. No Coke in sight. I looked around the floor trying to see a flash of red labeling. The gentleman beside me started looking for whatever I was looking for.

It was gone. And it was expensive too. And I was thirsty. This has NOT been the best trip home.

We finally pull into Teramo around 6:30. I throw everything down on my bed and plug up my computer, desiring some serious Facebook action. I get a notice from my Internet key saying, “Your credit is finished!”

No. Freaking. Way.

Thank goodness the store wasn’t closed. I got a recharge and sat down on Facebook to rant about the worst trip home ever. I wonder if I had just packed my make-up in my carry-on it would have triggered a better chain of events than what I had experienced. Nah. Probably not. I would have just made it home with my body wash and lotion.

After THIS afternoon though, I was starting to think it would have been worth it.

A Little Piece of Heaven and the Lack of Leprechauns

2010-05-19T12:28:00.000-07:00

Sunday was Easter Sunday. I went for a run in the park and jumped on Facebook. Beverley had sent me a message wondering if I wanted to hang out. The family was out for Easter, and she was looking for some company. Of course I was game!

She came into town, and we decided to find a restaurant that was open. We went in the direction of the pub, hoping to eat burgers on Easter Sunday. The last time we went on a Sunday, the pub wasn’t open. But it wouldn’t hurt for us to check it out.

It was open! And full. I guess a lot of people eat burgers on Easter?

After dinner, we decided to eat chocolate and watch our favorite movie: The Princess Frog. We walked to the café we frequent after Italian lessons, and it was open too! It was turning into a very good night. During our tea outings, we had noticed that the café had a very large tub in it’s middle full of assorted chocolates. Bev and I went to the tub and picked through the chocolates, unsure of what each was and mainly picking out which ones looked pretty or not.

After getting enough chocolate to quench our craving, we headed back to my apartment. Cozying up with Prince Naveen and Tiana, we munched away at our chocolate. We had the lights off, so we could only guess to what each chocolate was. We did a pretty good job, considering that I enjoyed every piece I ate! When we finished the movie, Beverley asked if I wanted to come back to Colledara with her. She had driven the car, so I said, “Sure! I want to experience your driving!” They celebrate Easter Monday over here, so we didn’t have Italian lessons and I didn’t have class the next day.

I threw essentials in my backpack, and we headed out to the car. The next day, Danila comes down to Beverley’s room saying that the family was leaving in 30 minutes to go to her mother’s house. “Oh, hello!” she said to me.

“Hi!” I said, kind of embarrassed. I wasn’t sure if it was okay that I had spent the night. But she was very nice, and told Bev to bring me to her mother’s house.

So, after wetting my curly hair to give it a little more shape, we climbed into the car with Lidio (Danila’s husband) and their son Jama. Once we got to the grandmother’s house, I was introduced to everyone. I met the grandmother, grandfather, Danila’s sister and her husband, their daughter, and Danila’s brother. In total, there were 11 of us around the dining room table. We had a delicious lunch, and afterwards the family was asking me all about America and Arkansas. We Google Earth-ed Rogers and Conway and I showed them my house and my University.

Google Earth is legit.

Beverley and I wanted to go to the mall, but Lidio thought it might be closed because of the holiday. I can’t get used to this Easter Monday holiday thing.

Lidio was headed into town anyways, so he said he could drop Beverley and me off at my apartment. She and I decided to look into finding a bus out to the mall. We forgot that since it was a holiday, the ticket offices would be closed. Oh well. Come to find out, my Internet had run out of time since it was a new month. So we went to the store, got it reloaded, and just sat and talked until Lidio came to pick Beverley up. I was leaving for Dublin the next day and wouldn’t see her until the next Sunday, so we said our goodbyes and I started packing.

I had to catch a 5:00AM bus to Rome, so I went to bed relatively early. Again, I didn’t sleep very well because I freaked myself out about sleeping through my alarm. The next morning, I grabbed my bag, once again donned my big red coat, and walked to the Piazza Garibaldi to catch a bus. I slept on the way to Rome, and made it to Ciampino airport in one piece.

The flight was only 2 ½ hours long, so I read some of my Women’s History textbook on the flight. I love looking out plane windows when flying. I watched as the tiny isle of Ireland came into view, beneath heavy cloud cover. Go figure, overcast in Ireland. I had planned for wet and cold, thank goodness.

Once we had landed and I picked up my bag from the baggage claim, I bought a baguette for lunch because I was starving. I walked around the airport for about 20 minutes trying to find someone to ask about buses. I finally just went to the U.S. Airways info booth and asked them about finding a bus. When in doubt, I always go to the airline from my country.

They told me to take bus 747, and it would take me straight to the city center. My hotel, apparently, was smack-dab in the city center, so that was going to work out perfectly. I find the bus ask if it was going to O’Connell Street. The driver said he was, but I could save about 4 Euro by taking the bus right in front of him. Yes, it would take longer, but I wasn’t in any kind of rush. I thanked him and paid for a ticket on the other bus.

What was the best part about my first 30 minutes in Ireland? I could UNDERSTAND what people were saying! It was so nice to be in an English-speaking country again!

I sat in the back of the bus watching the grey skies, thinking about how I already loved Ireland simply because of the English-speaking fact. I was wondering how I would know when we got to the city center, and how close my hotel actually was.

We kept driving, and kept driving. I had no idea what I was looking for. We stopped for quite a few minutes on this big long street, and I just stayed in the bus waiting for a big central square or something. When the bus started again and continued down the street, I saw Cassidy’s Hotel pass literally 10 feet beyond where we started going.

I should have gotten off at that stop!

Luckily the bus stopped a little farther down the street, so I grabbed my bag and started making my way back up the street. They weren’t kidding when they said this hotel was in the center. It’s surrounded by everything!

As I walked, this scruffy-looking guy came up to me and asked how I was doing. “Fine…” I told him. Are you kidding me? Literally 5 seconds after I have put my foot down on O’Connell street, I’ve already attracted a creeper. Story of my life.

He started telling me a sob story about how his brother had gotten in a car wreck the night before and was in the hospital, but he needed money to stay. Thus, this guy was trying to raise money for him. I told him I was very sorry, but I couldn’t give him money. I do feel bad for those people. They could honestly be telling the truth. But I couldn’t be sure, so I wasn’t going to give him anything.

I checked into my hotel, and my room was wonderful. Big, comfy bed with fluffy pillows. Flat screen TV. A kettle and coffee and tea provided with white and brown sugar. I opened up my bag to start unpacking and saw the one thing that could ruin my afternoon.

My conditioner had exploded ALL over my clothes. Wonderful.

I washed some socks and my shirt in the sink, letting it air out. It was already late afternoon, so I decided to do a little exploring of the city. I would do a more extensive tour of the city tomorrow. Dublin was beautiful. And I could actually eavesdrop on conversations here.

Did I mention how much LOVE that they spoke English?

I went to be early that night, EXHAUSTED from being up since 4AM that day, and wanting to go running the next morning.

I worked out in the gym the next morning, took a shower, and headed out to find the tourist information office. Well, whadaya know?! It’s right next to my hotel! I went inside and asked the ladies about the two different bus companies that ran tours around the cities. They said they were essentially the same, but one had a live guide and the other was headphone based. I got the ticket for the red one, only because it was a red double-decker like those buses in London.

There was a bus sitting right outside fixing to start its tour. I hopped on and climbed to the top to get a good view. The tour guide was hilarious, and, even though it was a hop-on/hop-off style, I stayed on just to listen to him. I figured I could always ride again if I wanted to see something. We drove through downtown Dublin, headed through the Guiness Empire, made our way to the biggest park in Ireland, I got to wave to the U.S. Ambassador’s house, and then we passed by the biggest military barracks in the world. An hour and a half later, we stopped right outside the tourist office where we started.

I decided to get off and get some lunch. I said thank you to the tour guide as I was fixing to get off the bus and told him it was absolutely wonderful. He said, “Why you are very welcome. And I must say, you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. I hope you are going into modeling or something!”

I thanked him, smiled, and said, “Actually, public relations.” He said, “Well, you should be.”

I think that was one of the nicest compliments I have ever received. But the prettiest woman he has EVER seen? He has to be lying…

I headed out to get some lunch. I had looked at the restaurant listings when I was in my hotel, and I found a Mexican restaurant! Yes, there was only one. But I was bound and determined to find it. So I walked that direction, imagining the taste of enchiladas and salsa and trying not to drool.

I finally made it there and ordered my enchiladas. When then food came out, it was pretty good. Granted, it wasn’t even close to competing with the wonderful Mexican food I am use to back home, but it was Mexican nonetheless. I enjoyed every moment of it.

After paying, I explored the other side of Dublin for a little bit. I went into a tourist shop looking for a cheap T-Shirt. I had a hard time picking between a dark green shirt with “Ireland” across the front and one that said Irish Pub Crawl. It was a really cute design, but I couldn’t really see myself wearing a Pub Crawl T-Shirt. So I picked the other one. I walked out of the store, turned the corner and stopped dead in my tracks. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

Right in front of me was a Starbucks.

The only reason I didn’t break into a full sprint to get to Starbucks was for fear of knocking someone over. So I picked up the pace and powerwalked to the home of my treasured Frappacino.

I got inside, and ordered my usual: Caramel Frappacino, cream no coffee, extra caramel in the cup. That first sip was absolute heaven. I don’t know how long it had been since I had Starbucks, but I could feel myself floating.

I carried my new T-Shirt and tiny piece of heaven as I walked around the town. I headed back to my hotel room, deposited my new purchases and relaxed to watch a couple TV shows on my computer. I went back to the tourist information booth to ask about getting a ticket to the Irish House Party. It was a traditional Irish dinner complete with folk song and fairytales. Unfortunately, they were full for the next two nights. And those were the only 2 nights I had left.

It actually worked out for the best though. The Irish House Party was pretty far from the center, meaning I would have to pay for a cab to bring me back in. They recommend a restaurant with a free Irish step show that would be just as authentic.

I walked down to the hotel that housed the restaurant and got a reservation for that night. Then I did some exploring of Dublin’s shopping area. In America, I am used to big shopping malls being entities within themselves. In Dublin, it is not so. Their shopping malls are hidden underneath seemingly separate buildings.

I walked into one store expecting to walk to the back, turn around, and walk back out the front. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that there was an entire MALL hidden behind that store. I walked around, and found a cute zebra towel with a fuschia border for only 5 Euro. I was going to be going to the beach, and I couldn’t take my bath towel with me all the time. So I reasoned that this was a significant investment in my future. Plus, it was WAY too cute to ignore.

I also found one of my favorite shops ever: The Body Shop. I bought a new perfume that I had been aching to buy before I left for Europe, but never got around to it. It was a better deal to get the combo pack with lotion/perfume/bath gel. So I was set. And beyond excited to have my new favorite scent now along for my European vacation.

Later that night, I headed back out to the restaurant to eat dinner and watch the step show. When I showed up, however, they didn’t have my reservation. No problem. The nice manager got me a table, right at the front of the stage. I couldn’t ask for a better seat.

I had traditional Irish vegetables, salmon-something, and goat’s cheese as a starter. Everything tasted great, except the goat’s cheese. Far too strong for my taste. For my main course I got a stew with this bread covering it. I don’t remember the exact name, but it was DELICIOUS. To wrap it all up, I had chocolate cheesecake for dessert. The entire time I was eating, a band was playing traditional Irish jigs and reels. Following them came the steppers. They were very talented.

The tall red head really got into it. And the other guy was super cute. The girls were normal. You can tell I was more interested in the boys. But there were only 2 of them. Of course they stuck out!

The band came back out after the dancers finished, but it was late, and I was full and sleepy. I walked back to my hotel, watched a couple more TV shows, and rolled over onto the incredibly soft pillows. Despite my conditioner covering my clothing with a great-smelling, oily yellow paste and my failure to find a leprechaun for my 48 hours in Ireland, I had had a very good time so far. Dublin Days 1 & 2: Success!

Finding the Holy Grail of Italian Supermarkets

2010-05-18T11:56:00.000-07:00

The next morning my alarm went off, I showered, and I walked to the Uffizi Gallery. I grabbed a cornetto on the road, successfully saying in Italian that I wanted to take it with me. I am getting better at this language after all! I knew that the line would be long, so I left early. I had thought about getting a reservation the day before, but decided I had time to spare, so why spend the extra money.

Next time, I am SO spending the extra money.

Even getting there “early,” I was a good 500 feet from the door. It didn’t look that far, especially compared to how long the line grew while I waited. But, there were two lines: one swinging out to the right for the people who didn’t reserve, and one swinging out to the left for those who paid for a specific entrance time. Yes, even reservation people had to wait in line. They just got to go in more quickly than us lowly non-reservation people queuing to the right.

While I was waiting, a girl behind me asked if I spoke English. I told her I definitely did, and she looked kinda relieved. I thought this was funny, because I had found a limitless number of people who spoke English in Florence. We got to talking, and I found out that she was originally from the United States, studied abroad in Spain, lived there for another 3 years, and currently resides in London. Because London is incredibly expensive, she was telling me how surprised she was that everything seemed so inexpensive in Florence. I told her to move back to the U.S. She’d be SUPER surprised how cheap things seem over there!

We waited for nearly 3 hours to go into this U-shaped building, holding each other’s place in line while the other one checked on the progress of the line. Honestly, we both admitted that we were really only there to see one thing: The Birth of Venus. However, once I actually did get in, please believe that I spent a good hour in there looking at every piece of artwork. I did not stand in line for 3 hours only to spend 10 minutes racing to Boticelli’s masterpiece and ditching out the back stairs. No, I admired every piece of art, pretending to be an art history buff, nodding in appreciation and stroking my fake goatee at every Renaissance piece and marble bust.

Like I mentioned, the Uffizi Gallery is shaped like a big U, or a horseshoe, if you will. Somehow, I managed to walk all the way down one side of the U, and back up the other without seeing The Birth of Venus. How did I know? I reached the cafeteria. You know you’ve reached the end when you find the food. That’s how they always make their money; feed the art-filled, food-starved tourists.

I completely walked past one of the biggest, most famous pieces of art in the world. How did I manage to do that?

The way the Uffizi is laid out, you walk through rooms of art connected to each other, and come out 200 or 300 feet further down the big U than where you first entered. The entire building is a maze of tiny horseshoes in one giant horseshoe. I remember walking down the hall and seeing a room I didn’t recognize, wondering how I could get in there. The entrance was blocked by a sign and a security guard on the side. Is that a VIP-only spot? I had kept walking.

I bet that is where The Birth of Venus is!

I made my way back to the other side of the Uffizi, glancing at my map to see where I had gotten off-track. I looked into each room, determining if I had seen the pieces of art before or not. I found one room that didn’t look familiar, but at the same time did. Big art museums can do that when you have been walking around for an hour; for the untrained eye, everything starts to look the same.

I followed my gut instinct and went in. If it in fact turns out to be a room I’ve visited, then I’ll continue on my search. But as I continued, I had a feeling I was getting warmer. The number of people continued to grow as I made my way around the mini-horseshoe. A large room was ahead of me, with benches and a high ceiling.

I entered, and she was there to my left: Naked Venus arriving in perfect grandeur upon a pink shell, her long beach-waved hair floating in the wind (but still retaining its volume) just like in a Disney movie.

Regardless, it WAS a beautiful piece of art.

I took a few minutes to fight the crowds and get closer to the painting. It was a good 10-12 feet long, and protected behind a thick plastic case. I admired the painting and laughed to myself when I heard a gay guy freaking out to his friend next to me. “Oh my god! I can’t believe I’m actually seeing this! Oh my god! This is so amazing! I can’t believe it. That’s actually her!”

I would have liked to spend more time with Venus, but the room was unbearably hot. Italians like to keep their rooms warm in the first place, and the fact that this was the most popular room of the entire building, and thus had 10 times more human body heat being put off, didn’t help the heat. So I took one last look and hurried to the open air to gasp the air.

I made my way once more to the other side of the U to find the exit. When I got outside, I made my way to the bus station to get a ticket back to Teramo. It shouldn’t be that big of a problem, I thought. I am getting my ticket 2 days early, and who is going to TERAMO of all places?

I went to the ticket office and asked for a ticket to Teramo. The lady didn’t understand. I’m starting to think that these big-city Italians just don’t know there way around the tiny towns. I know for a fact, by now, that I am pronouncing my city correctly. This is their fault.

She finally understands where I am trying to go, types in her computer, and shakes her head “No”. I look at her in disbelief. “What?” I ask her. “Full,” she says back to me. “To TERAMO?” I ask her, not believing my own ears. “Yes,” she says. “Full.” She then directed me to the travel agency at the end of the bus terminal, saying that they may be able to help me out. I went down, praying that they had something available. The lady did a search for me and shook her head. I told her the bus ticket lady had sent me down here, and she said, “Only trains.” I sigh, said “Okay, grazie” and trucked back to the bus ticket lady.

I told her that the travel agency couldn’t help me with bus tickets, and she shrugged her shoulders like there was nothing I could do. She wasn’t much help. I went back to the travel agency and asked about the trains. I could get one at 9:00, so I said “Sure!” When she checked it though, she looked up at me apologetically and said, “Only first class…”

Crap.

I asked her what else was available. There were a couple earlier that were less expensive. Still out of the price range that I wanted to spend, but do-able. She could tell that I was hesitant and said I could check the other bus company on the other side of the train station. I told her I would go do that and come back if I couldn’t find something there.

So I close the door, fighting back tears. Oh my gosh. I am going to be stuck in Florence, and I have no place to stay. I’m supposed to get back in Teramo to rest up before my Dublin trip, and I may not be able to find a way home until AFTER Easter. I stepped outside.

Great. It’s freaking raining.

I pull out my umbrella. I’m already stressed and beyond frustrated. And now it’s raining. This does NOT help my mood.

Once I make it over to the other bus station, I go up to the counter and ask the lady for a ticket to Teramo. She repeats, “Teramo?” “Yes. Teramo” I say. “It’s on your board!” I say, pointing to the extra large bus map on the wall to my right.

She still looked confused. Fantastic.

She managed to figure out enough to put it in the search. Again, all I am met with is a shake of the head. “Full,” she says. You have got to be kidding me. “Thanks…” I say, and turn around and walk out the door.

By this point, I can feel the tears on the inside of my eyes. And my throat had that thick feeling that I always get when I’m trying to fight from breaking down. Now is not the time to cry. I brush back the few droplets that escaped, and walked back to the travel agency. Looks like I’m taking a train.

I go back in the doors, and tell the lady, “Okay, I’m taking a train.” She checks on the earlier trains, and looks up at me. The look wasn’t a good one. “I can get you a ticket, but you won’t be guaranteed a seat. You will change twice, and will have to stand from Florence to Bologna.” Not happening. That is a long trip. I could feel the waterworks building up again. Controlling myself I ask, “What else do you have?” “We have the high speed train that leave at 7:00, gets you there at 8:45.”

It was far more expensive than I had desired on spending, but what were my other options?

I sigh heavily, “Okay, I’ll do it.” A few moments later I had a significant amount of money gone, a ticket to Rome, and a full day of Florence plans gone. I was planning on catching a 3PM bus to Teramo and spending the morning market shopping and visiting the Pitti Palace. Now I get to wake up at 6:00 and hop on a ridiculously expensive train.

This was not the way I planned my afternoon going.

I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and it was well into the afternoon by this point. I grabbed a sandwich close to the travel agency, and decided to take a break back in my hostel. There wasn’t enough time to visit any other museums, and I honestly just wanted to relax, watch something on surfthechannel.com and vent to people on Facebook.

And I did just that.

But before that, I went on a quest to find the Holy Grail of the Italian supermarkets. The one item that couldn't be found anywhere else but the supermarkets of Florence:

Peanut Butter.

I went to the first supermarket I found, looked by the Nutella, and felt a sinking feeling in my stomach when there was no peanut butter next to the tasty hazelnut spread. I did quick math in my head. This one supermarket doesn't carry PB, meaning not all supermarkets do. With all the tiny supermarkets and individual branches, it could take me all night to find what I was looking for.

I was up for the challenge.

I grabbed a chocolate bar, telling myself that I had had a rough afternoon and deserved it, and munched on it while I searched for another supermarket. I instantly felt better. I walked around the town, peeking in small convenience stores and a couple other supermarkets. No luck. I was about to give up when I spotted a Conad supermarket down a side street. "This is the last one," I told myself. I walked in went to the first row and looked by the Nutella. My eye caught a turquoise lid that looked incredibly familiar...

OH MY GOSH! IT'S SKIPPY PEANUT BUTTER!

It was a ridiculously tiny container. And it was 5 Euro. But I didn't care. You could not put a price on Peanut Butter in Italy.

I grabbed 2 of them.

I walked around the store to see if I could find Oreos, and an employee asked if I was doing okay (in English, of course). I told him I was doing great, because I had finally found peanut butter in Florence. He said, "Yeah, but it's cheap in America." I told him I agreed, but I was willing to spend the money on it because I couldn't find it anywhere else. And I thought to myself, "How did he know I was from America? I must have it tattooed on my forehead or something." I purchased my incredibly expensive PB and headed back to my hostel a much happier American girl.

That evening I decided to hit the market and find a scarf. I wasn’t going to get to do the extensive market-perusing that I was reserving for Friday morning, but I could do a little looking around. I was on the hunt for one of those scarves you could wrap around your neck and have it look like a bandana-effect. My long, rectangle scarves don’t work; this one had to be square. I found a cute one in all sorts of colors. The hard part was choosing which color I wanted to buy. I finally decided on purple, because it would look good with a white shirt, and purple tends to bring out the green in my eyes more than any other color.

You are supposed to bargain in the market; prices are soft. However, after my terrible, horrible, no good, very bad afternoon, I just wasn’t in the mood. I took the overpriced scarf and headed to find some dinner. Guess where I ended up?

MacDonald’s.

Italy had not been nice to me today (besides the peanut butter). I was going to eat something AMERICAN, dangit.

The MacDonald’s in Italy are a huge deal. I’m talking, 2-stories kind of huge deal. I walk down the stairs with my tray and eat my meal in silence, surrounded by happy families. These are the moments when it sucks to be alone. It makes you appreciate family and company more.

I headed back to my hostel to pack, shower, and Facebook creep. I had to get up early in the morning. To catch a 7:00AM super-train. It had been quite a day.

I never sleep well when I have to wake up unusually early in the morning. I think I always freak out that my alarm isn’t going to go off, and I am ultimately going to miss whatever appointment I have at the butt crack of dawn. Regardless, I didn’t sleep very well, but I woke up and checked out of my hostel, making my way to the train station in the complete dark. Kinda creepy, but there were other people around walking to the train station as well. Strength in number, ya know? When the sun hasn't come up, I shouldn't be up either. But I did catch my train. I guess that is what really matters in the long run.

The hardest part about getting back to Rome was that I had no idea when the buses to Teramo were running. This is why I elected to get to Rome as early as I could, without it being too incredibly early. There was a train at 6:30 in the morning for the same price. I figured getting to the Tiburtina by 9:30 was early enough. Certainly I could catch a bus.

I got to the Tiburtina and went to the ticket station. The next direct bus wasn’t until 12:25. Or I could change in L’Aquila with a bus at 11:25. I remember the last time I had to change in L’Aquila when I first made my way to Teramo. I don’t think so. I got a ticket for the 12:25 bus, planted my rear end on the bench by the bar, and proceeded to watch 2 episodes of Gossip Girl before my computer battery threatened to die on me.

The direct bus was just that, direct. I slept on parts of the way home and got dropped off in the Piazza San Francesco, a 4-minute walk from my house. Have I mentioned that my apartment is in a GREAT location?

I came in, said hello to the roommates, and settled down to do some Italian homework. I woke up at 9:00 that night, with a tiny pool of drool on the front of my workbook. I must have been EXHAUSTED. I only drool when (1) I have allergies and must breathe through my mouth, or (2) I am utterly dead-tired.

This instance was a combination of both.

I skipped on dinner. I wasn’t hungry, and I obviously needed to sleep. Prying the dry, wrinkled contacts now suctioned to my eyeballs, I headed to the bathroom to brush my teeth. I didn’t even wash my face. I climbed into bed, still irked about the long trip I had taken that day, Then it dawned on me: it was Easter weekend. The buses weren’t booked to Teramo; the connecting buses I had to take were booked. The Florence-Rome, Florence-Bologna lines were full. Obviously the Rome-Teramo and Bologna-Teramo buses were not full at all.

This realization only made me wish for my own car even more. Curse you Teramo, for being so small. I’ve definitely become a seasoned traveler because of it.

But, hey, it’s Easter weekend. Jesus rose from the grave…that’s something to celebrate! Pretty sure crucifixion is worse than my having to pay for a super-fast train to Rome and waiting (with Internet) to catch a bus. That definitely put things in perspective for me.

Okay, Jesus. I’ll stop complaining now. I definitely didn’t have it as rough as you did. But next time, could you MAYBE make things a little easier for me? :)

"Ciao, Bella! Ciao, Bella! Ciao, Bella! Ciao, Bella!"

2010-04-30T07:48:00.000-07:00

The next morning my alarm went off right on time, 7:30 AM. I looked at it, thought, “Forget that,” and rolled over to sleep another hour. When I finally did wake up, I jumped in the shower, grabbed my map, and attempted to find the Accademia. I knew there was going to be a line, but I didn’t expect it to wrap down one street, around a little piazza, and then halfway down the street perpendicular to the Accademia. Good thing I have time to kill.

I waited in line, my Ipod accompanying me, for about an hour and a half. Not too bad, since I was expecting a 2-3 hour wait. An American family was in front of me, each parent taking turns to chauffeur their son and daughter around the nearby streets to avoid boredom, while the other held their place in line.

Another thing that sucks about traveling alone: YOU always have to hold your place in line.

The Accademia is known for housing the famous statue of David and also boasts Michelangelo’s unfinished “Prisoners” statues, along with other paintings and statues of less importance (apparently). I walked in, bought a ticket, and proceeded to look at a room full of paintings. I wish I knew more about art. I can appreciate the picture and how old it is, but a more extensive knowledge may have made things a little more interesting. After you leave the first room, you turn a corner into a huge hallway. This hallway contains the “Prisoners” statues, lining both sides of the corridor. But what draws the most attention is what is at the end of the hallway.

Gigantic, standing regally in a huge atrium under a flood of lights, and breathtaking beyond words is the statue of David. It was hard for me to pay the “Prisoners” statues their due of my attention, because I was drawn to the statue of David. It was poor planning on the Accademia’s part if they wanted the “Prisoners” to be seriously looked at or appreciated. Quite honestly, David throws a dark shadow over that long corridor leading up to him.

After giving each “Prisoner”, oh, 3 seconds of my attention (I mean, they are unfinished. They don’t deserve much more…), I walked in a trance to David.

He was much bigger than I imagined. And he had EYES?

I’ve seen this statue in tiny pictures in art and history books. For some reason, I imagined the David statue as about 12 feet tall with those blank eyeballs characteristic of Greek and Roman busts.

No. This statue was HUGE. I can’t put a height on it, but he stood well above my measly 12 feet. And he actually had eyeballs. No blank creepy stare from Mr. David, reminiscent of the time when artists couldn’t sculpt pupils. He had a determined look in his eyes. The detail was amazing. The leather sling nearly hidden in his hand, the curls on top of his head, his 8-pack of abs (why are marble statues always ripped?), and his, well, you know. I am still amazed how Michelangelo can create such beauty and detail out of stone. It takes a truly talented artist to do that. The best thing I can do with stone is skip one across a river…

After walking around David a couple of times, I still hadn’t gotten enough of his magnificence. But, other people needed to get close and there was a room full of neglected marble statues just to the left. I decided to go in there to check things out. Nothing too fancy, but I’m sure there is more significance than what I could understand. I should have taken an art class.

The most amazing thing to me was how the sculptors could make marble look like pillows. They looked so soft, as the naked women seductively lay upon them. I wanted to lay my head on them, but it probably wouldn’t be as comfortable as it appears, and this tiny rope blocked my getting too close. Like it would stop someone who really wanted to touch the statues. I guess it’s the symbolism that counts.

After I had finished I took one last look at David and left the Accademia. For me, with paintings and other sculptures, I can see them once and be satisfied. But with David, I would willingly pay money to see him again. He was that amazing. I wish I could adequately explain how magnificent that statue really is, but words simply can’t do it justice. And they won’t let you take pictures. Bummer.

After I left the Accademia I decided to go inside the Duomo, instead of just up the dome. Plus, it was free, so why not? As I entered the large piazza, the wind picked up. I was wearing ¾-sleeves and a jacket, and I was still cold. This was not in the forecast on weather.com!

Entering the cathedral was a nice relief from the crazy wind. The inside was incredible. Florence’s cathedral is the 4^th largest cathedral in the world, and I can easily say it is the most beautiful cathedral I have seen to date. Stained glass windows surrounded the atrium, and a large altar stood out of reach at the front of the cathedral. I walked around looking at each stained glass window, and admired the impressive architecture. It’s crazy to think that this cathedral has been here since the 1800s. It’s still as beautiful as ever.

I left, hungry for lunch, but not willing to spend 8 Euro on a small sandwich and drink. So, I hop on over to Ben & Jerry’s for a milkshake. I know it’s not the healthiest lunch. But it was cheap. And American. I sat inside enjoying my milkshake, and watched the guy sitting against the wall across from me. He had thick black eyeliner, was writing in a book, and seemed to be talking to himself. He would now and then laugh to himself, only not welcoming. It was a creepy laugh.

Starving artist? I think not. Crazy man planning the end of the world? That’s more like it.

Luckily, he left before I did, so I could enjoy the rest of my milkshake in peace as I planned the rest of my afternoon. I would walk to the other side of town and find that restaurant I was looking for last night. Then I would go shopping for a new carry-on bag. I’m tired of having to either shove my clothes and toiletries between my backpack and my computer bag, but my 2 pink suitcases are almost too big to have to lug around everywhere for a 3- or 4-day trip. I wanted something smaller, less bulky, but not as annoying as carrying a too-full backpack and computer bag. After that, I would go to the Piazza Michelangelo. Apparently it was a hike but offered a breathtaking view of the entire city. With a slurp, I attempted to suck up every last bit of ice cream that I could, then I set off for my afternoon.

I walked, more closely following my map this time, and managed to successfully find the restaurant! Hopefully I’ll be able to find it in the dark tonight. I walked around the streets, trying to find my way back to the cathedral. As long as I could get back there, I knew I could find my way back to the hostel. The next thing I know, this guy was running up to me.

Oh no. Not another.

He spoke something to me in Italian. And I told him I didn’t speak Italian. “French?” He asked. “Nope,” I said. “English.”

He knew English. Go figure. It seems like most people in this town know English. It IS tourist-central.

He accompanied me around the streets. I couldn’t get rid of this guy. He asked me my name, what I was doing in Florence, where I was going. The same questions that most people seem to ask me. I purposely gave him the “I’m-not-comfortable-around-you-and-would-rather-you-not-talk-to-me” vibe, and for once my creeper seemed to get it. He said his name was Achmed, which made me think of Jeff Dunham and Achmed the Dead Terrorist. I laughed a little to myself. When I told him that I was looking for the market, he told me he would show me the right direction to go and then get something to eat.

Okay, this I could handle.

As we were walking he kept asking me questions, and I answered as shortly as I could. He told me I had a good figure and touched the small of my back. I said thanks and picked up my pace. That’s when I think he got the picture, because from that point on he just walked beside me and we didn’t say much. He pointed me in the direction of the market, and said he was going to get something to eat. I don’t know if he was hinting at me coming with him or not, but I said “Thanks! Bye!” and started towards the market. He said “Ciao, bella…,” and when I looked over my shoulder he was headed the other way.

That’s 1 creeper for each day. I wonder what tomorrow will bring…

I couldn’t find what I wanted in the market, although I did find some super cute scarves for 3 Euro. I’ll have to come back tomorrow. I remember a shop close to a gelateria on the other side of the city. This gelateria happened to be the best one in Florence, according to Kristen. Plus, I could use some gelato, so I decided to find the tiny gelateria on my way to find new luggage.

I successfully found the gelateria, and got a mint flavor and some fruity-creamy one. It was between two pink/white swirled flavors, one being a darker pink than the other. When I couldn’t make up my mind, I asked the employee which one he preferred, and told him to put whichever one that was in my cup. It ended up being cherry and cream. Not my favorite, considering I’m not a huge cherry fan. But the mint was delectable. So I saved it for last.

I also managed to find the luggage shop. The doorway had a rope across the front of it, and there were no entrances. Apparently you had to ask to come in? There was an employee standing right next to the door, and I thought he saw me. But he never invited me in, so I walked down to the window, looked at some of the luggage pieces, and went back. To stand there again.

He finally looked up and asked if I wanted to come in. I said yes, and he said he had seen me but didn’t know if I was actually interested in purchasing. Once he undid the rope and I had walked in, he closed the rope again. One at a time, I guess? This is kind of weird. He’s not threatening by any means, but he is a little odd. I’ll just get my luggage and get out of here.

When I was about to start looking around he said, “Just don’t touch anything. If you need help, I can get something down for you.” Wow. He is really picky about his merchandise. I waltzed around the store, looking for a duffel bag of some sort. Danielle had gotten her cute carry-on at the Florence market for 20 Euro. That was about how much I was willing to spend.

The creepy, little store-owner kept his distance, but he was obviously following me to make sure I didn’t touch his precious luggage sets and duffel bags. Goodness gracious.

I found a really pretty bag, with a brown and black pattern. The owner noticed my interest and showed me that it had wheels and a handle that could be hidden at the bottom of the bag. It was also carry-on size. Perfect for RyanAir’s requirements. And it was on sale for 18 Euro. Just what I was looking for.

I told him I would take it, and he grabbed it off the floor and put it in a bag for me. I told him thanks for all his help, and he looked really proud and said he loved what he did. I could definitely tell. A lady was standing behind the flimsy little rope, looking annoyed that she couldn’t come in, as he wrapped my luggage and gave me my change. I thought to myself, “This guy probably loses a lot of customers thanks to his one person only rule. Oh well. You do get service all to yourself, I guess.”

I headed back to my hostel to drop off my new luggage and jump on the Internet. I was tired, and needed to rest before my hike up the hill to Piazza Michelangelo.

After sufficient time spent on Facebook and catching up on Greek, I grabbed my belongings and headed out to the Piazza Michelangelo. I heard that it was a 30 minute walk, so if I timed things right, I could walk up there, have about 15 minutes to enjoy the scenery, walk back down and go straight to the restaurant.

All day the weather had been overcast, but as I left my hostel it had become sunny again. It was a trek to the Piazza Michelangelo, that’s for sure. And more like a 45-minute walk from where I was staying. That is factoring in getting behind a large group of meandering students, and pausing to watch a couple local boys play soccer down by the river, of course.

After crossing the river, following small signs marking the trail to the Piazza, climbing a hill, and about 200 steps, I made it to the top. I walked through a parking lot and past a couple of bars. And the view was amazing. The hike and fact that I was sweating and out of breath was worth it, because I got to see THIS.

I stood at the top taking a break, and wished I could find someone to take a picture of me. A couple of English speaking students were close to me, but right as I turned to ask one of them to take a picture of me, they walked the other way. So I just stood there. Next to me was a young high school couple, lovingly entwined in each other’s arms as they stood above the city of Florence.

I thought, “Aww, how cute.” Then, “Man, I wish I had a boy to share this with.” Then, “Okay, Anna. Just man up and ask them to take a picture of you.”

So I did, and the guy did a marvelous job of lining me up with the church in the background, all staying within the Rule of Thirds. Oh my gosh. My broadcasting classes even follow me to Italy. I can’t seem to get away.

I said thank you, and took a couple more pictures, then decided to start my descent back to the heart of Florence. I walked past a bar and looked over. The barman was stupidly grinning my direction (something I’ve gotten used to) and waved my direction. When I smiled and waved back, he looked like the happiest man in the world.

I do what I can.

When I made it to the bottom, I wasn’t as hungry as I had anticipated, so I walked towards to Ponte Vecchio. The Ponte Vecchio was the only bridge left standing after the Allied WWII bombing of Florence, because they saw it as too important to destroy. Thank goodness they didn’t!

I walked down the bridge, each side lining me with rows of gold and jewels. The old wooden building housing the jewelers are built into the bridge, and sit balancing above the river. As old as this bridge is, I’d be afraid that my shop would break off and fall into the water, taking all the gold with it. But, it’s been standing for years now, and seems determined to stay that way.

My map from the hostel had a list of things to do while in Florence. One of them was “Buy something in gold from Ponte Vecchio.” Looking at the price tags in those windows, it didn’t take me long to figure out that crossing that off my list wasn’t exactly feasible this time around. Maybe the next time I’m in Florence and I’m fabulously wealthy. Yeah, next time…

By the time I had finished admiring the bridge of gold, my stomach made a quiet rumble, telling me that it was time to find our dear little restaurant. I was already on that side of town, so it was pretty easy to find the restaurant. My Rick Steve’s Italy tour book lists this trattoria as one of the best in Florence, offering a tourist menu for a small price. I looked at the menu outside, and it certainly did.

I went inside, and a cute blonde waitress sat me right next to the door. There was only 1 other couple and a single lady in the restaurant when I arrived. I thought this place, though out of the way, was supposed to be popular?

I ordered things off the tourist menu, and the cute little waitress and the owner, Gino himself, brought each course out to me. As I ate my meal, the restaurant filled up quickly. I guess people just eat later. Most of the people spoke English. There was a couple talking about their trip to Venice, another one from the Netherlands, and a family in the corner, visiting their son who was studying abroad in Florence.

I enjoyed my meal and people-watching, and waited about 45 minutes for my check. In any restaurant in America, I would be beyond annoyed that it took that long for my check to arrive. But I’m in Italy, where apparently this is the norm, and I really didn’t have that much going on that night.

When I finally got my check and paid, I stood up to leave the restaurant. As I was opening, I said “Grazie! Buena sera!” Gino looked up from behind the counter and shouted “Ciao, bella!” from across the tiny trattoria.

Again with the “Ciao, bella?” It must be a Florence thing, and I’m starting to like it.

I found my way home without getting lost, and crawled into bed. Tomorrow I would see the Uffizi Gallery. Apparently, without a reservation, it is a 2-3 hour wait. I have time to spare, so I’ll just go without the reservation. Hopefully it isn’t THAT terrible. Little did I know, a 2-3 hour wait is terrible when you are by yourself. But I didn’t know that, so I slept peacefully, dreaming of being followed by hunky Italian men all shouting “Ciao, bella!” at me. :)

Florence, Day 1: 463 Stairs, Freaky Encounters, and Free Dessert

2010-04-07T16:19:00.000-07:00

So last Monday began my 3-week Spring Break. Although, it started off as usual as normal. I went to my Italian lessons with the girls, and we grabbed tea afterwards. However, afterwards, we decided we wanted pizza. Why don’t we go to Don Miguel’s and see if a certain beautiful, blue-eyed boy is working?

And guess what? He was. :)

So we go inside, and say hello. I got this pizza with a white sauce. It had ham on it, so I thought it should be pretty good. Come to find out, that white sauce was actually potatoes. Like, mashed potatoes on pizza. Not my favorite, but it was terrible. I knew I shouldn’t have changed from what I usually get. This is why I don’t try new foods. I’m sticking to the red sauce from now on.

When ordering pizza, I talked to Andrea a little bit. At least, with what Italian I could successfully communicate to him in. His uncle comes out and starts talking to us, explaining that he was Don Miguel (from the sign outside) and Andrea was his nephew. He then asks me where I was from. Why did he ask only me? Goodness gracious, I’m like a magnet. When I told him the U.S. he excitedly showed me a postcard from Yale, where his other nephew was attending. “Yale? Wow! Wonderful!” I tell him. He then goes on to say that his other nephew was very beautiful, and Andrea was the ugly nephew. If Andrea is the UGLY nephew, then I really want to see the other one! Because Andrea is far from ugly in my American eyes.

After we sat there for a while, we left, saying goodbye to Andrea on the way out. I sighed again. I won’t see him for a long time due to my 3-week Spring Break. Maybe I can convince him to come with me…

I went home to pack. Marcello was going to call me when he was done with his thesis meetings in the late afternoon. It was about 12:00, so I had plenty of time to pack. I’m listening to music and trying to figure out what to wear, while simultaneously checking weather.com and emptying out my backpack, when my phone rings. It was Marcello!

“Anna, I have finished my meeting. So, let’s meet in 30-45 minutes? Do you know Don Miguel’s in the Piazza. I’ll be there eating my pizza. See you soon!”

30 minutes to pack! Yikes! AND I have to go back to the place I just ate at. Andrea is going to think I’m such a creeper. This could ruin our whole future together.

Okay, so I exaggerate, but after I hastily managed to pack everything I needed in my backpack and computer bag, I headed across town to meet up with Marcello. I had my black running shoes dangling by their laces from my computer bag, and it looked like I was carrying enough food in my backpack for all of starving Africa. But I don’t have a tiny suitcase with me, so it was the best I could do.

I entered Don Miguel’s and didn’t even look in Andrea’s direction. Yes, I was very proud of myself. I saw Marcello sitting across from a very pretty lady. When I managed to maneuver me and my ginormous backpack/computer bag between the tiny seats, the lady stuck out her hand and said, “Anna! It’s so nice to finally meet you. Marcello has told me a lot about you!”

Her name was Kristen, and she was Marcello’s girlfriend. The best part? She’s from Boston. Another American!

After she introduces herself, the first thing she says to me is, “that guy over there was talking about you. He said he met some girl from America. A funny-named state near Texas,” motioning to Andrea. Right as she said that, he pointed to me and said, “Lei!” (Her!). Kristen laughed and said, “Yeah, her!”

So I guess he DID see me come in. I was kinda hard to miss. Pink jacket. Blonde hair. Purple computer bag. And a backpack that looked ready to explode. It was only wishful thinking if I had any dreams of blending in.

But the fact that he was talking to her about me is a good thing, right?! We sat waiting for Marcello to finish his lunch, then he pays and says he will meet us outside of the restaurant. As we were leaving, Kristen thanked Andrea for the pizza. He asked where I was going, and she said “Firenze.” He looked at me and nodded in approval, smiling at me when we said goodbye. Have I said his eyes are beautiful?

After leaving the restaurant, we hopped in the car. We stopped by Marcello’s Teramo house so Kristen could shut off all the lights, then we were on the way to Florence! It was an absolutely GORGEOUS day outside, and I was just praying that it would be the same in Florence.

On the 5-hour drive, Kristen and I talked about practically everything: Siblings. Grad school. Working. Good teachers. Bad teachers. Languages. Magic School Bus days at her school. How HUGE my high school in terms of students was. Apples. Peanut butter. Movies in English. Siblings. Family members. Parents. Tampons.

Like I said. Practically everything.

We picked up Marcello’s daughter, Costanza, at her friend’s house. Apparently she speaks English, but she is very shy about it. Kristen makes one night a week English night. Despite it being English night, Constanza didn’t speak much English the entire time I was there. I don’t blame her though. I’m embarrassed to speak my Italian, because I don’t want to sound stupid speaking it.

Kristen and I were dropped off at the supermarket to pick up things for dinner. She said they have peanut butter in Florence! But, unfortunately not in that supermarket. But, technically, they live outside of Florence. Maybe I’ll have more luck in town?

We got to the house, and I sit with Kristen in the kitchen. It was like American HEAVEN. She gave me Entertainment Weekly, US Weekly, and People magazines to read. She had Easter Peanut M&Ms on the table. She pulled out Peeps and told me to finish them off if I would like. She drew a package of Oreos out of the cupboard, and tossed a bag of Maple and Brown Sugar instant oatmeal in my lap. Like, I said…American heaven.

We had a wonderful dinner, and I turned in to my tiny bedroom for the night. I actually did homework. On Spring Break. My overachieving tendencies never take a vacation. I didn’t sleep well that night, because I was hot and too excited about my trip the next morning.

We all took a 9:10 train into Florence, and once we got there we went out separate ways. Marcello said goodbye and headed to his University office, Kristen pointed me to the Tourist Information office and she and Costanza went shopping, and I headed to that very Tourist office. When I was called up to the window, the lady asked me where I came from. Only, for some reason, I heard, “where are you going?” I said a hostel, and she asked, “Austria?” then marks down a tally on her piece of paper.

I see what she has just done, and I say, “Oh, no no! I’m from the United States.” She nods her head, then writes “USA” on top of her paper and puts town a tally. One lonely tally. I can’t be the only American in this town…I’m just the first one to come to this office. That has to be it.

She gives me a map, circles where my hostel is, and I head that direction. It was actually really easy to get to, despite being pretty far from where everything I wanted to see was. I discovered this over the next few days. I dropped my stuff in the communal, locked, storage area until I could check in at 3:00.

I decided to climb the dome of the cathedral. I walked around the church 2 or 3 times trying to find a ticket booth, but I couldn’t. The next thing I know, some guy has come running up behind me and asks me where I’m from. Not another one.

Yes. A creeper. And I haven’t even been in Florence for an hour yet. He didn’t know much English, so I tried my best to talk in Italian. Again with the questions about where I live, where I was staying, etcetera, which I did my best to give vague answers to. By this point, a lady cop and her male-cop teammate walk by. I think she could tell I wasn’t comfortable, because she conveniently placed herself 2 feet away from me and stood watching the line at the cathedral.

The creeper asked me to go to a “discopub” with him, to which I told him I didn’t know what I would be doing the next couple of nights and shouldn’t make plans. At a lull in the conversation, I took the opportunity to turn to the lady cop and ask where I could buy a ticket to climb the church dome. At the door, she said. Perfect.

I began to walk that direction, turned and said over my shoulder to my creeper, “I’m going to go climb that. Ciao!” At least he didn’t follow. He seemed to get the idea much more quickly than Jimmy.

Standing line to climb the dome, I got into conversation with this couple behind me. They were from New Jersey! The father, Skip, was vacationing in Italy with his wife, Jane, and their 2 sons Mike and Jeff. They were incredibly nice people, and I enjoyed telling them all about my life in Italy! We got inside the covering of the dome and, literally, seconds later it starts pouring rain. What timing.

463 stairs later, I was on top of the 4^th largest cathedral in the world. The view was breathtaking. Which was bad, considering I had no more breath for it to take after climbing those 463 stairs. I enjoyed looking around Florence when Skip came over and asked if I would take a picture of him and his family. “Of course!” I told him. “Only if you will take a picture of me afterwards!”

One bad thing about traveling alone: you don’t get many pictures of yourself.

That afternoon I headed back to my hostel to finally check in and rest up a little. I hopped on the Internet and watched Melrose Place, when one of my roommates came in. She was a mom (40-something?) from Australia. She had left her 2 kids in London with the grandparents and took a little vacation for herself. She was very nice, but I didn’t get to know her very well, unfortunately. She had a 5 AM cab to take, so she went to bed early that night.

For dinner that night I decided I would go out to this little off-the-beaten-path restaurant listed in my Italy guidebook. After about 45 minutes of wandering around, I obviously wasn’t going to find this place. I should have remembered that it was my first night in Florence, and trying to find a tiny restaurant on a even tinier side road wasn’t going to be easy. In fact, it was impossible.

I turned into the closest restaurant I could find, after assuring that the menu was in my price range. I walked in, and a nice older man asked me how many. “Solo uno” (Only one), I replied. He motioned to a chair right in the front of the restaurant. The rest of the night, he was my personal servant. I think he was the owner, because I didn’t see him serving any other tables but my own. Here we go again with the special treatment. I’m starting to get used to this!

This guy was hilarious. At the table next to me were 4 people. Americans if I was any good at placing accents. Whenever the ladies didn’t finish their food, the owner would come over, tuck their napkins around their necks, and feed them until they were finished! It was hilarious.

I ended up talking to the 4 people seated at that table. They were in fact from the States! One couple was from Georgia, and the others were from Florida. Fellow SEC members. Best conference in the nation.

They were on vacation, just like every other non-student in Florence. I told them about studying in my tiny town, and let them know about certain traditions that were uniquely Italian. They asked me what this funky drink was, but I couldn’t tell them. They showed me a picture, but I had never seen it in my life.

The owner came back over to my table to clean up my plates. He asked me if I wanted dessert. When I told him I was full, he shook his head and asked if I like chocolate. Of course I do!

He came out with this amazing-looking dessert. But I said I didn’t want any! Man, he is persistent. But I can definitely finish it.

When I asked for the check, he wrote it down on the paper placemat. He even gave me the dessert for free. :) I paid, said thank you and left to his calling, “Ciao, bella!” after me. I said goodbye to my new friends at the table next to me, saying, “Ya’ll have a good rest of your trip!” One of the ladies said that that was definitely the first “ya’ll” she had heard while being over here. I apologized, laughing, saying that it was just part of my vocabulary. They laughed too, saying that it was part of their vocabularies too. They were just surprised to hear it over the Atlantic Ocean.

I’m glad I could make their night. I do what I can.

I got lost on the way home. Well, not completely lost. I managed to find my way back, it just took twice as long as it should have. And I had downed an entire liter of water at dinner, so I was hoping for the shortest trip back to the hostel as possible. Of course not.

By the time I rolled into bed, everyone else but one was in bed. I set my alarm for 7:30, telling myself I would wake up, shower, then get in line to see David at The Accademia. It was so nice to lay down. Day 1 in Florence had been crazy. 4 more days to go!

Seven-Hour Car Rides, Survival Kits, and the Start of Spring Break

2010-03-28T11:58:00.000-07:00

The next morning we get up and grab breakfast. The bread-and-breakfast that we stayed in had AMAZING food in the morning, and we filled up on yogurt, pastries, and tea. We went back out to the Field of Miracles to take the required pictures of us holding up the Tower. You know you have a good pose when people start laughing at you while you are taking the picture. :)

We also go to go inside the Duomo for free because it was a Sunday. We took about 3 minutes and looked at the inside. I wasn’t allowed to take pictures, though, because I service was going on. Dangit. It was very dark, though, so I doubt that my pictures would have turned out anyways.

After we had seen all that we wanted to see, we went back to the hotel to grab our belongings, and grabbed more pastries on the way out. We met up with Chiara’s mother and she took us to meet Chiara’s father, who then took us to the car. Thank goodness Davide was with us, because they didn’t speak a lick of English. Although, I could understand bits and pieces of their conversation. I laughed because at one point the mother told her husband to stop arguing with her because she didn’t want to fight in front of me and Beverley.

We stop at a fancy rest stop, and the sweet parents buy us lunch. We stop again later to use the restroom, and Beverley and I grab Ritz crackers to split on the way home. We get lost in a tiny town about 30 minutes from Teramo. Again, I laughed, because we never stopped to ask directions. Chiara’s father was driving, and I thought “So typically male. Never asking for directions.”

We stopped again for a coffee break. Wow, these Italians love their coffee.

We finally made it back to Teramo! What I thought was going to be a 5 hour drive turned into a 7-hour trip. But that was okay. What else did we have to do? It was a Sunday…nothing is open. And it definitely beats having to pay 40 Euro to catch a bus that doesn’t get into town until 10:00 at night.

Chiara’s parents drop us off outside my aparment, and we say our goodbyes and thank-yous. Once we get back up to my room, then first thing I do is plop down at my computer and upload pictures to Facebook. You can see my album here.

We look outside my window, and are excited to see that the restaurant outside my room is actually open on a Sunday! Apparently they serve really good pizza, so Beverley and I go there for dinner.

We are seated and a cute Italian guy comes over and asks us what we would like. I point to something on the menu, and he says, “Oh, no. Only drinks.” I see. He is the bartender, not our server. I laugh, and apologize, and Beverley and I get a water to share.

The pizza was delicious, though hard to eat because it was so thin. Bev and I splurge and get dessert. It was fun trying to communicate with the cute bartender, because he didn’t know much English. We managed to successfully communicate our choices for dessert, Beverley getting a vanilla gelato and me getting a lemon sherbet. Cool thing was, it was actually served in a frozen, hollowed out lemon! How cute! The bartender laughed.

He was cute. I told Beverley he was going to be my new boyfriend.

We left feeling very satisfied and retired to my room. I showed Beverley Jimmy on Facebook, and saw that he had written me a message. “Where are u??? What are u doing??? Have u thought about what I tell u??? When I see u again??? I want to speak with u about something.” Oh. My. Gosh.

So I blocked him on Facebook.

That’s right. No messaging me. No poking me. No writing on my wall. No FINDING me at all when he searches for me. It’s like I don’t even exist. Thank goodness. Creep.

Beverley checked her e-mail. “Jimmy’s added me as a friend too!” she said. She said she was going to reject it. I told her to block him completely like I did. Our original plan was to watch a movie on my laptop, but we were so exhausted that we just decided to go to bed at 10:30. That’s the earliest I’ve been to bed since I got here. It was AWESOME.

The next morning we headed out to our Italian lessons. Beverley was so excited about her sunglasses that she wanted to wear them out. But it was overcast. “Do I look stupid?” she asked. “Well, nobody else is wearing sunglasses, soooooo…you just look a lot cooler than them!” I reply. She laughs and takes them off. “We could just say they are cloud glasses?”

I told her I didn’t believe in cloud glasses.

At our lesson we filled Asta and Francesca in about our trip. Asta told us how her boyfriend Alessandro used to live outside of Pisa and told her about how he would go into to town just to flirt with the pretty girls. She wanted to know if we had been targeted. I told her we weren’t, probably because we had a boy with us. She said that was probably the reason, because the 2 of us would have definitely been “targeted” by harmless flirters in any other situation.

That night I went to class like usual, only this time I met up with a new friend named Paolo. He had added me on Facebook and sent me a message, saying he hoped he didn’t alarm me with his random request, but that he recognized me from class. He remembered Professor Burroni saying that I was American, and wanted to say something to me, but kept getting pulled away after class or having to do something that he never got the chance to introduce himself. I was ecstatic when he messaged me. Someone who speak English! In my class! How awesome!

So I finally met him in person Monday night. He is super sweet, and said I could sit by him in class so I’m not alone with my Italian-English dictionary like every other lecture. It is so nice to have a new friend in that class.

Class ended early, but a couple of minutes after the bus picked up. Meaning I would have essentially 30 minutes to wait before another one showed up. Paolo offered to give me a ride on his Moped.

I have always had this dream to ride through the streets of an Italian city on the back of a Moped with an Italian guy. Think, The Lizzie McGuire Movie…

So I took his offer, hopped on the back of the bike, grabbed on to his shoulders, and off we went! It was so much fun! He dropped me off at the store by my apartment, and told me if I ever needed anything to just let him know. I told him thanks, and that I would see him in class the next day, then he drove off.

The rest of the week progressed pretty normally. Wednesday I got a random phone call, and the person on the other end didn’t speak English. I managed to understand that it was the mail delivery man, but I was at the University waiting on a bus. There was no way to get back home.

He left a sticker on my door, so I sent Paolo a message asking him to translate. I had to call the number given and ask for someone who spoke English.

I did just that, and managed to explain to the lady what the problem was. After first giving her the incorrect shipping number (There were 2 numbers; I just took a guess), she finally figured it out and told me they would deliver the package between 9:00 AM and 6:00 PM the next day. Are you kidding? I have to be at home for 9 hours waiting for them to show up? I asked if she could tell me a specific time, but she couldn’t. I had Italian lessons the next morning. I just hoped they wouldn’t show up that morning.

So I waited from 12:30-6:00 that evening. No package. I was a little upset, because I wanted to go running that afternoon. But nooooooooooo. I had to wait around on the postman who never delivered.

That night, Francesca, Asta, me, and possibly Beverley were going to meet up for pizza and see a movie in Italian. We arranged to meet at Don Miguel’s pizzeria and (at my request) if the cute guy with gorgeous blue eyes was working, we would eat there. If not, we would grab a kebab.

On my way to meet the girls that night, I see Jimmy. Crap. It’s been almost a week since I ran into him. I keep trucking it in the direction of Don Miguel’s. He sees me and asks where I was going. “To meet my friends!” I say over my shoulder as I keep powerwalking past him. “Oh, all right.” he replies, and continues down the street. What? He didn’t follow me? SUCCESS! I think he finally got the point and will leave me alone. It’s about time.

I see Francesca, and only Francesca, waiting outside the pizzeria. I guess Beverley was coming, and Asta must be only minutes behind me. “Ciao!” I say. “Ciao!” Francesca replies. “He is working,” she says as she motions with her head to the pizzeria. “So we will eat here.”

My night keeps getting better and better.

Asta shows up about 30 minutes late. She thought we were meeting at a different pizzeria across town! We go in and order. I tell the beautiful blue-eyed pizza guy what I would like, and he laughs, smiles at me, and puts it in the oven. We sit down after paying, and enjoy our pizza. 20 minutes later Beverley comes in and dramatically plops herself down in the chair across from me. “You made it!” we exclaim. I started laughing at her, because she looked so out of breath.

“I got dropped off on the other side of town,” she said. “I trekked it all the way over. Oh, and I think I saw Jimmy. At least, someone said ‘Hello’ to me in English and it looked like him.”

I told her that it probably was him since I ran into him earlier. She says she wants to get a pizza, and I told her I would be happy to accompany her since that meant I would get to talk to beautiful blue-eyed pizza guy again. Beverley decides she wants a pizza with broccoli on it. “How do you say ‘broccoli’ in Italian?” she asks me. “Uh, broccoli.” I reply.

When beautiful blue-eyed pizza guy asked her what she wanted, she pointed and said “Broccoli?” He pointed to the correct pizza and we said “Yeah!” I asked him how to say broccoli in Italian as he cut a piece for Beverley, and he said, “Broccoli,” smiling as I fell hopelessly into his bright blue eyes. We threw our hands up in victory as he put it in the oven, and he laughed at us. “Where are you from?” he asked, looking at me. “America.” “Canada.” He nodded his head. Then he had to go in the back to get something. So Beverley and I moved down the bar.

When he came back out, there were no customers, and he looked like he wanted to talk. So I went back over.

“What part of America?” “Arkansas?” He looked confused. “Ar-kan-sas,” I said, pronouncing it like “Ar-Kansas.” Then he understood. I have started pronouncing it both ways, because I have found that Italians usually only understand when I pronounce it “Ar-Kansas.” Silly silent “s” throws them all off.

He asked me where that was, and I tried to draw a makeshift USA with my finger on the glass covering all the pizzas. “Sud-oeste” (southwest), I say. “Texas?”

“OH, Texas!” Of course everyone knows Texas. By then Beverley’s pizza was ready, so we went down to the register to pay. He printed out her receipt, gave her change, and we said thanks. As he went back to his position at the pizza he cast one last look over his shoulder at me.

I sighed. I just talked to beautiful blue-eyed pizza guy (whose actual name is Andrea). My night is made.

We sit back down at the table, and Asta goes, “Well?” with that look that said it all. “He asked where I was from. Well, where we were from,” I said. “But he was really only talking to her,” Beverley said, smiling at me.

I sighed again.

After we finished our pizzas, we decided to grab a cornetto, since Asta had never had one. To my dismay, beautiful blue-eyed pizza guy was across the restaurant talking to his boss or something. I kept looking at the door as we left, hoping to catch one more glimpse. But, he was gone.

We grabbed a cornetto and headed to Francesca’s car, with her complaining the entire time that we make her eat to much. The woman is TINY; she needs to eat more. Being around us will be good for her. We get to the theatre, and watched that movie “Il Concerto.” Despite being in Italian, I managed to understand what was happening, and very much enjoyed the movie.

Afterwards, Francesca and I drive out to Colledara to drop off Beverley, then she swings me back to Teramo to drop me off. Between talking to beautiful blue-eyed pizza guy, seeing a great movie, and just enjoying company with good friends, it had been a good night.

The postman called me again Friday morning, but this time the guy spoke English. He said that when they came by yesterday, someone told them that no Anna Alderson lived at my address. That's weird. I told him that I would be here, and he said they would be coming between 12 and 12:30. I went running early, so I would be back in time to catch the mailman.

When he arrived, he brought TWO packages. One from my aunt and uncle, and the other from a bookstore. MY TEXTBOOK FOR WOMEN'S HISTORY! Finally! I can get started on this class.

I went back up to my apartment and opened up my aunt and uncle's care packages. I was speechless. Someone has VERY impressive packing skills, considering the TONS of stuff they crammed into that box. It was full of goodies that were distinctly American. A perfect survival kit. Included were Oreos, Girl Scout Cookies (my two favorite kinds: Samoas and Thin Mints), green tea, sweetners, hot chocolate, Crystal Light mix, Us Weekly and Seventeen magazines, Cheez-Its, Easy Mac, Rice Crispies, Strawberries and Cream oatmeal (again, my favorite!), pens and calendars from their log home business, toothpaste, 2 bars of Dove soap, Advil, Tylenol, and razors, along with a handwritten postcard from the fam. I can't even explain how excited and thankful I was. My day was BEYOND made. :)

That night 5 of Romeo’s friends came over, so I met and hung out with them. One of his friends Stefano actually spoke English, so I had some good conversation with him. We ended up going out that night, leaving Romeo home because he was too drunk to walk straight. I’ve decided I love being sober, because it makes it that much more entertaining to watch drunk people. So, leaving Romeo and Renato behind, the rest of the group and me went to a bar to get drinks and tea. I had a good time, even though Stefano was the only one who spoke enough English to hold conversation with. They were going out dancing that night, but I told them I would go back and check on Romeo and Renato.

We said our goodbyes outside my apartment, and I went up. When I returned, no Romeo or Renato in sight. Oh goodness, I wonder where they went? I laughed to myself and went to sleep.

Last night we celebrated my roommate Valeria’s birthday with a huge dinner and lots of her friends over at the house. The dinner was delicious; her sister Alessandra and Alessandra’s boyfriend Roberto had come to visit just for the occasion. During the preparations, Roberto and I talked about lots of things. He didn’t speak English, but we were able to communicate about a lot, regardless! He has a MacBook Pro and iMac, and noticed mine. We talked about those. We talked about my travels. He loves opera, and I love opera. So we talked about that and musicals and he showed me a fantastic Italian opera soprano on YouTube.

At dinner, 2 of the gentleman visiting were obviously friends, but they obviously liked to push each other’s buttons, especially when one had drunk a little too much wine. I don’t know what they were arguing about, but I heard the inebriated one call his friend a “false Communist” and “Fascist.” The rest of the party was just laughing and laughing. There other friend sat hopelessly to the side rolling his eyes.

They went out that night, and too tired and not up for going out, I stayed in. Plus, it was Daylight Savings Time, meaning I was already losing an hour of sleep. By the time I rolled into bed, it was 1:00 AM, meaning it was really 2:00 AM once I put my clocks forward.

I woke up this morning, hoping to go to the beach or shopping mall with Beverley. But she never called. I just sunbathed in my room and enjoyed being lazy. Which is normal for me here. Plus, tomorrow starts my 3-week Spring Break, so I need to rest up beforehand, right?

This week I’m off to Florence.

The week after is Dublin.

And the week after is Barcelona and Madrid.

This should be FUN. :)

In Case You Didn't Know, There Are Actually TWO Leaning Towers

2010-03-28T11:53:00.000-07:00

My phone alarm buzzed at 5:00 AM. Time to get ready. Beverley and I were in a stupor from our 5 and 3 hours, respectively, of sleep. But that couldn’t stop our excitement of going to Pisa. We head out the doors around 5:50, to go grab some breakfast at a bar Bev frequents before Italian lessons in the morning. As we walked along the street the vendors for the Saturday morning market were beginning to arrive, setting up their goods for the day ahead. No one else was out. It was very strange. Then again, I don’t know how many people are willing to catch a 7:00 AM bus to Pisa; especially if you live here and have a car.

But we are foreign. And we have no car. 7:00 AM bus, it is!

We arrive at the bar, and I think the man at the register was surprised to see us. He asked if we had been out dancing. No, just catching a bus to Pisa. He serves us our tea and wishes us a safe trip. We arrived a little later than our stated time of 6:00, so I was worried that Davide was going to be waiting on us. He, however, didn’t show up until 6:20ish. He went to be at 2:45, he said. Wow…he is certainly dedicated to come this early!

We headed out around 6:40 to grab Davide a ticket. After he bought it from the travel agency, we walked over to the bus stop where people usually catch rides to Rome. Beverley jumps up and down trying to see across the Piazza Garibaldi, above the wall of construction work in the center of the piazza. There were a couple of buses. I didn’t think buses ever picked up by the travel agency. Then again, I was never up and about at 7:00 in the morning to find out.

We decide to walk back across the piazza, and I nearly lose my ticket. It somehow fell out of my bag on the ground. Thank goodness Bev realized before I had even taken two steps. We make it over to the buses. They were in fact going to Florence, our destination. Thank goodness we walked back over here!

The ride was pretty uneventful, besides me almost losing my ticket again. It had fallen between my feet somehow. I honestly think it had a mind of it’s own and was trying to escape. The 3 of us sat in the very back of the bus, because it was the only row that had enough seats across for all of us. On the way to our first bus change, we talked about random vocabulary words and made up silly ways of remembering them. We taught Davide the difference between “fun” and “funny.” Beverley and I did most of the talking. I think Davide was too sleepy to do much contributing.

We stop at a rest stop off the highway, and kill some time by looking at the food and taking pictures. An elderly gentleman was coming down a set of concrete stairs to where the buses were parked when he lost his balance and fell off the side. These stairs didn’t have a railing, because they were only 4 steps high and meant to get people from the pavement up the 2 feet to the sidewalk. Ambler travelers, like ourselves, chose just to step up the 2 feet without messing with stairs.

Regardless of how few stairs there were, it was a long fall. It was one of those horrible moments the you saw happen in slow motion but couldn’t move fast enough. I didn’t know what to do once he hit the ground. I can’t speak to him in Italian, and I was simply to shocked to conjure up my limited vocabulary. One of the bus drivers comes over to see if he is okay, and Beverley tells the elderly gentleman, “Aspeta! Aspeta!” (Wait! Wait!), as he tried to pull himself up. His head was bleeding, and his hand was scratched. The bus driver tried to have him go to the bathroom to clean up, but the man refused.

I really hoped he was okay, but there wasn’t much we could do.

After we were sure that he could at least walk, we loaded our bus to Florence. We tried to sit in the back again, but the ticket man exclaims, “Regazzi! Regazzi! Qua, per favore.” (You guys! You guys! Here, please.) pointing to seats closer to the front of the bus. I guess he didn’t want any one sitting past a certain point? Davide will have to sit alone, I guess. We take our seats, and Beverley and I throw our backpacks into two seats across the aisle. I hope ticket-man doesn’t get upset; I highly doubt that anyone will be boarding after this point. He walked by checking tickets and counting heads. “He runs a tight ship,” Bev whispers to me. Well, he didn’t say anything about backpacks. So he’s still on my good side.

The bus ride there was pretty uneventful. The most exciting thing was my impression of Igor at one of the stops along the way. Davide fell asleep for most of the ride, and Beverley and I managed to find something to talk about for the 5-hour ride. But we are girls; talking comes naturally.

We finally arrived in Florence, and what is the first thing we do? Hit up the MacDonald’s.

I had a McFlurry and fries. It was delicious. The place was 2 stories, and absolutely packed. We finally found a small table, without chairs. No big deal, we’ll just stand. We’ve been sitting on a bus for hours, anyways.

The next thing to do was to get a train ticket to Pisa. We walked down to a larger piazza, determined to find the station for ourselves. We turn around and Beverley says, “Is that it? I see trains!” The station was directly across from where our bus just parked.

Well, they certainly make this easy, don’t they?

Beverley buys some sunglasses at the market, with my professional assistance. She told me before that sunglasses just don’t look right on her face; I told her that was impossible and that we would find the perfect pair. She bought some and was going to wear them. I made fun of her because it was overcast outside, and turned to Davide. He had is aviators on.

“They are cloud glasses!” he said. I told him I didn’t believe in cloud glasses.

We bought tickets to Pisa, and for some reason I thought the tickets were meant for 30 minutes before the actual time. Of course our train would be picking up at the farthest point of the station. We rush over to the terminal, only to wait. And wait. Beverley points out the ACTUAL time of arrival, so we go back to the main hub of the station and buy chocolate.

Our train finally arrives, and we board to Pisa! On the way there, these high school kids came into our car and hid in the bathroom. The unusually tall Italian conductor/ticket-checking man comes into our car and stands outside the tiny bathrooms. He says something in Italian, trying to get the troublemakers to come out. He wasn’t letting them ride for free. One by one the 6 kids leave the train…I was simply amazed by how they managed to fit ALL of them in those claustrophobic stalls.

Good try kids. But you aren’t getting away with that one.

Then entire train ride there, Davide is texting his friend who lives in Pisa and planning to meet up with her. It will be nice to have our own personal tour guide of sorts! We make it to Pisa, exhausted from our long ride and needing to freshen up. We arrive at what we thing is our stop. Then in a moment of panic think it’s not our stop, and hop quickly on the train. Davide asks a rider if this is our correct stop. She says it is, and in another moment of panic we hop off the train before it closes its doors and move on.

All this hopping on and off and on and off happened in a matter of 2 minutes. We move fast.

We walk underneath the station to get to Pisa. The next thing I know a girl in a long black coat with dyed red-orange hair comes flying by, says “Hello” to me and Beverley, and literally attacks Davide in a hug. That must be his friend.

Davide introduced us to her. Her name was Chiara, and she was a little silly and different, but incredibly sweet and fun to be around. She took us to our hotel, where I had made a reservation online. We spent 10 minutes trying to find my reservation on her list. Not there. Maybe they spelled my name wrong? Whatever was closest to my last name wasn’t for a double bed though.

I was stressing out. Beverley told me everything would be okay, and we ended up getting a room with two double beds so Davide wouldn’t have to pay for a room all by himself. I would check if they had charged my credit card online once the boss got in for the night. For now, we had a room. That’s all that mattered.

We put up our things, and relaxed for about 5 minutes. Then, Davide arranged with Chiara to take us around. She showed us the river that separates North and South Pisa, told us some interesting things about the local architecture, showed us the building that Galileo Galilei was born in, explained that Davide should do all the ordering because shopowners charge more for coffee, etc. to obvious tourists, pointed out that best gelato shop in town and a good sandwich place, and finally took us to the Field of Miracles.

It was incredible.

I was bound and determined to climb the Leaning Tower, so we go get tickets and (to our surprise) are allowed to go straight up. Chiara says to call her and we can do something for dinner, and leaves us to our Tower climb.

Davide takes off like a little kid on Christmas.

I guess he never HAS been here before, so his excitement is just like ours. We quickly ascend the Tower (also because we didn’t have too much time before it shut down for the night). The steps never seemed to end. We got to one opening, and thinking we were at the top rested for the view. “Keep going,” one of the security people said. Oh, more stairs. Okay.

We kept climbing.

We got to another opening where 3 bells line the Tower. This must be the top. We were told to keep walking, and then directed to a tiny flight of stairs about 2 feet wide. Just wide enough for my hips to pass through.

We kept climbing.

We FINALLY get to the top, and I take a few pictures before my battery dies. Just my luck. I try my second battery, forgetting if it was charged or not. It wasn’t. I managed to trick my camera and get a few more shots. But it finally died for good.

The view was magnificent. We asked a guy in Italian to take a picture of us. He answered in English. “Oh! You speak English!” I said. “Yeah!” he said, laughing. Beverley and I walked around the Tower balancing against the lean as we moved from side to side. Davide stood hunched over clinging to the bar in the middle of the Tower, away from the edge. “Are you okay?” Beverley asks. “I’m scared!” he said. What? This guy who had fearlessly RAN up the 294 stairs was now scared? We thought he was joking at first, and pretended to throw ourselves over the edge. “Noooo!” he exclaimed. He was really scared. Oh goodness.

It was time to go down anyways. Fighting the lean of the Tower was more difficult going down the stairs than up it. The Tower had 3 different architects, each trying to correct the tilt and adding his own artistic flair. You could even see when architects changed by paying close attention to the window style and you move up (or down) the circling steps.

We get to the bottom, a little dizzy, and decide to walk around the other building. Outside the Bapistry is a large field…which I deemed Make-Out Central, due to the countless number of couples enjoying each other’s company on the soft green grass.

Too bad I didn’t have some beautiful Italian boy to make out with. Oh well, life moves on.

And so did we. We unanimously agree that a nap would be fantastic before dinner, and rest up in the hotel, my feet absolutely killing me. I thought a pair of flat boots would be great for trekking across Italy. I was wrong. Never. Again. Tennis shoes all the way.

Or my TOMS. I may have to try those out in Florence.

During our rest, Beverley decides to grown down a couple of years and starts jumping on the bed. We take pictures, and Davide becomes amazed by the picture I caught of him jumping up like Spiderman. After getting our 5-year-old impulses out of us, we head out to meet Chiara for dinner.

We walk around for what seemed like ages trying to find a place to eat. The original restaurant Chiara wanted to take us to was full, so she had to think of another place. After 30 minutes of walking around. I was getting irked, because when I’m hungry, my temper shortens. And I was starving, meaning my nice demeanor wasn’t going to last if we didn’t find a spot to eat. And quickly. We settled on a homey little place that served great home-cookin’, and Chiara said she wouldn’t eating with us. Her parents were in town, so she would be eating with them. They also lived in Teramo and offered to drive us back so we wouldn’t have to pay for a train and an expensive bus ticket. How sweet of them!

After dinner we went back to the Field of Miracles to see the Tower at night. It was beautiful all lit up. On the walk back we teach Davide the difference between certain words in English. In Italian, the letter “I” is always pronounced like the “ee” in “sheep.” So, they often pronounce English words the same, prouncing “rip” like “reap” for example. So Davide wanted to know the difference between “beach” and “b****” and “sheet” and “s***,” because to him the 2 words in the pair sounded the same. We enlightened him and tried to demonstrate the short “I” sound. His misunderstanding definitely made for some good jokes on the walk back.

We stop by a bar to grab some tea before heading back. When we at last made it to our hotel room, Davide and I decide to shower. He complained that his was the worst shower he had ever taken. I didn’t think mine was too bad, except that I couldn’t get my water to heat up for a long time. I was bit by bit adjusting the tap, talking to Beverley the entire time. I said something about not wanting to burn my “rump” and she starts cracking up. Apparently she thought the word “rump” was funny.

We all crawl into bed after I brush my teeth and say our goodnights. We have a long trip tomorrow. Okay, Bev, hit the lights.

Goodnight, Pisa.

Not Exactly a Midnight Wal-Mart Run...But Close.

2010-03-27T16:34:00.001-07:00

Yes. The 7 hours between 7PM and 2AM had enough craziness in them ALONE to deserve a post. Read on…

That night I waited to hear from Beverley about when she was coming into town. 7:00, nothing. 8:00, nothing. 9:00, nothing. What in the world? She calls around 9:30. Apparently she was at the grandparent’s house, and her host parents had just disappeared after dinner. It was far too late to catch a bus, and she had no way of getting back to the house. Okay, call me when you get home., I told her. She called me from the house, wondering what she should do. I told her to ask the parents if they could drive her into Teramo, since they told her the other day that she could come with me. Plus, I had a hotel and TWO tickets; maybe that will give them some incentive.

Beverley called me back AGAIN saying she must not be very good at asking for things, because her host parents were going to bed now. She would look for a taxi if she could.

I had a nasty feeling that she wasn’t going to be able to find a ride. So I text Anna Giulia, Greta, and Davide. No answer from any of them. Greta was on chat, so I asked if she would be up to a roadtrip to Colledara. She never answered.

I called Anna Giulia. She answered, but said she wouldn’t be able to take the car tonight. My last hope was Davide.

I called him. “Sorry I didn’t answer your SMS,” he said. “I got a new phone and don’t’ have money on it yet!” I said it was fine and explained my situation to him. I needed to pick up Beverley from Colledara because we were going to Pisa in the morning. And I needed a car. And I would pay him gas money if he could just drive me out there.

I was 95% sure that he wouldn’t be able to do it. “Okaaaay,” he said. “I’ll be there in 10 minutes.” Oh my gosh. He is amazing.

Beverley calls me again saying that a taxi isn’t probable and there was no way to catch the bus from another town because she would have had to call the bus agency today to let them know to stop at a non-scheduled pick-up place. “It’s okay. I’m coming to pick you up!” I said. “What?” “Davide will pick me up here and we are coming to get you. We’ll be there in 45 minutes.” “This is kinda weird…but okay!” she replied

I grabbed my Google Maps directions and ran down the stairs. Davide rolled up outside my apartment and we headed out to Colledara. It was 11:00 PM.

We picked up Beverley and drove the 20 minutes back to Teramo, laughing at how ridiculous the whole situation was. I don’t know what I would have done without Davide. We told him he was the best driver ever, because he found his was to the tiny town of Colledara without my Google directions AND because he was willing to be chauffeur for the night. “Cornetto, anyone?” I say. We were definitely up for it.

Italians must not take random late-night roadtrips very often. I’m so used to randomly driving around town or making a Wal-Mart run at 11 or 12 at night, that this almost felt normal to me. Davide had never done anything like it. Life is so different here.

We were talking about the roadtrip in the cornetto shop, when a guy walks in and orders some food. He comes next to Beverley and says, “Excuse me. Can I take this?” In English? I thought I imagined it, so I didn’t pay any more attention and let it slide. It must have been this crazy night playing tricks with my mind. When we were talking about something else though, he said something in agreement, in English again!

Turns out this guy was born in Teramo and spent 6 years working in different parts of Great Britain. He said he didn’t run into many people that spoke English in Teramo, so whenever he did he couldn’t help but say something. I completely understood. Once again, though, his conversation was mainly aimed at me, even though there were 2 other people with me. I guess I have to get used to this. He wasn’t a creeper; it was just random to have a guy in a cornetto shop speak to me in English. We said goodbye and headed outside.

Davide mentions that he has never been to Pisa before. Beverley says, “Well, why don’t you come with us!?” He says he has to work, but he gets this childlike gleam in his eye and says, “Buuuuuuuuut, I can have some one cover for me. What time does the ticket office open? I can go ask my parents?!”

He gets so excited that once we get in the car, he forgets to go by the ticket office first to see if he can even get a ticket before our 7AM bus. I remind him, and we laugh as he turns the car around. I hop out, run to the door, and throw my hands up victoriously on the run back. “6:30! We can get you a ticket! YAY! Now all we have to do is hope your parents will let you go!”

We drive to Davide’s restaurant. His mom is going to think I’m crazy. First, I drag her son out to Colledara at 11:00 at night. Then I have him planning to travel to Pisa within 7 hours of departure time. She’s probably thinking, “This American girl is trouble, taking my son on spur-of-the-moment road trips.”

Amazingly, both his parents say yes. We plan to meet for breakfast at 6 and grab him a ticket afterwards.

Davide drops Beverley and me off at my apartment, and we finish my packing. I take a shower and finally roll into bed around 1:45. We are waking up at 5AM…3 hours of sleep. This trip better be worth it.

But I’m more than sure that it will be.

I Should Have Spelled My Name Wrong

2010-03-27T15:48:00.000-07:00

So it’s been a LONG time since I updated. 1.) I’ve been busy with school and travels, and blogging isn’t at the top of my priorities right now. 2.) I haven’t had as many crazy things happen to me, compared to my first month here. By this point, I’ve lived in Italy almost 2 months to the day. I am finally confident in the normalcies that define Teramo life. I no longer tick off the lady at the supermarket because I don’t know how to print off labels for my fresh produce. I can catch a public bus and take classes at the University without feeling like I’m flying by the seat of my pants. My nights are spent in the kitchen making dinner and at my computer chatting with people back home. The past 2 weeks have been…regular. Strange.

Who would have thought that I would run into creeper Jimmy 4 times out of a 7-day week:

Monday night: I go to the grocery store. Of the 10 or 12 groceries in Teramo I just HAD to choose this one. I was perusing through the tomato sauce aisle when I see someone coming my direction. Jimmy. CRAP. He asks how I was doing, comments on the new purple streak in my hair, and asks me out for another drink. I told him I had to study. “What about tomorrow?” “I don’t know,” I said. He gave me his phone number (I made him write in on a piece of paper so he wouldn’t know I had a cell phone) and told me to call him. I didn’t.

Wednesday night: ST. PATTY’S DAY! I call up Anna Giulia and tell her we must go out to dinner at the pub. It’s Irish (sort of) and it’s St. Patty’s Day and I can’t go another day without seeing my friend. I meet her friend Ada, who spent 6 months in California. Needless to say, she speaks very good English. We had burgers and waited for Davide and Greta to show up.

I decided that for some reason, American burgers are just better. Maybe they are infused with grease and could cause a heart attack with one bite, but the burger I had just didn’t compare. Even to my mom’s burgers at home…it must just be an American thing. Mom's burgers are AMAZING.

Davide and Greta arrived, and we all decided to go get a cornetto (like usual). After we downed those beautiful pastries, we had a photo shoot outside of the shop. As we were taking photos, 2 guys came walking by and had to squeeze by us to pass. Greta let them go by, and I look up to see Jimmy. He smiled at me and kept walking. I let out a sigh of relief…and told my friends, “We have to go. That was Jimmy!” I had told them about him at dinner, and they all turned to look. “Don’t look!” I exclaimed. “Let’s just go!” I was laughing, because at least I had 4 other people with me that time. Anna Giulia said his accent was funny; he definitely wasn’t Italian. Just as I thought.

Thursday night: I spend the afternoon/evening at Italian lessons and then in the library trying to move forward in the online class. The bus drops me off in the largest piazza in town, and I have a 10-ish minute walk back to my place. I made plans to drop of my computer at my apartment and run to the grocery store as I scrolled through different artists on my Ipod. I look up to make sure I’m not about to walk over some slow-moving Italian old lady when I see him walking my direction with HIS Ipod in. Jimmy.

You have GOT to be kidding me.

He sees me, beelines, and turns and walks with me. The questions begin. Where are you going? What are you doing tonight? What are you listening to? I made it a point to walk continuously away from being anywhere near him in proximity, but he would close the space between us. I probably switched 3 or 4 times from his left to his right trying to add at least 5 feet of bubble space, taking the chance to switch every time I hit a curb. I made it obvious that I didn’t want to talk to him.

“Why didn’t you call me when you were out with your friends?” “Uhhh….because I was with my FRIENDS. Why would I call you?”

“Well, when can we get a drink?” “I don’t want to get a drink with you alone.”

“I know, that’s why you go with me.” We probably went through just this part of the conversation six times alone. I finally realized that he understood me as saying, “I don’t want to go to a bar alone,” which is why he kept saying he would go with me. I decided not to walk back to my house and made a trip to the bread shop. I could say bye and go inside and he would be gone when I get back. Of course he is more persistant than that.

When I got to the shop, I said, “Okay, I’m going in here. Bye.” He said, “I’ll wait for you out here. If that’s okay.” Good gosh. I gave him a weird look and went inside. Too bad there wasn’t a huge bouncer in here that could tell this guy to lay off. But all the workers at the break shop are nice ladies. Darn.

I walk in the direction of my house and he keeps saying that he wanted to know if he was disturbing me. If he was, he would stop. We stop at the corner; I was not showing him where my apartment was. “So, am I disturbing you?” “Well, kind of!” I reply. Even when I say that, he said that he would give me time to think about whether I wanted to be friends or not. I’m not going to need that time, thanks.

I don’t know how I did it, but I managed to convince him (without knowing it) that I don’t have a cell phone over here. “You don’t have a phone?” he asked. It dawned on me, “Nope,” I said. “Why not?” “Uhh…I don’t need one? Who am I going to call anyways?” This entire time I am praying that my phone doesn’t go off.

“Well, how do you meet up with your friends then?” By now I’m just annoyed. And I’m making it pretty apparent. “Facebook.” “You’re on Facebook?” No buddy, I just said that for fun. “Yes.” “What’s your Facebook name?” “Anna.” “Surname” “Alderson.” He looked at me funny and said, “What?” “Alderson.” He held out his phone and told me to type it. I look back now and realized I should have typed it incorrectly. Too late. It actually worked out better this way, though. I’ll explain later.

“Okay, I’m going to go now.” He laughed and asked why. “Because. Goodbye Jimmy.” If he couldn’t tell that I was annoyed and freaked out and giving him the stay-away-from-me-you-creep vibe, then he is NOT the brightest crayon in the box.

I went down the street, passed my apartment and turned the corner. After a few minutes, I peeked around the wall. No Jimmy. Finally.

Friday afternoon/night: I was waiting for Beverley to call. I had booked our hotel in Pisa, bought 2 bus tickets, and was about to pack. I decided to take a waltz around the city, because for some reason they had the market running on Friday afternoon. I thought this was just a Saturday morning thing…SA-WEET! I spend about 20 minutes looking at the tables. It was more craft fair based, with woodworkers, textile people, baked goods sellers, and crepe people filling the piazza in front of the Duomo. It reminded me of the War Eagle and Applegate craft fairs back home. Funny how little comparisons like that in Italy of all places can send good memories of home. As I am walking through the fair, I see Jimmy and a friend walking my direction.

Oh no, oh no, oh no. I slide my sunglasses over my eyes and pretend to be looking at my feet as I picked up my pace. “Please don’t see me,” I thought. Not likely. I have blonde hair, with a purple streak, and I am wearing a bright pink jacket.

By some miracle he didn’t see me. I wasn’t taking any chances, though. I powerwalked all the way home checking over my shoulder every now and then. That was close. Thank goodness I’m leaving for Pisa tomorrow. No Jimmy there for SURE.

I sit down at my computer to see if Bev had said anything about coming to Teramo. I had a friend request…from Jimmy. Only his name started with an X and was definitely NOT Italian. Who IS this guy? I’ll just let his Friend Request sit unanswered for now.

"No, Really. You Should Meet My Son."

2010-03-15T16:01:00.000-07:00

We woke up the next morning, and after a light breakfast of yogurt, Beverley and I decided to find tickets to Giulianova. I didn’t think we would be able to, considering that the ticket office was closed the last time Beverley tried to return home on a Sunday. But it was worth checking. And if they are closed, maybe the travel agency is open.

It was a big negative on both places. Certainly SOMEWHERE had to sell bus tickets, though. The city buses and buses to bigger cities were still running that day. We called Francesca, our Italian teacher, and she said that the bar by the Piazza San Francesco would be selling tickets on a Sunday. By my house…okay back the OTHER direction.

As we were walking, I pulled out my mini dictionary to look up the word “ticket.” If we were going to buying them, I suppose I needed to know how to say it. The word was biglietto, or biglietti for more than one. A difficult word, so I was practicing saying it while looking at my dictionary.

The next thing I know, this older gentleman (he was probably in his late 40s) was saying something to me. He had two friends with him, and he kept motioning to my dictionary. “You speak Italian,” I kept thinking. “Why do you want to borrow my dictionary?”

We finally decided to tell them that we were looking to buy bus tickets to Giulianova. They said “Noooooo. Non posso.” We tried to tell them that our Italian teacher told us we could buy them at the Piazza San Francesco. The gentleman decided between themselves that we could buy them at a bar near the Piazza Garibaldi. Bar? I asked. Yes, they said.

We said “Grazie” and started heading to one of the multiple bars near the Piazza Garibaldi. We had only walked about 20 feet when the gentleman who first approached us motioned for us to follow him into a magazine store. “This isn’t a bar,” I thought. “But okay.”

He asked the employee where we could buy tickets, and they said at a specific bar near the Piazza Garibaldi. So, being the nice gentlemen that they were, they offered to take me and Beverley to the bar. I didn’t think they meant any harm, so we followed them. Me and the main guy in the front, Beverley and his two friends behind us.

On the walk over, the man I was walking with started asking me questions. Why are you in Teramo? Where do you live? (Okay, these questions must just be normal for Italians to ask. But HIS asking them was soooo much less creepy than Jimmy’s asking them). When I said I was studying Communications, he started saying something about his figlio (son) and studying Communications at the same university as me.

The next thing I know, he is telling me that we should exchange phone numbers so I can call him and meet his son. Keep in mind, the majority of this conversation (minus a couple words here and there) is completely in Italian. So I second-guess myself, and laugh. Certainly I misunderstood him. Not to mention, this entire time all 3 gentleman are directing most of their conversation towards me. Why do I attract all the attention? Talk to Beverley!

We get to the bar where the tickets were supposed to be located. My new friend asks about buying bus tickets, and the lady points us to another bar across the Piazza Garibaldi. We all sigh in frustration, laughing at our luck, and walk over to the other bar.

We finally get there. Guess what? No tickets.

The gentlemen tell us they are sorry, but they don’t think we can buy tickets on Sunday. I was upset, because I really wanted to get to Giulianova. Then, the main guy says something about us going with him to Giulianova. He was offering to give us a ride out there! How sweet…but I wasn’t sure that was such a good idea. We DID just meet after all. Like I said, his intentions seemed well, but you never know.

We said thanks anyways, and he said he was going to give me his phone number to call him. I didn’t necessarily want it, but I gave him a piece of paper and a pen anyways. He wrote down his digits. Score for me. Hah. One of his friends said, “You call me too!” and eagerly shook his head. The main guy, looks at me and says, “No.” So, he was genuinely looking out for me; I guess I can trust him.

After saying our Grazie’s and Ciao’s, Beverley and I walked around to the other side of the Piazza. I looked down at the sheet of paper. Renzo. Cool name. I probably won’t be calling you though. I’m sure he was just being welcoming. He kept emphasizing how he wanted me to meet his son; “You go to the same University!” he said once during our search for bus tickets.

Beverley and I make our way back to the Piazza San Francesco to look for the bar that sells bus tickets. We stop at another magazine store and I ask, “Dov’e possiamo comprare bigletti per Giulianova?” The lady understood me and spouted off something about a bar and pointing to her right. I didn’t catch half of what she said, because I was so stoked that she actually understood me! I’m getting good at this! Since I didn’t listen very closely, I decided to follow her finger in that direction and look for a bar.

We passed by a bar, but go figure: It was closed. By the Piazza, there is a big bus lot where people get picked up and dropped off all the time. Beverley suggested going over there, and I remembered a bar being over there as well! Yes! Let’s go!

We make it over there, and the bar is clearly closed. No way. I decide that we will make our way around to the other side of the ancient Roman wall that still surrounds part of Teramo. There are some bars on the other side, so certainly we will find something.

As we are walking, we smell something DELICIOUS up ahead. We find a small serve-yourself restaurant, and on the door a little sticker said “Ticket” and something in Italian. I said, “That says ticket! It won’t hurt to ask…”

I (successfully!!!) ask the man at the counter where we could find tickets, almost giving up hope. He says, “Qui!” (Here!) Beverley and I throw up our arms and give a shout of joy. He starts laughing, calls at one of his friends in the kitchen and says something in Italian. Beverley and I successfully get 4 tickets; 2 to get us there, 2 to get us home. I ask him, “A che hora parte il autobus?” (What time does the bus leave?), and he shrugged his shoulders, saying he didn’t know. Oh well, we can wait. We said multiple Grazie’s and headed to the bus stop that I use to go to the University.

As we are waiting, a car pulls up right in front of us. The window rolls down, and it is Renzo and one of his friends! Oh my gosh. How in the world did they find us? Oh yeah, I have a bright pink jacket on and I’m blonde. Not hard.

We tell them excitedly that we got tickets to Giulianova, and surprised, they ask where. We point to the small restaurant down the way. The next thing I know, they are saying, “Non qua. Li!” and pointing across to the bus depot. We were standing in the wrong spot. Renzo gets out of the car and shuffles through his wallet. He gives me his business card, explaining everything on it. He points to the address and then across the bridge to the other side of Teramo. That’s where his office is, and his son works there too. We could even meet there, if we wanted.

I said thank you, and he got back into the car. We waved, laughed at the coincidence, and I looked down at his business card. His last name is Stranieri. “Foreigners” in Italian. This is so meant to be.

We were about to head over to the bus depot. “Do you think we should ask this bus driver, just in case?” Beverley asks as a city bus pulls up. I hop on and ask him where the bus to Giulianova picks up (in Italian, mind you). He understands me, and says over at the bus depot. We quickly walk over there, hoping we haven’t missed the bus in these last 5 minutes. I’m glowing. I’m 3 for 3 in asking for things in Italian. It’s a good day.

We sit around for a couple of minutes, until another bus pulls up. It’s too big and nice to be the bus to Giulianova. I go up to the bus driver and ask him if HE knows when the Giulianova bus is bound to arrive. 4 for 4. :)

He didn’t know, but took us over to the bus times. I think he had as hard a time deciphering the bus charts as we did! But we came to the conclusion that the only bus that runs to Giulianova leaves at 9:30 in the morning. Well, we definitely missed that one. We decided to wait around for the possible 12:30 bus. When it didn’t show up, we gave up. No beach today.

We made a lunch of chicken nuggets and macaroni and cheese, then tried to figure out what to do with our empty day. The only stores open in Teramo on Sunday are the bars. So you can eat, walk around, and then eat some more.

We went to the park to do some exploring, and ended up sitting and watching a soccer match between some guys. The sun was out, and it felt slightly warm. Spring is on its way.

After deciding we had been creepy enough by watching the guys play, we decided to text Francesca and see if she wanted to get a coffee or some gelato. That women works on the weekends, and we decided she needed a break.

She said she was waiting on someone to call, but she would let us know later. We waited for about 10 minutes, and then decided to get some gelato for ourselves. We bought our gelato, and headed over to the steps of the main church to soak up some sun and enjoy our Italian delicacies.

We were walking back to my apartment, and hadn’t gone 50 feet when I get a text from Francesca. “What time could we meet? Where would u like to go?” We laugh, and turn around. After talking on the phone to Francesca, we decided to meet at our usual bar.

Beverly and I were walking that way, when I hear someone behind me repeating something in Italian. I turn around out of curiosity, and guess who it is?

Renzo and 3 friends of his!

“No way!” I exclaim. “Are you following us?” I tease. They start laughing, and we talk for a little while. We say we were going to meet a friend for coffee, and Renzo once again says to call him. I think, “Okay, 3 times in one day? That can’t just be coincidence. I’ll probably give this guy a call sometime this week!”

We meet Francesca for tea, and have a great time. She needed the break from work, and Beverley and I were dying for something to do on a Sunday. After our nice break, Beverley and I head back to the other side of town. We decided to go back to my apartment. I texted Davide, because Greta had mentioned him wanting to meet Beverly when we met up for kebabs.

So I asked him what he was doing. We were hoping he would be down for driving us to the shopping mall, but unfortunately he had a test to study for and couldn’t meet Bev. Oh well, next time.

So now what are we going to do with our time? We decide to make a marinade for the steak. Beverley and I do a lot of experimenting in the kitchen, so we made a marinade of Worcestshire sauce, orange juice, oil and oregano. We had no idea how it was going to turn out, but we are up for anything. Unfortunately the steaks were too big to marinate in a bowl, and we had no Ziploc bags. So, being the creative youth that we are, we filled the shopping bag that the meat came in with water to see if it would leak. Nope.

Yes. We put the marinade in the shopping bag and made a makeshift Ziploc of sorts. It was so ghetto, and so AWESOME.

We headed back out to the streets of Teramo to kill time while we let our meat marinade. As we leave the streets, I jokingly say, “We better watch out for Jimmy!”

We decide to find the pub that Anna Giulia took me too, to see if it happened to be open on a Sunday. It took a little while, because I wasn’t quite sure where it was located. Once we managed to find it, it didn’t matter. It was closed. Beverley knew of another pub, but we had no success in finding it. We decided to walk around some more, giving our meat time to soak in our marinade. We were walking down the main street, and I was talking about how I want to go to the “Café New York,” simply because it has New York in the name and reminds me of America.

Right as I am looking into that very café, I see him. Jimmy. And he makes eye contact with me. I’ve got to learn to stop jinxing myself.

“Oh CRAP.” I say. “What?” Beverley asks. “Nothing, just keep walking,” I responded, quickening my stride to no avail. He caught up.

“Hey,” he said. I didn’t respond. “Hey!” he said louder, catching up right behind us. I turn around to face him. “Do you remember?” he asks me. I look at him like I don’t really recognize him, secretly hoping to hurt his feelings.

“Uhh…the guy from last night?” I said, pretending to be only somewhat sure. There was no way I was letting him know I remembered his name. That is only giving him hope.

“Yeah. Sooo…is everything good?”

“Yeah.”

A couple guys walk by and say something to him. He motions them away, and they look at me and Beverley as they walk away. Please come back! Take him with you!!

“What are you doing?”

“We are going back to my house.”

“Can I come with you?’

WHAT? He did NOT just ask that. “Umm…no. I don’t think so.”

He actually looked surprised. “Oh, okay. Well, see you around. Ciao.”

The way he said his last sentence seemed like he got the picture. We did NOT want to talk to him, let alone have him come with us back to my house. What a creep.

I realize at this point that Beverley said no word during this entire conversation. She just stood there looking at him like, “Who the heck do you think you are? Can’t you tell we don’t want you around?” She said she couldn’t believe he actually showed up, and was completely speechless.

We quickly walked back to the apartment, nervously watching for any sign of Jimmy. We make it back safely, and go up the stairs. Cooking will make us feel better.

And it did. The meat was just okay. It needed to be marinated longer, but it was a step up from the last dinner we made. We are improving. :)

We both showered and decided to watch another movie. Afterwards we climb into bed. I think, “Thank goodness I have Beverly with me on the weekends. I don’t mind creepers if I have another girl with me. Maybe I SHOULD meet Renzo’s son. He could be my stand-in boyfriend when Jimmy comes around. Unless…

…”Bev! What if Jimmy IS Renzo’s son?!?!”

“Oh, noooo. Renzo is far too nice to have a creepy son like Jimmy. He’s not his son. You don’t have to worry.”

I certainly hope not. That’s okay, I’m planning on going to Pisa next weekend. And I’ve never seen Jimmy during the week. As long as I can avoid him Friday night, I should have a Jimmy-less 2 weeks. Let’s hope luck goes MY way this time around…

Care Packages, Communication Failures, and (Yes, Another) Creeper

2010-03-15T06:40:00.001-07:00

Sometimes I wish my weekends went by with as much normalcy as my weekdays do. I know it’s not possible.

Thursday, I began planning my weekend with Beverley. We would go to Pisa, spend the weekend, and come home Sunday night.

When I returned to my apartment, the mailman showed up with a package. FROM MY MOMMY! I opened it up, to find an amazing array of 2 cards, Twinkies, Oreos, Lemonheads, and a Reese’s Heart from Valentine’s Day. This is not going to last a week, I know it.

That afternoon I went to the University to try to find the correct room for my Italian class. I found it! But once again, there were only 5 other students in the room, 4 from Spain and 1 from Portugal. Needless to say, I kinda stuck out. So when the teacher asked me where I was from, I said America, and he expressed the same surprise that most people express when I tell them where I am from. And American in Teramo? What? Well, “you are welcome here” he said. Thanks, man.

He didn’t know much English, but did his best to translate when he could. The lessons actually went really well! I understood a lot of what was being said, and one of the Spanish girls knew a little English, so if anything needed to be clarified, she tried to help me out. At least I was in the correct class this time…

I checked my Facebook messages that night, and Beverley had sent me one. She said that she thought it would be best if we left for Pisa Saturday afternoon so she could get some thing finished around the house. We could do the Tower and stuff at night, do some more exploring on Sunday, and come home after that. I told her that sounded great to me, and I would check on bus departures the next day.

The next morning, I went to the International Office to meet Rina. I had told her daughter Giulia that I was wanting to get a hair cut while I was here. My hair could use a trim, and services like that are so CHEAP over here, compared to the United States. So I may as well keep my hair as healthy as possible! When I arrived at the office, Rina gave me a map and the directions to her friend’s hair salon. I have an appointment for Tuesday at 3:00. I already looking forward to it…but I’m still trying to figure out how I’m going to express what I want in Italian. This could be interesting.

I walked to the hair salon to become familiar with its location, and then turned around to head to the travel agency. I needed to find out when the buses ran to Pisa. Technically we would be taking a bus to Florence, and then to Pisa. I got to the travel agency and successfully asked the lady in Italian what time the bus left. She said 7:00AM. “Solo sette?” (Only 7?) I ask. Yes, she said. Well, crap.

I sent Beverley a message telling her that the ONLY bus we could catch was at 7 in the morning. Then I sent her another message 30 minutes later about something else. Then I sent ANOTHER message about an hour later telling her to just call me that night, because I probably wouldn’t be on the Internet in the afternoon.

I didn’t hear from her all night. No Facebook message. No call. I wonder what happened?

Well, no Pisa for me. And I was really looking forward to that trip.

Romeo had some friends over that night, so I made dinner and ate with them. Then, I stayed up until 2 in the morning talking to people back home. At least I had a good time doing that. I can stay up this late because I’m not catching a 7AM bus anyways!

The next day, it was sunny-ish in the morning and mid-day. I got up around 12 and decided I would go running that afternoon. After taking my time getting ready, I looked outside. It had gotten gray and cold. A couple of minutes later, I heard a clinking sound outside. Was it raining? Opening my curtains, I see little pieces of hail falling on the roof across the road. HAIL? Okay, scratch that run.

I spent the morning in my pajamas, drinking tea and reading Pride and Prejudice. For a lazy Saturday, I’m definitely not complaining. I had written on Beverley’s wall telling her to call me if she wanted to do anything. We may not be going to Pisa, but I LOVE any company on the weekends.

That afternoon, she called me saying that her host mother was coming into Teramo around 5 o’clock that night and she would come too. Great! My day suddenly got better. At least my uneventful weekend in Teramo would be spent with someone else.

I think our weekend was just as eventful in Teramo as it would have been in Pisa.

I texted Anna Giulia to see if they were doing anything that night. She said that we would go get a kebab and then go to the disco. Sounds great! Beverley can come experience the disco and legit fist pumping with me and the Italians! The next thing I know, she has texted me again, saying that she and Greta got into a fight and she would no longer be going with us this evening. Oh, and that we weren’t going to the disco after all.

Okay. Well there go my Saturday night plans.

I texted Greta to see if she was still going dancing. She said she wasn’t but that she was still getting a kebab with her friend Chiara and that I was invited. I asked if Beverley could come, and she said “Of course!” Saturday night plans are back in motion.

Beverley showed up around 5:45, and we decided to kill some time before meeting up with Greta. We weren’t eating our kebabs until 9:00, so we had a lot of time to kill. I wanted to find a long-sleeved black half-shirt that didn’t cover more just my shoulders. Then we would go to the supermarket and get dinner for Sunday, since NOTHING is open.

We found my little black half-shirt at a store we visited the last time Beverley was in town. AND it was half off. I was beyond excited. We went to the supermarket to grab Sunday night’s dinner. Beef. Broccoli. Bread. And spinach and potatoes, but I already had those back at the apartment.

After we dropped off our groceries, we decided to grab a slice of pizza. I was STARVING considering I hadn’t eaten but a thing of yogurt at 12:00. We went to the Pizzeria di Mario, our favorite pizzeria in town. We had to grab a ticket, because that place is happenin’, especially on a Saturday night. We were number 24; they were on 99. I guess the numbers start over after 99…so we had a LONG time to wait. What do you do to kill time in Teramo? Walk around.

We went to the ATM so I could get some money for the next 2 weeks. Walking around, we found a candy store. Two girls, planning to watch a movie that night…candy is a necessity. We manage to tell the 2 guys working that we were just looking around. We began filling up a bag with random gummies and marshmallows. We we got to the register, he said “10 Euro.”

10 EURO? You have got to be kidding me. Of course, we couldn’t put the candy back. So we just sucked it up and paid.

When we left, we started cracking up. I can’t believe we just spend 10 Euro on candy. Never. Again.

We went back to Mario’s to see what number they were on. 3. Fantastic. Back to the walking we go.

Beverley and I just meander around Teramo, killing some time before we could get our pizza. We make it back to Mario’s. Number 17. Okay, we’ll just stay here. We get split between the millions of people inside the restaurant. And end up on either side of the door, pushed into each corner to avoid being smashed by pizza boxes. It finally gets to our number, and I choose my regular: margherita. Beverley gets this piece covered in peppers, salami and a few mushrooms.

When we get a seat, we exchange bites of each other’s pizza. I LOVED hers. I admit, I am afraid to branch out and try pizza when I don’t know exactly what the toppings are. Thank goodness my friend is braver than me. Next time we go, I’ll probably get that one.

After we finish our pizza, it is not quite time to meet up with Greta and Chiara. So we head back to my apartment to put up the candy and re-straighten my curling locks. We end up eating about half the candy while we talked. We are such girls.

We were meeting up with Greta and Chiara at the Piazza Garibaldi. We got there, and waited. And waited. And waited. No Greta and Chiara. I know Italians usually run late, but if it becomes 9:20 and they aren’t here, we are going back home.

We chill by the ticket office, because I wanted to see what time they opened. As we stood talking, these 2 guys walk by us twice. And then one of them comes over to the ticket office and starts looking at the bus times. I think.

Regardless, Beverley and I moved out of the way. Feeling slightly uncomfortable, we went down to the kebab shop. Still no Greta and Chiara.

Beverley had never had one of the amazing cornettos that I love so much. So we went inside and I introduced her. She is now in love. As we were sitting there, Greta and Chiara show up! Only 30 minutes late. Silly Italians.

We go to the kebab shop, and I order but Beverley doesn’t. Then again, she ate breakfast AND lunch. I had yogurt. The kebab is AMAZING. It’s not a kebab on a stick like I am used to in the U.S. It is a sandwich, made of a pita pocket, stuffed full of beef and turkey meat, and any other toppings you could want. I was already full, but I had to try one.

After Greta, Chiara and I finished our kebabs, we said our goodbyes. Beverly and I wanted to go back and watch a movie, and Chiara and Greta didn’t really know what they were going to go do to kill the time. Greta and I promised to go dancing or do something soon. I haven’t seen her enough lately.

Beverley and I head back to my apartment. The next thing we know, this guy is coming up from behind us, asking “May I ask you something?” In ENGLISH. We were surprised that someone was talking to us in English, so we turn around to find this younger guy coming up from behind.

“Uhhh…yeah?”

“We are you from?”

“America.” “Canada.”

He proceeded to ask questions. Where was I studying? Do I live in Teramo? Where does Beverley live? He studied at L’Aquila. Do we know where that is? How long are we here? He hadn’t seen us around. When did we get here? Just questions that people don’t usually ask when they come running up after 2 girls they don’t know.

It was freaky.

And he was freaky-looking.

I don’t know if he was the same guy creepily hanging around at the ticket office. But I thought ticket-boy had a friend with him. This guy was all alone. But for some reason I think it IS the same guy, because he had acne scars all over his face. They just looked very similar.

It was a very awkward conversation. Usually, I can make those situations not so awkward, but Beverley and I were TRYING to make it obvious that we were uncomfortable. Not wanting to be mean, but still not wanting to encourage any more conversation, I answered his questions as shortly as I could. Beverley didn’t say much but kept giving him a look like, “Who the heck are you?”

His name was Jimmy. That’s a weird name for an Italian, I thought.

He asked if we wanted to get a drink with him, and thinking “Not if you were the last person on Earth and the continuation of humanity depended on us having a drink, would I go out with you,” I politely said that we had just eaten and were full, therefore we couldn’t possibly stand for a drink. I then said we should be heading back, and started walking. As we were leaving, he asks, “When will I see you again?”

Hopefully NEVER.

“Oh, you’ll see me around.”

We turned the other way, and walked. Beverly said, “We are NOT going back to your apartment right now.” I was thinking the very same thing.

After making a long detour back to my place, and after our hearts had decided to somewhat slow down from the freaky encounter, we finished off the bag of candy. We got ready for bed, and settled in to watch a movie on my computer.

As we crawled into our respective beds, we decided we would try to go to Giulianova the next day. It was supposed to be a pretty day, and Giulianova is right by the beach. By the time I fell asleep, I had nearly forgotten about Jimmy and was dreaming about spending a beautiful Sunday next to the Adriatic Sea.

Cute Mugs and Multitasking

2010-03-10T08:44:00.000-08:00

I now have a cute mug to add to my very small collection! After our Thursday lessons and coffee/cappuccino/tea break (I’m going to start abbreviating that: CCT), she and I went on the hunt for a cute, inexpensive mug. I had been pouring my tea into plastic cups, but one cracked the other night. I think it was because of the heat. Regardless, I don’t want to crack any more cups, so I am investing in my very own mug.

Beverly and I run around Teramo trying to find a mug. All we can find are tea sets and cups and saucers. I don’t want the saucer; I just want the mug! We finally have success at a random shop that was a combination of Best Buy and Bed, Bath and Beyond. But I found a cute, relatively inexpensive polka-dotted mug. How perfect.

Beverly and I had spent the entire period running around Teramo talking about Disney movies. Which movie was our favorite. How Disney went downhill recently and Princess and the Frog was supposed to renew it. How Pixar is awesome. How we love that the classic Disney movies are essentially semi-musicals. How I thought when I was a little girl that when the Beast transforms into a man he was ugly because he had long hair (what was I thinking?! I watch now, and that man is GORGEOUS!). How Aladdin is by far the hottest Disney cartoon character.

In short, it was one of the best conversations I have had in a while. The next day, Beverly sends me a message on Facebook. “I just want you to know, I watched Mulan today.” I like this girl.

Outside of my perfect Disney realm, this online class is WAY harder than I anticipated. Friday I went to the library to do some more of my online class. It’s talking about this fancy Turing machine-thing, and uses all these mathematical equations to show how the machine works, and there is an interactive website, but I can’t figure out how to use the website let alone the machine it is trying to demonstrate. Grrr.

But, I have wireless internet now. So I give up and watch an episode of Tool Academy 3 online. I wonder if the University can track what you use the Internet to do? Because while I’m waiting for this stuff to load for my online class, I’m totally Facebook creeping and watching this show. I’m a multitasker, what can I say?

After the show ends, I try very hard to focus on this class. I just skip over the fancy mathematical material and move on to the general theory stuff. Now, this I can understand. All about communication between one person to another with a mediator (the computer) in between. Maybe that Turing machine info won’t be on the test. I just want to make a web page, dangit.

Not to mention that I brought my charger, but forgot my European adapter. So the charger is useless, meaning I only have about 20 more minutes of battery life on my computer. Guess I won’t be staying here as long as I thought.

And remember that 60-degree weather three days ago? Well, it’s snowing now. I think this weather is more bipolar than the weather in Arkansas. I am wearing a heavier jacket, but not my winter coat. When I boarded the bus in town, it was only raining. As we climb up the hill to the University, the rain turns to snow. I look at my jacket and look at the snow in disbelief. Just my luck.

So, in general, it is just not my day. But, I am meeting Rina’s daughter Giulia at the market tomorrow morning, so maybe things will turn around!

Saturday morning, I met Giulia and Rina at the market. Rina left me and her daughter to walk around, so we decided to get a book for Giulia. After that, I went shopping for fruits and vegetables. I figured out why the guy yelled at me when I went a couple of weekends ago. Giulia pointed out that there are two separate vendors right next to each other! So, I was crossing over to the other guy’s market with his competitors produce. I understand now. I won’t make the same mistake.

As we are walking through the market, I hear a “Ciao!” directed towards me from a man on a bike. It was one of the employees at the bar where we have a CCT stops! He recognized me, even with my huge red sunglasses on! How sweet…that must make me a regular! I couldn’t wait to tell Beverly.

After running around town, enjoying my first porketta panine, and getting to know Giulia, we said our goodbyes. She found me on Facebook a day later. We are going to hang out again when she comes back to Teramo. Again, another English-speaking friend who doesn’t live in my city. Oh well, perhaps I can go visit her one day.

To make my day even better, I climbed my stairs to find a package addressed to me outside of our door. From my grandparents! I opened it hurriedly, excited about my first care package in Italy. It contained M&M’s, two containers of hot chocolate mix, and a beautiful pink and purple scarf. Perfect for my spring wardrobe, since my other spring scarf is lime green!

The rest of the weekend went by normally. I didn’t do much outside of spending time on Facebook and going running. Sunday I went running, and as I was coming up the hill back to the main road, these 2 guys start yelling out there car. Really? THAT hasn’t changed either, I guess. So I roll my eyes at them and keep running. Grow up.

It didn’t get any warmer. I was liking that 60-degree weather that we had for about 2 days. And then, yesterday, it snowed all day. During the day the roads were warm, so nothing was sticking, at least. I usually love snow, but I don’t like it here. I was on my way to a free Italian lesson at the University, and the bus was PACKED. I couldn’t move, but at least that made it warm. I guess when the weather is bad, people don’t want to drive. Or the bus is usually this bad at 3:00 in the afternoon. I’ve never ridden it at that time. I’ll find out next week, I guess.

I walk into the classroom where the Italian lessons are supposed to be. These lessons are in elementary Italian, and are intended for foreign students. Best of all, they are free! So Paola suggested I go just to check it out.

There weren’t many students in the class, and from what I could tell, they already spoke great Italian. The teacher pokes her head in and asks, “Spangolo?” I thought she was referring to the nationality of the students, so I just sat back and didn’t say anything. In a matter of 5 minutes into the class, I realize I am in the wrong class. This is a Spanish class for Italian students! Oh no.

It was too late to go to the other class. And I didn’t know how to explain in Italian to the teacher how I got mixed up. So what did I do? I pretended to be Italian and sat through the 2-hour Spanish class. Thank goodness I already know a little bit of Spanish.

I must say, I think I was pretty convincing. At least, the teacher never questioned why I was there. After class, however, I pitched the worksheets and decided to check on the classroom when I got home. I’m not going back to that class. I need help with Italian, not Spanish. Although, I did learn a few things. They teach Spain-Spanish over here, not Mexico-Spanish. Things are pronounced differently, and quite frankly, I like Mexico-Spanish better. We’ll say that’s another reason I don’t intend on returning.

Coming back from my unintentional Spanish lesson, I nearly bust it on the nearly 2 inches of slush that have collected. And I think my toes have suffered frostbite. Okay, that is an exaggeration, but I couldn’t feel them when I finally got back to my apartment. I was going to go grocery shopping that night, but I didn’t consider it worth it to slowly ease across the slush, freeze my toes again, and fight the snow. So I snacked on rolls for dinner. Not the healthiest meal, but I was at the point of not caring.

And this morning, I wake up ready to fight the snow and go grocery shopping. But when I pull up the blinds, the window feels warm. What is this? I look outside, and all snow on the streets is disappeared. It was like it never happened! I check weather.com. 50 degrees? Biopolar weather. I’m convinced. Well, at least I can do my grocery shopping today and not risk falling on my rear. Perhaps this 50-degrees will turn to 60-degrees and 70-degrees soon. I can only pray.

Bald Bus Bouncers

2010-03-10T08:42:00.000-08:00

So, March came without any major changes. Like I said, my Monday started out pretty normal. On the way to class that night, however, I realized that it was in fact a new month. Meaning, I had to go to the travel place and get a new month-long pass for the buses. Oh well, I can do it tomorrow after class. No worries.

I had been told that there was a pretty steep fine for people who rode the buses without a ticket or a pass. Getting ready on Tuesday morning, I was thinking, “Watch the little bus police come around this morning when I haven’t had a chance to get my pass. That would be just my luck.”

In case you didn’t know, I have terrible luck.

I board my bus as usual. No bus policeman roaming the aisle checking tickets. At least, I assumed there wasn’t one. I didn’t know what they would look like exactly. Uniform? Donut belly? All official and the like? Well, I sat down and no one interrogated me about my bus pass. So that must be a good sign.

We get halfway there, and the bus stops at this pretty random stop. People get on here sometimes, but more often or not they are getting off. So this bald-headed guy steps on in a uniform. Okay, uniform…doesn’t necessarily mean anything, Anna. Don’t freak out. He starts joking around with the bus driver, so I think, “oh, he must just be a regular.” I think that, until I see people in front of me start pulling out their tickets.

Crap. He is a regular. He regularly checks the tickets. The bus police!

Why was today the day I decided to actually sit in the front of the bus instead of the back? Fan-freaking-tastic. In my head I start coming up with all these crazy plans to avoid a fine.

Slowly move to the back of bus? No he’ll eventually go back there anyways.

Pretend my iPod is turned up too loud to hear him? He’ll just tap me on the shoulder or something.

Pretend I’m blind and I don’t know he’s there? Forgot my sunglasses today.

Make it obvious that I’m foreign and blonde and convince him that I don’t know what is going on? Yeah. That’s sounds like the best plan.

So he makes his way over, and looks at me. I kinda look around the bus, and pretend to realize, “Oh, he wants my bus pass.” I give it to him, picture side up (the duration of the pass is on the other side), but he flips it around. Dang, he’s good. He looks at the expiration date, and back up to me. He doesn’t look very nice. I ask him in English, “What’s the problem?” He motions at the date on my pass. I look at it and back at him. “Oh!” I say. “I’m getting a new one today! I promise!” I try to use my hands to motion ‘today,’ but he just looked at me very strictly and moved down the aisle.

I breathe a sigh of relief. That was close. I don’t know how expensive those tickets are, but I didn’t want one. After class, straight to the travel agency. No kidding around. I get off the bus as quickly as I could when it stopped at the University. I didn’t want him changing his mind and finding me to give me a ticket.

After class I make my way to the bus stop. I get on the bus, trying to figure out how I’m going to ask the ladies at the travel agency for a new month-long pass. The bus stops at the most random place on the road.

And then I see it. A bald head crossing the street towards the bus. You have GOT to be kidding me.

It was my friend, the bus policeman. I doubted that I could convince him to let me off the hook again, but I had to try. He comes down the aisle stopping at me seat. I really thought he would recognize me, blonde hair, pink jacket and all. Only when he looked at my pass and flipped it over did he appear to recognize me. “Now,” I told him in English. “I’m going to get a new pass now.”

He looked at me strictly again, rolled his eyes, and moved on. Seriously? Did I just pull that off? Okay, I’m never letting this happen again. Good luck is never on my side like today.

I go straight to the travel agency, pull out my bus pass, and ask for a new one for March. I even said it in English, but once the lady saw my pass she understood. 5 seconds later she had a March pass printed out, and put into my plastic sleeve. It was that easy? I thought it would take longer than that. I was heading to the main University Office to see Daniela Musa about getting wireless access. There was a straight shot right by the bus stop. But there he was. Bald bus policman. Crap. He could recognize me and write me a ticket after all! I took the stairs that go underneath the piazza. Yes, it added about 3 minutes to my journey, but I avoid HIM.

I make it to the University, bound and determined to do this on my own. But I can’t find Daniela Musa’s office. So I ask a lady at the front of the building, “Parli Inglese?” When she shook her head no, I did the best I could to translate what I was looking for. Another lady tried to come over and help, but had no idea what I was saying either. The first lady just shakes her head and says, “Straniera.” Yes, I told her. That’s exactly what I am: foreigner.

She takes me to the International Office. I should have just come here in the first place. I tell Paola what I need, and she grabs her things and take me there. She is always so ready to help me! When we get to the IT office, we are told to come back at 1:45.

She asks if I would like to go to lunch, and I say I would love to. I’m starving. We go back to the International Office, and Giovanna is coming to lunch with us. However, there was a lot to do, and by the time the ladies were ready for lunch, we only had 15 more minutes before my appointment. Okay. Lunch afterwards.

We go back to the IT center. Just like everything else in Italy, they are running late. We finally get called in around 2:10. I write down my information, and they said to come back at 3:30 with my computer. I don’t understand why they need my computer to give me internet access. Do they have to install some software? I’m not sure that I’m okay with this. Oh well, if it give me Internet, I’ll do it.

Paola, Giovanna and I make our way to a bar down the street for lunch. This is the second bar I’ve been to that is hiding a restaurant in the back. We sit down at the table, and are treated to a WONDERFUL meal by a very sweet lady. I won’t go into the details of my food again, but just like everything else I have eaten here, it was incredible.

Oh, and there was a totally cute guy named Roberto working with the lady. He kept smiling at me, so I would smile back, thinking, “Darn, I wish you spoke English.” The chances of that were slim to none. And I was correct in that thought; he didn’t. Well, he was very nice to look at, and I might just have to stop by the bar to get a sandwich one day.

After we paid and said goodbye to the friendly staff, Paola drove me to my apartment to get my computer. We didn’t leave the restaurant until 3:30, so I was wondering if the IT people were going to be upset at us for being late. Paola didn’t seem too concerned, though. She must be used to Italian time.

Once I grabbed my computer, she took me back to the IT department. We didn’t see anyone, and I was secretly thinking, “See? If we actually show up to places on time, we wouldn’t run into problems like this.”

After about 10 minutes, a guy shows up and gives me my username and password. I try the wireless in the building, and it works perfectly! Hooray! My semester is saved! Apparently that is all I needed my computer for, so I stow it back in its bag, and head back to the International Office with Paola. We tell Rina about our success and Rina copies down all the information in case I lose it. Then she asks if I would like to meet her daughter and speak English with her. I told her I would love to meet her daughter, and Rina said she would e-mail me with details later.

I say my goodbyes and head to the bus stop to catch a bus to the University. It’s an absolutely GORGEOUS day outside; 60-something and sunny. While I was walking, I secretly hoped mean bald-headed bus policeman would be patrolling the bus so I could rub my brand new March pass in his face. But he must have called it a day. It was probably for the best. Rubbing my new pass could have reminded him that I didn’t have it before, equaling a ticket. No thanks.

Once in the University library I open my laptop and log on to the wireless. Oh this is wonderful. Information Technology and Online Design, here I come!

I Know the Town Shuts Down, But BUSES Don’t Even Run On Sunday?

2010-03-03T12:54:00.000-08:00

I checked my Facebook Friday afternoon and Beverly had written me and Asta. She said she was sorry she couldn’t make it last night, and wanted to know what either of us was doing that night. I wrote back quickly, saying I was doing NOTHING and I would love to hang out! She wrote back saying that she would catch the 7:00 bus that night, and we agreed to meet at the bus stop around 7:35.

Later that afternoon, I got a text message from Davide, saying that tomorrow we are going to a birthday party and I need to bring 10 Euro for the birthday present and that Greta said I should already know.

I had no idea.

So I texted him back, saying I had know idea about a party. And why exactly do I have to bring 10 Euro for a birthday present when I don’t even know this guy? I was explaining to Romeo when we were cleaning (Yes. Cleaning AGAIN on Friday night. What is this guy’s problem?), and he said that it was just expected that when you go to a birthday party you bring money for the birthday boy/girl. Whether you know them or not. I told him I like American birthday parties better.

That night, I headed out to the bus stop to find Beverly. I arrived about 5 minutes late, so I hoped she hadn’t gone looking for me. I couldn’t find here anywhere.

I waited at the stop. Didn’t see her.

I walked to the other side of the piazza. Didn’t see her.

I walked back to my original spot. Didn’t see her.

A bus pulled up from what I thought was her town. Didn’t see her.

I waited for 25 minutes before starting to freak out. Beverly had mentioned meeting at the church before we agreed on the piazza. I quickly went that direction, wondering how I could have missed her when I passed through earlier. Didn’t see her.

OH NO. Teramo isn’t a big city, but a girl could easily get lost in all it’s little alleyways, and finding her would be hard. My friend was missing. I half-ran back to my apartment, praying that she had missed the bus. I log on to Facebook and had a new message: it was from her. She thought the bus came early and had therefore missed it.

I let out a sigh of relief.

I told her not to worry about it, and that we could hang out on Saturday instead. She said that sounded like a great idea, and got my phone number so she could call me when she was headed into Teramo.

Well, now I’m spending my Friday night alone. How lame. It actually ended up to be nice. I just talked on Facebook with people and did some major creeping. Plus, I wanted to go to the market, so I needed to get some sleep.

The next morning I headed out to the Saturday market. I wanted to buy a scarf for spring. Not one of those dark colored heavy ones, but a light, bright scarf to compliment my limited spring wardrobe. Right next to my apartment the people with fresh produce set up in a parking lot. I decided to get some fresh fruit and vegetables, since I vowed to start eating healthier over here. I perused through the produce; there were no vegetables besides lettuce. Well, fruit it is.

I creeped on people shopping around me. Apparently you grab a plastic bag and fill it. And then take it to the register and they check you out. Everything was priced for 1 Euro, so that made things easier. I filled my bag and then made my way by the register to head for the kiwis. I got stopped by a man who, when I looked at him confused, took my bag and put it on the scale. I paid for my produce, and skipped the kiwis. Am I supposed to check out separately for every bag? I was just trying to get some more fruit. Well, if you don’t want more of my money, that’s cool too!

I looked into my bag of apples and bananas. A random orange had been thrown in their as well. I don’t know why. Maybe it was to add to the weight so it would equal an even 2 Euro. Oh well, it looked delicious.

I took my produce bag with me, hoping I might have an easier market shopping experience at the other tables. I bought a new pair of red sunglasses for 5 Euro. I’ve ALWAYS wanted a pair of red sunglasses! I’ll be looking fly this summer driving around in those.

I headed in the direction of a table with scarves. They were all so dark. Not what I was looking for. I moved on, and in the distance I saw brightly colored scarves hanging from a tent. Just what I needed. I found a beautiful green and white scarf, and next to it a lime green scarf with a pink and blue and beige pattern on it. That was it…my spring scarf. And I paid only 3 Euro for it.

Summary of my shopping trip: 3 large apples, a bunch of bananas, 1 random orange, 1 pair hott red sunglasses, and 1 cute spring scarf ALL for 10 Euro. Now that’s a successful shopping trip, despite my problem at the produce table.

It was an absolutely gorgeous day outside, and my room is perfectly placed so that sunlight streams through the window and door. I decided to sit outside, sunbathe, and do a little reading. After gathering a little color on my front, and needed to get some on the back of me.

If I open the door to my balcony and open my windows completely, the sunlight streams in perfectly to create my own personal tanning bed. I placed my towel on the tile floor, grabbed my pillow, and popped my iPod in, letting the sun warm the back of me. I rolled over to re-warm my front. Every year I show up to bikini season with slightly tanned arms and legs, and a white stomach. Determined to change that this year, I rolled over to my back and pulled up my tanktop just enough to get some sun on my stomach.

The next thing I know, my roommate comes barging in on my tanning time. Thank goodness I hadn’t pulled my shirt up any more than that! I pretended to be asleep, but it was clear he wasn’t going away. So I looked up at him. He started laughing at me and called me crazy. I told him maybe I was, but I didn’t care. I was still trying to get over the shock of how close I was to almost pulling my shirt up farther. That was close.

He left my room, and a couple minutes later my phone starts to ring. It was Beverly, and she was headed into Teramo! We met at the Grande Italia (where we had our first coffee break after lessons) and decided to drop her stuff off at my place and then figure out where we would go after that. She had came at the point of the day where every shop closes down, so not much goes on in town.

We decided to walk across the bridge to the other side of town. Francesca had mentioned that a specific store possibly had peanut butter. Because nowhere else in this town. We decided to walk over there and find out. Unfortunately, no peanut butter. BUT I found these tiny milk chocolate eggs, so I bought those instead.

We went back to the Grande Italia to get a sandwich. And again we struggled with ordering what we wanted. Being obviously foreign does have its perks, though. When a girl brought out our sandwiches, she brought out a plate of pastries, saying that they were a gift from the bartender. Free. We waved and said thank you. They may laugh when we order, but we get free delicacies because of it.

We did some shopping, and I tried my very first Italian gelato. We managed to get across that we wanted a cup (who knew the word was so simple: copetta.) And when the lady asks me for my second choice, a look surprised. I had gotten the small size, and I STILL get two flavors? Without having to pay more? Legit.

So I tried chocolate-chip gelato and plain chocolate gelato. Beverly got lemon and some mixed fruit gelato. They were all delicious, but for as simple as it was, the chocolate gelato was the winner by far. I may have to get some more this week.

That night we went to the grocery store and grabbed things for dinner. We also stopped by a local pastry shop to get dessert. We made the best dinner, for being 2 foreign girls in an Italian kitchen. We had spinach and potatoes in butter and salt, a fruit salad of pineapple, strawberries, and banana, chicken cooked in oil with basil and oregano, and a loaf of bread. I was very impressed with our cooking skills, and we vowed to do this more often.

My roommate introduced himself while we were baking, and then left us alone. The next time he came in was to tell me to clean up the dishes because he had played soccer and he was hungry. And to point out that we had made the floor a mess.

Why was he suddenly so bossy?

No duh I was going to clean the dishes after we were done. I don’t just leave them out dirty like he does. I clean up my dishes directly after using them. And I would mop the floor tomorrow. It’s not hurting anyone being dirty right now. I couldn’t figure out why he was acting that way, but I brushed it off and continued eating.

That night Beverly and I watched “Nine.” The movie is set in Italy, so it was funny to watch it knowing that we could easily hop on a bus and see all the places they talk about. After the movie, we stayed up doing random things. Beverly read parts of my books, and eventually picked up The Host and read it. I jumped on Facebook and did my nightly creeping. Once I had my fix, I hopped on the bed. She and I then started talking, and the next thing I knew it was 4:30 in the morning. Waaaaaay past our bedtimes!

The next morning (well, it was technically the afternoon) I woke up. Beverly and sat around for a little while and made plans to visit places in Italy. I found someone to travel with! My Italian friends aren’t as excited to visit Rome or Pisa or Venice, so I was so excited to hear that Beverly wanted to travel just as much as I do! I finally have a travel partner.

She left that afternoon to catch her bus back home. And I got back onto my computer to check some e-mails. 20 minutes later the doorbell rings. I open my bedroom door to go get it, and Romeo does the same. I ask him if he was getting it, and he rolls his eyes and walks to the front door. Seriously? WHAT is his issue?

He indicates that it is for me, and unlocks the apartment complex’s door. It must be Beverly. As I was walking out to get her, he feels the necessity to tell me to mop the kitchen floor. ARE YOU KIDDING ME? I just woke up. I will mop it. Get off my back. I say something back to him and give him a bit of attitude and walk down to get my friend.

Apparently the buses don’t run on Sundays. Beverly was stuck with me another day. I was actually very happy. If Romeo was going to be in such a foul mood, I needed someone else around. Since everything shuts down on Sunday, we just chilled. I took a shower, and we decided to go get a hot chocolate at our normal bar by our Italian school. After we had stuffed ourselves on hot chocolate and pastries, we decided to go buy something for dinner.

On our way over to the store, Beverly and I decided to stop by the church in the center of town. I had been told it was beautiful inside but had never taken a look myself. We opened the doors, talking, and immediately noticed how quiet it was. Oops. We started walking around, admiring all the pews and ornaments and intricacies in the architecture. It WAS beautiful. I was about to pull out my camera and start taking pictures, when I noticed a little acolyte walking up to the front of the church. How cute! I figure they DO need people in here when the church is open to prevent vandalism and such. Then I noticed about 5 or 6 people sitting in the pews on the side of the church, to the left of where the acolyte had walked. Then, 3 or 4 guys in white robes came filing out.

Oh no. I think we just walked into a church service. Or a funeral.

Either way, Beverly and I quickly looked at each other with wide eyes, turned around, and shuffled as fast as we could out the back door into the piazza. Only then could we start laughing. That was a close one…we didn’t mean to interrupt! Of course, I realize during our conversation that it IS Sunday. We probably should have expected a night service.

And apparently the shop I thought was open on Sundays isn’t.

That’s okay. We weren’t very hungry anyways.

But I knew that there was some kind of store open on Sundays around the area we were in. They had a huge sign boasting “Aperti Tutti Le Domeniche!” (Open Every Sunday!), and I saw it every time I went running. We walked down to a parking garage, out the stairs for a more direct descent, discovered that we couldn’t back in through the door, hopped the barrier and discovered the store.

It was like a Lowe’s or Home Depot. Only Italian.

We wandered around for a little while. I’m sure we looked incredibly lost, because we were 2 girls walking around a hardware store full of mostly men and their wives. That’s okay, we had time to kill.

By the time we made it back to the house, we decided we weren’t hungry. So we watched the last episode of Tool Academy 2, because I was months overdue in watching it. I think I have her hooked.

We weren’t incredibly hungry, so we made a small dinner of chicken nuggets, leftover pineapple, and bread. Beverly hopped in the shower, and I read my book. We then pulled a cot into my room, because we didn’t want to upset Romeo by one of us sleeping in Luca’s room while he was away. We both finished reading our chapters, and settled in for bed. It was like having a sleepover, except that in my room you couldn’t fit much more between my bed and that cot. That’s okay. There was only 2 of us anyways.

The next morning we went our Italian lesson together. Asta is in Lithuania for 2 weeks, so it is just me and Beverly. We had our routine coffee break afterwards, and Beverly and I went to get a hot dog to kill some time.

Hot dogs are not the same as in America. I don’t know which one I like better. Italian hot dogs are completely wrapped in some kind of bread and baked that way. They are delicious, but I think I like American style simply because of that reason. It’s American. We did some window shopping and then said goodbye. I was kinda sad to see my friend go…we had spent nearly 2 days together and I had a really good time. We already made plans to do it again, though.

And I had class that night. And 7 miles to run. Looks like my week is starting out as normal as ever.

Coffee, Creepers, and Chicken

2010-03-03T12:50:00.001-08:00

So I was thinking the other day: “It’s been a while since I have had a new post. I don’t know if this is because I’m getting busier, or because that life itself is starting to become more normal and I just don’t have exciting things to write about anymore. I might just have to update weekly, instead of every 3 or 4 days. Certainly something is bound to happen during a full week worth blogging about.”

And boy, did it.

The first of the week was so normal it was almost mundane. Italian lesson on Monday, our routine coffee/cappuccino/tea break afterwards, class that night, class Tuesday morning, and then the struggle to find some way to entertain myself until Italian lessons on Thursday morning.

Actually, Monday night did introduce me to a notable character of my life in Teramo. I was standing at the bus stop after class that night, waiting for the now 10-minute late bus and listening to my iPod. This guy had been standing next to me, and I kept praying that he wouldn’t turn and ask me something. I looked off into the distance, trying to seem completely entranced in my music. The next thing I know, he turns my direction and his mouth moves. Crap.

I turn down my iPod and look at him like, “What?” He repeated the Italian mumbo-jumbo, but this time I could actually understand the he wanted to know where the bus was (or something about a bus). So I told him I don’t know, took a look at the time sheet bolted to the lamp post, and shrugged my shoulders. He asked me something else, and I told him, “Ehh…no parlo Italiano.” He raised his eyebrows in understanding, and turned back to the street. Whoo. Dodged that bullet.

“So where are you from?”

He speaks ENGLISH? Oh no. Usually I would be celebrating that I found someone who spoke English in this small provincial town, but this guy was…weird. He just looked like a creeper. He was taller, wore glasses, and looked like the kind of guy who didn’t have many friends. I quickly figured out why. He talked a ton, always asking me questions about myself. Not gonna lie, it was nice to have someone to talk to in English, but it got tiring after, oh, 5 minutes. He ended up going in the same direction I did once the bus dropped us off.

“What street do you live on?” Good try buddy, but there is NO way I’m telling you that information. “Oh, somewhere near the center. I don’t remember the street.” Please don’t realize I’m a terrible liar, please don’t realize I’m a terrible liar, please don’t realize I’m a terrible liar…

“Oh, near the Duomo (the big church in the center)?”

“Yeah, somewhere near there.”

He ends up walking all the way to the Duomo, and I’m hoping that he isn’t going to follow me all the way to my apartment. I begin coming up with fake streets to say I live on. But what if he walks me to the door? I’ll have to buzz the doorbell, and people who actually live there have keys. I could say I’m homeless. No, too late for that. Is there a women’s shelter nearby? Dangit…

Luckily enough, once we got to the Duomo, he had to take a left. I learned that his name is Antonio, and we spent an awkward 10 seconds saying goodbye. I would try to say goodbye, and he would ask me another question. “So you live near here?” “Yeah,” I said. “That direction,” pointing to the dark alley next to my actual street. He wished me a good night, and I quickly headed down a street next to mine, not looking back.

The next morning, I got on the bus. “Hello,” Antonio said. Are you kidding me? He has class in the morning too? The only seat open was behind his, so I took my spot. I had my iPod in again, but how could I hope it would deter any questions. It didn’t yesterday.

He turns around and asks me multiple questions. I wasn’t very talkative, because I had been up until 2:30 in the morning talking to people back home. We got off the bus, and he asked me, “Am I bothering you?” I told him I was just really tired, and he wasn’t a bother. Which wasn’t a complete lie; the guy seems like he doesn’t have many people to talk to, and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

Thus, he launches into the barrage of questions again:

“What are you listening to?” “Lady Antebellum”

“Who?” “Lady Antebellum. They are country. American.”

“Oh. Okay. What kind music do you like?” “All kinds, really.”

“I like rock. Do you know Bon Jovi?” “Yeah I do. (thinking, “Who doesn’t?!?”)”

“I’m sorry if I ask a lot of questions. It’s just in my nature. I am a Communication Science major. I ask a lot of questions. It’s just who I am.”

Oh my goodness, this never ends. We make it to my room, and Antonio says he has to check the board for something. I bid him goodbye and walked to my classroom. I sat down on the chairs outside the room waiting for Professor Burroni to show up. I see Antonio coming down the hallway, and he stops right in front of me.

“Is your professor not here yet? What’s his name? Is he usually late? Would you like to get a coffee?”

To his last question, I said, “No thanks. I don’t actually like coffee. But feel free to go ahead and get some!” I was hoping he would do exactly that, but he sits down right next to me. Asking more questions. Professor Burroni ended up showing up, and tells me that we aren’t having class today because of this Conference. Something about Universities in Italy. He said I was welcome to come, but that it probably wouldn’t be any use at all. So, he told me to go upstairs to see Angela, his Graduate Assistant, to decide what I will be writing my paper on. I told him thanks and headed up to his office. I realized I didn’t even say goodbye to Antonio. Oops. I’m sure I’ll run into him again.

Beverly, Asta, Francesca (our Italian teacher) and I have established a routine of getting coffee and pastries after our lessons Monday and Thursday mornings. Beverly has a good hour and a half before she can catch her bus, so every Monday and Thursday at 11:30 AM we gather our books, and head over to the bar on the corner of the street. This particular coffee break, we decided to indulge in some sweets. Once we sat down, I mentioned about how I love shopping at the little meat/cheese/grocer stores to get fresh meat/cheese/produce, but how I am scared to go in because I do not know how to ask for what I want. I am so tired of pointing, smiling, and hoping that I get what I’m looking for.

Francesca said, “We will learn that at our lesson on Thursday!” Perfetto! Maybe I can actually buy something more than chicken nuggets and pasta at the grocery store!

True to her word, at Thursday’s lesson Francesca taught us all the vocabulary for fresh vegetables and spices and fruits and meats and cheeses, and amounts to order and how to ask for something. Needless to say, by the end of the lesson, we were all hungry. And I was super excited to finally eat healthy food, because I can actually ask for it now!

Francesca could not join us for coffee afterwards, and all that talk of food left the 3 of us desiring pizza. So, we stopped by a local pizzeria and Asta told us all about living in Kosovo. She also said that her boyfriend was on a 24-hour duty in a local town, and that she would love some company. “Let’s make dinner!” I exclaim. I was dying for good food and company.

8:00. Asta’s house. Bring the chicken. See you then!

My body had been yearning to go running all week, so I donned my running clothes and headed out to the park. I only planned to run 3 times around the circle, but I didn’t feel tired. So I ran 7 laps around and then, pressed for time, headed back to my apartment. I absolutely love running outside, but I can’t measure the distance I run. I like to run a longer distance each week, but for all I know I am running 3 miles. I could run 4 back home, so what if I’ve gotten worse?! Well, there is really no way to judge. I guess I can just run until I can’t breathe anymore.

That evening, I got to try out my new food vocabulary at the grocery store. I had to ask for 2 pieces of chicken breast. I come up to the counter, look at the different pieces of meat, and when the lady asks me what I would like, I reply, “Due petti di pollo (2 pieces of chicken).” “Va bene,” she replies. That means she understood! And I didn’t even have to repeat myself! I can’t wait to brag at dinner.

Around 7:45 I headed to Asta’s house. She lives up the mountain, so it was a trek for me and my already-sore legs. Just as I was reaching the front door, I see Francesca standing outside waiting for me. So Asta was able to get a hold of here! I had raw chicken wrapped in a plastic bag and she had this wonderfully-decorated package of pastries. She told me they were the same sweets we had so loved at Monday’s coffee break! Yum.

We went up to Asta’s apartment, got the official tour, and rejoined in the kitchen to make food. We had a delicious dinner of spaghetti, with a tomato sauce, followed by a HUGE salad with tomato, red pepper, grilled chicken, and a light lemon/ginger/olive oil dressing. I was STUFFED. And we hadn’t even broken into the pastries. We gave our stomachs a break, and Asta made tea for the 3 of us (Beverly, unfortunately, couldn’t make it). I had been telling the girls about my run that afternoon, and how frustrated I am that I couldn’t measure my distance.

Francesca came up with the brilliant idea of Google mapping it. So, we hopped on the Internet and found the park. It’s roughly half a mile from my house to the park, so the run there and back alone is a mile. Then one circuit around is roughly one mile, a little less. If I ran 7 loops around AND ran from my apartment and back, that means I ran…

…7 MILES? That can’t be right. But my calculations were correct. I could barely run 4 in the States. How can I run 7 here? Must the be the atmosphere, or maybe this me-having-to-walk-everywhere has increased my endurance. Whatever it is, it is AWESOME. I don’t feel so bad for pigging out tonight. I ran 7 miles today.

We had green tea, and indulged in Francesca’s pastries. After we couldn’t possibly eat any more, and with Asta insisting that we not clean up, we said goodbye and headed out to the car. Francesca offered to drive me home, and I gratefully accepted. I could probably have used the walk after that dinner, but I don’t think I could walk that far without puking.

After saying goodbye to Francesca, I headed up to my apartment. What a wonderful night. I really hope we can do this weekly. Company like that makes living in a strange town 100 times easier. And my stomach wouldn’t mind the food either.

As long as I keep running those 7 miles, or my summer wardrobe may not fit.

Fingerprints and Phantom Lights

2010-02-20T13:43:00.001-08:00

So apparently I’m a criminal.

Because I’m a foreigner, I’m automatically a criminal. Well, at least that’s what it felt like on Thursday morning when I had to make a stop by the police station to get fingerprinted. Twice.

It all has to do with that silly permesso-thing. When I turned the permesso application in to the post office, I was given a time and date to show up at the police station to get fingerprinted. So I go to the station with one of the ladies from the International Relations Office, Rina, to ensure that the Italian police force has proof in case this criminal American decides to disrupt the peace of Teramo.

My appointment was at 9:48. But everything except the trains runs late in Italy. So it was closer to 10:00 by the time I actually got around to fingerprinting. The process was pretty easy. I didn’t even have to speak to the guy. He would hold up a finger, and I would copy which finger it was and place it on the scanner. When I thought we were done, Rina told me, “Now we come back in 30 minutes.” Great.

So we go across the street to grab a croissant and some tea. 30 minutes later I am taken up to the second floor to do who knows what, along with an African lady, a Chinese lady, and some other white dude who wasn’t American. It was actually pretty funny, because the group of us covered all corners of the world.

I was first in line, so a few minutes later I’m ushered into a room that looks like it should be in a doctor’s office, not a police station.

Holy crap. What are they going to do to me?

Apparently, if it is your first time in Italy (and you are living here for an extended period of time) you have to get fingerprinted twice. So, the nice guy behind the desk asks for my passport and I sit in the chair across from him.

He asks for eye color, well actually looks at my eye color for himself. It took him a little while, because if you have ever seen my eyes up close, they aren’t exactly one color. Some days they are more green. Others they are a light brown. And others they are gold (I’m not kidding). And they always have a grey-blue circle outlining whatever color they decide to be. Rina said, “You have beautiful eyes!” Gee, thanks. :)

Regardless, it took the guy a while to figure out what color my eyes were. And I couldn’t understand what he ultimately decided. I guess I’ll find out once I get my permesso.

Then I had to stand up and get my height measured.

And then my second fingerprinting. Which was more like a hand-printing. I had to do each finger on each hand. Then the thumbs again. Then my 4 fingers pressed together on each hand. Then my entire palm of each hand.

What? Do you want my Social Security number now? Blood sample? Pee in a cup? Geez Louise.

After that, it was over. Pretty painless actually, but I still feel like I have criminal written on my forehead. Although, all foreigners have to do this. Not just Americans. Still, that’s profiling.

However, I STILL did not receive my permesso. I have to return to the police station in 1 month and go in the morning to tell them that I am there to pick up my permesso. Then I have to return that same afternoon to actually pick it up. Thank goodness my legs work just fine. Sounds like I’ll be doing a lot of walking back and forth.

That afternoon I went for a run in the park. It was almost hot and sunny for once. I think I went a full week or more without seeing sun in Teramo. I was suffering from a Vitamin D deficiency. If this keeps up, I might just have to buy a membership to the tanning salon next to my apartment. I mean, vitamins are important, right?

That night Romeo decided he would teach me how to make spaghetti. I was super excited, because I thought there was some fantastic Italian trick that I would learn. For anyone planning to come over here, bear this warning: making spaghetti is exactly the same as making it in the U.S. And Romeo thought he was teaching me something world-shattering. Psh. I could have done that myself.

Friday was a lazy day, except for going running. I think I’m doing better about running than I ever did in the U.S. Perhaps it is because I have so much free time, I may as well fill it with something productive? After running, I checked my mailbox. Something was in there! I pulled it out, and it was for ME!

I go running up the stairs and into my roommate’s room. “I GOT MAIL!” I say excitedly. He smiles, and takes the envelope. I got my first letter in Italy, from my grandmother. It was a Valentine’s Day card and a Zits cartoon, and I think Romeo was laughing at how excited I was. He is slowly figuring out that it doesn’t take much to make me happy. My first letter in Italy can do the trick.

After opening my mail and turning on some music on iTunes, I laid on my bed to cool down after my run. My light was off, and my hand was nowhere near the light switch. The next thing I know, my light randomly turns on. By itself. Freaky. So, I look at it, and turn it off quickly. Now my light switch is backwards…you flip it up to turn the light off and down to turn it on. This is going to drive my OCD crazy.

That night I decided to have chicken nuggets and plain spaghetti noodles for dinner. From a very young age, I have enjoyed plain pasta with butter and salt. No sauce. Nothing fancy. Just incredibly unhealthy pasta. So, I take the spaghetti and my roommate starts telling me that I was doing it wrong. I should make the sauce first and THEN add it to the pasta. I look at him and bluntly say, “I’m not using sauce.”

It was like I had committed the biggest Italian culinary crime in the history of Italian cooking.

Romeo’s face can’t be described. The fact that I would eat pasta sans-sauce completely boggled his mind. “But that’s not how you cook it in Italy!” “I know,” I said. “But this is how I eat it in America.” “I have no words. I’m never going to understand your cooking.” He shakes his head and smiles.

I’m not asking you to, buddy. I know I’m no chef like yourself, but plain pasta and chicken nuggets make me happy. Let me eat in peace. Except that I realized the tiny things of what I thought was butter that I bought in the grocery store turned out to be some funky brown substance with the consistency of Play-Doh. And it smelled TERRIBLE. Good thing I only spent 0.25 Euros on it. No butter for my pasta, I guess.

After dinner, I was getting ready to go out with my friend Davide to get a croissant and just hang out. Greta wanted to go dancing again, but I felt like being a party pooper. Plus, after 2 days of running in a row, I wasn’t sure how much more my legs could take. Dancing in 4 inch high heels until 3 A.M. was out of the question.

It was incredibly windy that night, like a tornado could be coming. Although, they don’t have tornadoes in Italy. Just earthquakes. Are tornadoes just a U.S. thing? Regardless, you could hear the strength of the wind…and if we had the doors to the balconies open, Romeo and I swore we could feel the building swaying. I was about to head out and turn off when my light just shuts off.

So it randomly turns on that afternoon and now randomly turns off? What the heck…

I thought maybe the power had gone off, because the lights had been flickering on and off throughout the evening due to the wind. But the hallway light was still on, so my room was the only one affected.

Just my luck. Have I said that Italy is going to drive me crazy?

I was headed out the door, so I yelled at Romeo about what happened and left my phantom light to enjoy the evening by itself.

When I returned that night, Romeo tried to fix my light. He replaced the bulb. Nothing. It must be something with the electrical wiring. So I stayed on Facebook for 2 hours in complete darkness. I am positive that my bright computer screen in all that darkness took about 5 years off the life of my eyes. Hopefully by that point I can just get replacement corneas. I’m sure they will have the technology by then…

But what was I going to do for the next who-knows-how-many days before we could get someone to come fix my light? Avoid my room at night? I don’t think so. So I decided to buy a light bulb myself and try fixing the light. This afternoon, I come back to my room and screw the bulb in…and EUREKA! LIGHT! I carefully replaced the glass ball that surrounds the bulb, and it starts to flicker. Fantastic. Obviously something is wrong with the connection.

So being a regular Bob the Builder, I turn off the light, remove the glass ball, and look at the connection. It had just come loose, so I screw it a little tighter hoping that was all that was wrong. I cross my fingers and flip my now-backwards switch. And it worked. Dang, I’m awesome.

And up until this point I have had flawless illumination in my tiny Italian room. Okay, Italy, you are back on my good side.

I'm In Food Heaven...

2010-02-17T13:37:00.001-08:00

Davide drove me to his parent’s restaurant. I asked him what was good, searching for a recommendation on what to order. “Everything is good,” he said. Well that doesn’t make anything easier.

I remember something Greta said about Davide’s restaurant having good pizza. And that was a recommendation of his anyways. Pizza it is. Now WHICH pizza? We spend a fun 20 minutes trying to translate the menu, and I decide on a pizza with a spicy salami. It’s the closest thing to American pepperoni that I can find. And I explain to Davide the difference between American pepperoni and Italian pepperoni pizza. He was surprised.

We talked about Carnivale versus Halloween.

We talked about learning other languages.

We talked about the difference between American universities and the University of Teramo.

We talked about biotechnology.

We talked about coffee (neither of us like it. Coffee. Cappucino. Coffee flavored things. Nothing.).

We talked about smoothies versus slushies versus shakes versus malts versus Italian frappes.

We talked about the difference between prosciutto cotto (cooked ham) and prosciutto crudo (dry, cured ham).

And we spent about 20 minutes talking about French fries alone. Not gonna lie, this was one of my favorite parts of our conversation. Italians have 20 kinds of cheese. Americans have 20 kinds of French fries. Regular fries. MacDonald’s fries. Potato wedges. Curly fries. Those teeny-tiny fries at Steak-N-Shake. And waffle fries.

Davide had never heard of waffle fries. So when I explained to him what they were, the look of amazement on his face was priceless. Waffle fries are my favorite, so it made his expression even better. I promised if he ever comes to America, I’ll take him to go get some waffle fries.

In my head I was planning to take him to Chik-Fil-A. He needs the whole chicken/waffle fries/sweet tea experiences. MMMMMmmmm…sweet tea. How I miss thee.

After our 20 minutes spent on French fries, I then spent another 10 minutes on the endless possibilities of cooking potatoes. Davide said they had 2 options for potatoes: cooked with meat in a soup, or cut into French fries, which can then be added on top of pizza. Weird.

These Italians need to open their minds! I told him about potato soup. Baked potatoes. French fries. Potato skins. Mashed potatoes. I felt like such an American. Again, Italians have 20 kinds of cheese, and I get to talk about the endless possibilities of potatoes. I think they win.

The pizza was AMAZING. But absolutely everything I have eaten in Italy has been amazing. Except for these stuffed olives I tried at Anna Giulia’s house. I don’t like olives, but I tried them to be polite. I probably won’t try them again…

We had a dessert that is a secret recipe of Davide’s family. Something similar to ice cream with almonds and chocolate drizzled on top. I thought I was in heaven. I was sad to leave the lovely little restaurant, but Davide wants me to try other things on the menu. So he promised that we would come back.

Plus, it’s his restaurant. So he didn’t have to pay. He can probably afford to bring me back.

This morning I woke up and walked to the main administrative building of the University to stop by the International Relations office. I sent an e-mail 3 or 4 days before, and still had no response. I figured I would just have to make a personal appearance.

All I needed was for one of them to take me to somebody named Daniela Musa to get a username and password for the University’s library wireless internet. When I get there, they tell me it’s not possible. WHAT.

I have to have the wireless Internet to do my online class. I have to do this online class to get credit at UCA. You have got to be kidding me.

Apparently, I cannot get a username for the wireless because I do not have a school e-mail. And I do not have a school e-mail because I am not a student at the University of Teramo.

Excuse me. I am taking classes, and doing homework, and taking exams at your University. How can you tell me that I’m not a student? How are you going to get other international students to come if they cannot use your facilities like any Italian student? The library’s wireless internet should be available for any student taking classes at the University, which would include me. Whether I am American or not.

Excuse my language, but they need to get their shit together.

Yes. I just cursed (which is odd for me). And on Ash Wednesday, no less. I am a terrible person. But I think the Lord will forgive me, because at this point I am just frustrated beyond all belief. I left the office incredibly upset, on the verge of tears because I couldn’t figure out how I was going to manage to keep in touch with my friends and family and finish an online class with only my lousy 3 hours of Internet at day. I stormed to the bus stop to catch a ride to the University. Maybe Marcello could help me. I planned on talking to him about it at lunch.

I arrived at the University about 10 minutes late for my meeting with another professor. I am usually early in America. But this public transportation thing is throwing me off. You either have to get to the University incredibly early, or late. Because no bus can get you there only 5 minutes before you need to be. Man, I wish I had a car.

I met with Professor Silvia Salvatici, who will be guiding me through my independent study on Women’s and Gender history.

I already LOVE her.

She did research in America the entire last semester, and her English is practically fluent and easy to understand. She is super thin, with this shocking black curly hair and a rather loud voice. We are going to get along. I’m reading a textbook published last month, and my job is to talk to her about it. Not only about the subject, but whether I liked it or not, because she is thinking about using the Italian translation for this very class in the Fall. Once again, I am the guinea pig. But growing up as the oldest of three, I am used it; I’ve actually come to like being a trailblazer.

After my meeting with Silvia, I already felt better. I traveled back into the city to meet with Marcello for lunch. On the way there I grabbed a Snickers. This stressful morning deserved chocolate. I got 4 passport photos taken and printed for when I go to get fingerprinted at the police station for that ridiculous permesso. And I walked to the main administrative building to meet Marcello.

He was right on time.

I told him about how I couldn’t get access to the wireless Internet and looked just as surprised as I was. I told him the reason, because I wasn’t “a student of the University,” and he said exactly what I thought: “But you are.” Then he started explaining how if they wanted to have other student come from abroad, they need to open their facilities, and how me being here is revealing problems in the system that need to be fixed. One of the negatives of being a trailblazer. But, I guess I’m happy to help!

Plus, he said that he would see what he could do about getting me an Internet log-on, even if that meant getting the University president’s approval.

If he can make this happen, Marcello is officially a saint.

We had lunch at a small restaurant. Nothing fancy. Actually, quite the opposite. But, true to Marcello’s word, the food was absolutely incredible! He laughed at my surprise that there was a second course, telling me that usually there is a third course as well.

Then he explained the art of drinking wine in Italy. You have it with your meal, on a normal basis. You don’t start drinking until you have started your meal. It should make your pasta taste better. And ideally it is gone by the time you finish your meal.

I’m learning a lot today!

We had spaghetti and meatballs for the first course (my first spaghetti in Italy!), followed by a second course of steak with lemon and cooked spinach. I was full and very much in food heaven. During the meal we discussed my plans after graduation, Kindles, how old people don’t understand technology, and made plans for me to come to Florence with him and meet his girlfriend and daughter. Then we talked about the possibility of me helping him recruit Italian students to go to the U.S., and I said that I would love to! I love telling Davide about the difference between Italy and America, and I love hearing him say, “I have GOT to go to America.”

I know. We are pretty awesome.

Then I have homework. Write down my experience up until now. What to worry about. What not to worry about. What could be fixed. I told him he could just read my blog, and I’m sure he’ll get most of what I am going to write. So I’ll give him both!

He is a very busy man. So after lunch, as he went to advise students on their theses, he dropped me off at the bus stop, apologizing that he could drive me back into town himself and promising me that we would be in touch

I have a feeling that we will be good friends, he and I.

Hard Classes and Hot Chocolate

2010-02-17T13:31:00.000-08:00

Sociology. Economics. Student. Therefore. Men. Woman. Firm. Cell phone. Signature. Okay then. Important distinction. So. People. Chocolate? No that can’t be right, I’m just hungry. In fact, I have such a headache from listening to this 3-hour long lecture in Italian, that I could use some chocolate at this point.

I attended my first class at the University on Monday night. I’m definitely not a night person. I try to avoid night classes at all costs when at school in the U.S. But when you register for classes at the University of Teramo, you don’t get to choose your teacher or class time. There is one teacher for that specific class offered at one, and only one, time. So, the rest of my Monday nights in Italy shall be spent with Professor Burroni and the Sociologia della Communicazione Aziendale (Sociology of Business Communication).

Chicken? Did he just say something about chicken? Oh forget it. My head is throbbing by this point, but I don’t know whether it is from hunger or from the fact that my brow has been furrowed for the past 2 hours and 15 minutes trying to decipher any random word of Italian that I can pick out. Perhaps it is a combination of the two.

I certainly hope this gets better. It is very interesting to sit through an Italian University class. From the size of the rooms, I expected my class to be full of 60 or 70 eager Italian students, ready to embark upon the world of business communication. However, my class is about 16 people large (including me, the lone American), which makes for a more personal setting, yes, and also makes me feel even more that I am the only person not understanding.

Thank goodness he uses PowerPoint.

At least I’ll be able to go back home, hop on the Internet, and translate everything I have written down. If I could manage to get everything written down. What frustrates me the most is that I can write down only what is on the slides. In America, I write down the main slide bullet points and additionally copy down some of the teacher’s lecture points. I have no idea what he is saying in his lecture, so my notes consist of only the PowerPoint. And I have to write FAST to get everything on those slides before he moves on to the next one.

I’m going to get arthritis.

Monday night was syllabus day, so we were only in class for 2 hours, not 3. From what I could understand, Professor Burroni simply explained what the class would cover, how to get in touch with him, the difference between frequent and non-frequent students (wait, there’s an OPTION?), the requirements of the course, and what Sociologia della Communicazione Aziendale means.

I figured out what to do when I e-mail him.

I figured out the 3 main requirements for the class (well, THAT’S good).

I figured out that Italian students apparently have the option of not coming to class after a certain point, and it’s actually okay.

I figured out that I have a bad habit of biting my fingernails when I’m bored.

I figured out that I should probably keep a bottle of Tylenol on me at all times during this class, because focusing on understanding Italian gives me a headache.

And that was only Monday night. The next morning, I returned to the University for class from 9:30-12:30. I was going to try really hard to figure out what the professor was saying. I was fervently flipping through my dictionary at every word I didn’t understand…which means I was fervently flipping through my dictionary for 3 hours. Okay, I lie. After about 1 hour, I stopped the dictionary hunting and just looked up words on the PowerPoint slides that looked important. I’ll translate the rest when I get home. There goes an hour of my valuable Internet time…

I decided I would treat myself to Italian hot chocolate that evening. I had other errands to run, and a mid-afternoon nap was calling my name. So, I woke up around 5:00, re-straightened my hair, and headed out to the Grande Italia bar (not American alcohol bar, more like a sandwich/sweets/pub/restaurant all rolled into one) to have some hot chocolate.

I like this place. My 2 friends Beverly and Hasta from Italian lessons and I came here Monday morning to relax and just hang out. Beverly is 18 from Canada, and just living in Italy for the heck of it. I very much admire her, because I would not be able to do that at 18 years old. Granted, she is living with a host family, so her transition is perhaps easier than mine. But she is planning to stay here for 9 months. Just to live abroad. I have a feeling 5 months are going to kill me, but 9? She why I admire her? Hasta moved to Teramo with her Italian boyfriend, after the earthquake in L’Aquila destroyed practically everything recently. She is originally from Lithuania and can speak Lithuanian, Russian, English, and is learning Italian and I believe Chinese? In short, she can speak more languages that I can imagine. I’m struggling with 2.3 (the .3 is for my limited knowledge of Spanish). So I admire her too.

Regardless, Monday I took them to the Grande Italia, because neither had tried hot chocolate yet. I felt so proud when I ordered in Italian and the lady understood me! We each got something different, spent an hour chatting, trying each others drinks, and sharing the two plates of shortbread cookies adorably shaped as hearts and stars.

So, I figured I could handle going to this same restaurant and ordering the same exact thing without a problem. Guess what?

This Tuesday night in particular was (1) Fat Tuesday, (2) Carnivale, and (3) raining. Therefore, all the little Italian munchkins that would normally be running around dressed in costumes spraying each other with silly string and tossing bags of confetti around the town decided to sit in the Grande Italia. On a normal night, I could go in alone and enjoy my hot chocolate with a few others.

Tonight, I had to fight to find a seat. Then I was the only person alone in that restaurant. Surrounded by pairs of women chatting away and tables full of Italian youths, I felt like the ugly girl in high school who had no friends.

But I am young and alive and vibrant and pretty! I have boys asking for my phone number all the time! I’m not this loner you see!

Too bad I don’t know how to say that in Italian.

The waitress came over to take my order. I confidently said, “Classica Oro.” She looked at me with an expression that said, “What are you talking about?” So I pointed to it on the the menu. It seemed like she still didn’t understand. I pronounced it correctly and I’m pointing to it right here! How hard is this?!

“Do you speak English?”

Holy crap. I must have foreigner plastered all over me.

“Yes.” I said dejectedly, feeling my confidence in my Italian ordering skills wash away with the lousy Mardi Gras rain. “Would you like whipped cream?” Oh, that already makes things better! “Please!” I say.

In America, whipped cream on your hot chocolate is free. Not in Italy. It costs .30 euros. Darn.

I decide to do some window-shopping to kill some time before dinner at 8:15 with my friend Davide. I walk out of the Grande Italia, and the next thing I know some young guy is coming up to me babbling off something in Italian. I look at him and say, “HUH?” Firma. Oh signature. Must be some petition. No thanks, I say. I have no idea what you are saying, do you think I’m going to sign your petition? I could totally be agreeing for you to kidnap me and sell me into sex slavery like on Taken. Except I don’t have some Liam Neeson to kick serious butt and save me. I don’t think so, buddy.

I headed home after my hot chocolate and fruitless shopping trip. I had a Skype date with my roommate Emileigh. I was very much looking forward to it.

I log onto Skype, and my grandfather calls. It never fails. When I log on, I can almost always expect him to call. I like it though. Certain constants while I’m over can make these 5 months bearable. :) Plus, my grandfather is pretty cool guy, not gonna lie. Emileigh logs on, and we spend the next 20 minutes fighting with my sketch Italian Internet. First it would connect, but she couldn’t hear me. Then I was like a bad cell phone signal. Then my Internet just quits randomly. So, I finally give it one more time, and SUCCESS! We didn’t get to talk nearly long enough, because we lost the first half of our date time just trying to connect. At least we got to talk about the nice Conway weather, the crappy Teramo weather, stupid boy problems, stupid boys, and periods. I love my Skype dates with Emileigh.

Then my friend Davide texted me. He was outside. It was time for dinner.

Do Italians Not Sweat?

2010-02-14T11:24:00.000-08:00

I think this is going to be a regular thing, going out dancing on the weekends. My friend Greta takes me out on Friday with 7 of her friends to the dance club she, Davide, Anna Giulia, and I went to last Saturday. It was 40 degrees outside, but I donned a short-sleeved shirt. I knew I would get hot dancing, so there was no point in trying to wear a long-sleeved top. I notice that all the Italians, however, have long sleeves on. Great. Another thing to make me stand out, not like there isn’t enough already.

We dance all night, if you could call it dancing. The dance floor was so packed, that it was more of a communal swaying back and forth. I like dancing in Italy though. The boys don’t randomly come up behind you, grab your hips, and get with it. There IS a thing called a personal bubble! Plus, there wasn’t much room for guys to maneuver behind the girls. Like I said, one swaying mass of Italians (and me).

By the end of the night, more like early morning, my feet were screaming, and my hair was no longer hanging over my shoulders, completely straight. It was in a nasty ponytail, my bangs no longer bangs, but swept back with the rest of my hair. In short, I looked a hott mess.

But does Greta? Or any of the other girls I came with? Of course not. There is a slight gleam on their foreheads, but their hair is still as straight as ever. Ridiculous. These girls make my fashion look like a slob’s and now they don’t sweat. Perfect.

I get home at 4:00 that morning, and sleep. I set my alarm for 2:00 the next afternoon, thinking I could definitely use the 10 hours of sleep.

Of course I can’t. I have to wake up at 11:45.

There is this thing about Italians and car horns. Apparently, they like to honk them, no matter the time of morning, day or night. So, I am awakened by this inane car honking outside of my window. And it’s not just one time. It repeats, like each horn is communicating to the other. I squeeze my eyes shut and roll over to the other side of the pillow. Until the church bells begin ringing.

Are you freaking kidding me?

I haven’t mentioned it, but there is an old church right down the road from me. I am convinced that it is open to the public, because the bells will start ringing at random times of the day. And they never ring the time, like the main church of the city does. No, they just “DING DONG DING DONG DING DONG………” for what seems like an eternity, and usually during the times I am trying to sleep. I can just imagine little Italian boys, up to no good, hanging off the ropes of the church bells like Quasimodo, up and down and up and down, laughing the entire time. All the while waking this cranky American from her sleep. This better not continue, but I have a bad feeling it will.

I am up earlier than I originally planned, so I grab Confessions of Shopaholic and proceed to finish it as well. Crap. I am down to only 2 more books, and I’ve only been in Italy for 17 days. Amazon.com may become my new best friend.

That night, I was getting ready to go out with Anna Giulia and some of her friends to a concert. I blow dry my hair, cool off, and turn on my straightener. It won’t turn on. OH NO. Danielle’s straightener wouldn’t turn on in the hotel….MY CHI CAN’T BE BROKEN.

I push the reset button. Nothing.

I plug the straightener directly into the outlet, instead of through my splitter. Nothing.

I push the reset button again. And again. And again. Nothing.

I lay down on my bed, tears welling up in the corner of my eyes. This can’t be happening. I am going out tonight, my hair looks like a lion’s mane, and my expensive straightener is broken. FML.

I weigh my options.

Option 1: pull my hair back and go on with my night. There is no way that is happening. Even when I wear a ponytail it is sleek and shiny. Not a tamed lion’s mane.

Option 2: run to the nearest technology store, hope they have a decent straightener, and buy it. But then I’m spending money, and when I come back to America it will have those funky European outlet ends and I will have to spend more money on an adapter or even more money on a new straightener.

Option 3: Order a new one online and have it shipped here. But if it’s shipped to Italy, will they automatically give me one with those funky European outlet ends? Plus it will take WEEKS to get here. My hair cannot be curly for weeks.

Option 4: have my mom order one from America, then ship it here. Again, WEEKS to get here. Not a plausible option.

I plop back onto my pillow, dejected. Okay, maybe it’s the wiring. I know the cable going into the actual plug itself is kinda coming out. I’ll check the connection. I squat down to analyze the connection and notice something.

The cable isn’t coming out.

And it’s a lot thicker than the one on my Chi.

My hair dryer is still plugged in. Wow.

I plug my straightener in this time, and breathe a sigh of relief when that little red light begins to flicker. And I go to the concert with perfectly straight, silky hair. Still, every time my straightener doesn’t turn on, I freak out just a little bit. I check to make sure the tiny green charge light on my computer is on. And every time it is not…so the adapter has come loose. At least it’s not my straightener.

The concert that night was interesting. An Italian “rock” concert…complete with 3-part brass band. It was fun just hanging out with Anna Giulia and her friends, and I mostly enjoyed watching the Italians jump around and look like fools. Looks like moshing hasn’t changed either.

And today, another Valentine’s Day spent alone. Sigh. I should be used to this by now. I’ve spent 20 out of 21 Valentine’s Days sans Valentine. Actually, today didn’t even feel like Valentine’s Day to me. It is a Sunday, so the town is empty. Which made it a perfect day for running. No one was outside, no cars to nearly run me over, and a park to share with only 6 or 7 other people.

Tonight, I am spending quality time with chicken nuggets, iTunes and Facebook. Hopefully people aren’t busy at 1:00 in the afternoon on their Valentine’s Day in America. I hate spending Valentine’s Day alone. ;)

I Miss Wal-Mart

2010-02-14T11:22:00.000-08:00

My week started off nicely. Nothing to do on Sunday and Monday but be a lazy bum. That is, until my dear friend Jordan sent me a Facebook message about my blog. “You do know they use km per hour over there, don’t you? So they are actually going closer to 70 mph.” Blast. And I thought Italians drove so much faster…it certainly SEEMED like we were flying. I probably drive faster than them after all…

Tuesday I had Italian lessons at 10:00. Correction: I would have had Italian lessons, had my phone alarm gone off. Instead, I wake up at 9:46, sigh, and call my teacher. I’ve GOT to remember that on this lousy phone you have to “enable” said alarm. You can’t just put in the time, you have to tell it to turn on. Lame.

Since I no longer had a lesson, I picked up The Host and proceeded to spend the next 3 hours finishing the book. Well, that’s half my day gone. I decide to shower, and actually get something accomplished in Italy: grocery shopping.

I walk to the nearest grocer and think, “This shouldn’t be too hard. Grab what I need, have the employee scan, say ‘Grazie, ciao,’ and be on my way.” Apparently nothing is easy as I think in Italy. I walk over to the produce section, desiring fresh apples, tomatoes and lettuce. I wrap them up in a nice plastic baggie, and proceed around the store grabbing everything else on my shopping list.

I make my way over to the register, plop all my items on the conveyor belt, and pull out my wallet. The next thing I know, the cashier is asking me something in Italian and holding up my tomatoes. I look at her trying to decipher the gobble-dee-gook coming out of her mouth. Did I pick the wrong tomatoes? Am I supposed to take an entire stalk instead of picking off the best ones for myself? There was no way I was taking some of those bruised ones home with me. When I point to the place I got them, she rolls her eyes, grabs my 3 bags of fresh produce, and walks over there. She comes back with 3 white stickers newly placed on my bags.

OH. The registers don’t have scales on them.

How was I supposed to know? I saw the scale over there, and assumed the lady using it was just trying to see the weight of her produce. That’s what those scales are for in Wal-Mart, right? Had I been slightly more creepy and watched the entire process, I would have realized that the scales print out this nifty little tag with the weight and price of your produce. That’s it. All rules on being creepy are off in Italy. If creeping on a lady in the supermarket is what it takes to save me from looking like the foreigner I am (or the blonde I am…I’m not sure which vibe I give off more over here), then creeping here I come.

That was my one embarrassment for the week. At least it’s only one…it could be worse.

Wednesday afternoon I met with Marcello, the man Danielle has been e-mailing back and forth for the past semester, the head honcho of the International Relations department, and just so happens to be the Chair of the Communication Sciences Department! Essentially, this is the guy that I can run to with any problems, international-wise and education-wise. He is a very nice man, older, distinguished, with a good sense of humor and a warm face.

He’s also genuinely concerned with my well being while in Italy. I like this guy already.

We talk about my classes, and apparently Italian classes are 6 hours long. They are usually taught in 3-hour periods, twice a week. So my desire to take 5 classes over here (what I though to be equivalent to 5 classes in the U.S.) is INSANE. 30 hours of school, plus a language barrier, plus homesickness = a very unhappy Anna. 3 classes it is.

Marcello also emphasizes that he wants me to explore Italy while I am here, not just get stuck in the tiny town of Teramo. So he offers to give me a ride to Florence when he visits his home in the country out there. What IS it with these people having 2 houses? Anna Giulia and her Giulianova beach home/ridiculous loft in Teramo and now Marcello with his downtown abode in Teramo/country home in Florence. Now I want 2 houses.

I tell him I would love the opportunity (that saves me a bus ticket and gives me more time in Florence), and we agree to arrange it sometime when he is back in Teramo. He’s a busy man, apparently. But he assures me that he wants to see me 2 or 3 times a month just to check in on me and get to know me as a person. See what I mean about genuinely concerned? I’m not just another number.

I think the fact that I am the FIRST American student at Teramo may have something to do with my special treatment. But I don’t mind. I’m the first American at the University. Ever. I’m like a celebrity.

Okay, maybe not. I’m just the blonde girl in the red coat who doesn’t speak Italian. But celebrity status takes some time to earn. I’ve got time.

The Jersey Shore Fist Pump

2010-02-08T08:25:00.001-08:00

This past weekend was lazy. And I loved it. I had nothing to do Friday. I woke up around 11:00, and got suckered into helping Romeo clean up the kitchen from the mess he and his friends left the previous night. Good thing I’m a decent person. Haha

Two of Romeo’s friends stayed the night in the apartment. Mossimo is a fantastic cook, so I didn’t mind cleaning up the kitchen if that meant that he was cooking breakfast. And Filipo, my admirer. Filipo comes into the kitchen and says, “Very, very beautiful.” I think that may be the only English he knows. Regardless he managed to translate, “Do you have a boyfriend?” When I couldn’t exactly say yes, he said, “I am your boyfriend over here.” I apparently didn’t have a choice. I guess that’s how things work over here?

Mossimo serves an amazing breakfast of peppers and eggs, and some sort of meat in a piece of bread. I can’t adequately explain it, but man do those Italians know how to cook! After we finished, we cleaned up and Romeo went back to his hometown, taking Mossimo and my new boyfriend with him. I had the place to myself. I spent most of that night on Facebook, and slept in on Saturday. Lazy weekends in Italy are wonderful.

Saturday night I went out with Greta and Anna Giulia. We went to Greta’s cousin’s 18^th birthday party. We danced between a bunch of teenagers, we three 20-year-olds. And I did the Jersey Shore fist pump with Italians. It’s not quite as dramatic as Vinny does it on the show, but we still fist pumped. After that moment, my night was complete.

Italians do not eat birthday cake, at least in the American sense. The birthday “cake” was a collection of round golf-ball sized pastries in a cold whipped cream confection. And a big 18 was made out of sugar and almonds. It was delicious, but pretty much everything I’ve eaten over here has been. I’ve come to expect nothing less. But, I’ll admit, I miss legit birthday cake. It must be an American thing.

Afterwards, we headed down to the club underneath where the birthday party was being held. Davide had arrived by that point, and our group was complete. We made it in, and found our way to the dance floor. But people weren’t up and grinding on each other…they were legit dancing. Like the salsa and tango and such. It was awesome. Davide and I went out to dance, and I think I did more of the leading than he did. He admitted that he wasn’t very good. That was okay with me. His two left feet made me laugh.

The four of us were hanging out on the side of the dance floor when I saw him…my perfect man. He was on the dance floor with a girl. And he moved so perfectly. I couldn’t tell if he was shorter than me. He was taller than his dance partner, but at the same time I tower over a lot of Italian women. Would I tower over him? That didn’t matter. He was tan. And beautiful. And single. How did I know this? He had a different dance partner every song. He did not come with someone.

Alas, I did not get my chance to dance with him. We left the club soon after that. But I think we locked eyes once. Goodbye my perfect man. It is probably for the best…Filipo would be jealous.

Once back in Teramo we returned to the same cornetta shop the four of us had visited a couple nights before. Anna Giulia tells me, “Stay by me, okay?” I guess a naïve American is no good alone on the streets of Teramo at 2:00 in the morning. At least I have 3 friends to accompany me! I got a croissant with raspberries and whipped cream this time. Still just as amazing. Afterwards, we called it a night. Anna Giulia and Greta dropped me off at my apartment, and I headed upstairs.

By this point, my feet were screaming in protest to the high heels I wore. I took them off and changed into my pajamas. My bed looked so comfortable. I didn’t even try to Facebook creep before I went to bed. Plus, I think I had already used my 3 hours for the day. Lousy Internet. Not thinking about that anymore, I curled under my covers and closed my eyes, hoping to dream of my perfect man that I locked eyes with on the dance floor. Sigh. :)

"Very, Very Beautiful"

2010-02-08T08:23:00.002-08:00

The rest of the week was pretty normal. I went to my Italian lessons on Tuesday and Thursday, and visited multiple professors at the University to line up my classes. Outside of that, I spent most of my time reading in my room, since I didn’t have Internet. Now THAT is a story.

Anna Giulia and I went together to get my Internet set up. Italy has a terrible Internet situation, and most people must use a wireless “key” to get an Internet connection. Essentially, this gadget plugs into your USB port and, voila! Internet. However, every time you log on, you “use” 15 minutes more than the time you spend on the Internet. If I log on 4 times during a day, that 1 hour that I had used, despite the time I spend actually ON the Internet. I only have 100 hours a month (about 3 hours a day), so I try to only log on once or twice a day for about 2 or 3 hours at a time. The next option was 400 hours a month, but I don’t need 12 hours of Internet a day! I guess this will be good for me.

Wednesday night, Anna Giulia took me to a pub to meet 2 of her friends: Greta and Davide. I like them. :) They speak English, and are very welcoming. I had just met them, and Greta asks me, “So what are we doing tomorrow night?” New friends. I love it. We made plans to go to one of Greta’s friend’s parties in Giulianova, a small town about 20 minutes from Teramo.

We left the pub and walked the streets of Teramo, Anna Giulia and Greta singing Madonna’s “Like a Virgin” and Davide and I pretending not to know them. However, when they played Shakira’s “She Wolf” I couldn’t help but join in. They taught me new Italian words, like how to say “shut up,” “get away from me,” and “f*** off.” Enlightening.

We stopped by a local cornetta (croissant) shop and ate some pastries to hold us over. I had a powdered suger-topped roll filled with fragola e panna (strawberries and whipped cream). Wow. That stuff could go straight to your hips. That’s okay, I walk virtually EVERYWHERE in this town. I think I’m actually LOSING weight.

Thursday night rolls around. Greta, Davide and I are going out. My roommate Romeo tells me that his friends are coming over for dinner, and that he will head back to his hometown with them the next day. Just as I was about to leave, 6 or 7 Italian guys come through my front door. Must be Romeo’s friends. I introduced myself, and sat around until Davide texted me letting me know they were outside. I halfway wanted to stay behind…this looked like a fun group. But Giulianova beckoned!

Davide drove Greta and me to Giulianova. I thought we were going to a party, but we ended up going to a bar (again, sandwich shop not the American equivalent) and I ordered hot chocolate. Note: hot chocolate in Italy is not like American hot chocolate. It is more like hot chocolate pudding. And absolutely delicious.

Then we walked along the port. Greta told me that from Teramo you can reach the mountains in 15 minutes and the beach in 15 minutes. I love Italy. I joked around with my 2 new friends, and learned how to say “the fish are sleeping”: Il pesci dormano. They promised to bring me back to the coast when it gets warmer. Apparently Anna Giulia’s family has a beach house that they will take us to. Summer, get here NOW.

We drove back to Teramo, never stopping by the party but completely satisfied with our nighttime beach walk. I thought I drove fast, but I drive like an old lady in comparison to the Italians. Then again, their speed limits are faster than America. The speed limit is 90 mph usually, with it rising to 110 mph at one point. 110 mph? That’s allowed? I LOVE it here. Davide went 130 mph most of the drive. No wonder Italians get places so quickly. I don’t mind. I drive fast when I’m back home anyways…I felt completely at ease.

Davide and Greta dropped me off at my apartment, and I waved goodbye. I headed up to my room, my hair completely curled because of the seaside humidity. I opened the door and could hear boys. Romeo and his friends were still here. I went to my room to get ready for bed, and one of the boys came by to use the restroom. “Ciao!” he said.

The next thing I knew, 6 or 7 drunk Italian boys were surrounding me trying to talk. They said I was very beautiful, apologized for not speaking English, and one in particular, Filipo, kept trying to take pictures with me. He gave me a receipt, and I did not realize it’s significance until another of the friends pointed out that it had Filipo’s cell phone number on it. I already got my first number…how easy was that? Filipo was also the one to keep repeating, “very, very beautiful.” I come home to a bunch of guys telling me how beautiful I am?

I think I'm going to like it here. ;)

You Could Get Deported

2010-02-08T08:23:00.001-08:00

Danielle and I arrived at the International Relations office the next morning. Then our entire morning was spent running around Teramo to get things prepared for my stupid permesso.

In Italy, if you plan to live there for more than 3 months, you must go through this grueling process to apply for what is termed a permesso. It is a document saying, “Yes, you can reside in Italy for x amount of time.” Basically, without it, I could be deported. Oh, yeah, and you have to have it turned in within 8 days of your arrival.

The permesso asks for a copy of the full passport (all 20-something pages, even blank ones), pictures of the applicant, and copies of every document one must send to the Consulate when applying for a visa. Good gosh, isn’t the fact that I HAVE a visa good enough for you people? I was so stressed I almost started crying. I’m halfway around the world; there is no possible way I can gather all those documents in 8 days.

Additionally, Paola had to take us to get a “fiscal code” for my apartment. I still don’t understand why I had to have one. But I’m not asking questions. I got one. I gave it to my landlord. I’m not getting deported. The end.

Needless to say, I spent the next 3 mornings in the International Relations office trying to fill out this permesso. We found out that the fact that I have a visa should be sufficient for all those copies, I just needed to fill out the application. Which was in Italian. Thank goodness I had a translator. When I finished it, I had to go to the post office to turn the application in. Alone. Wonderful.

It was a relatively easy process, I just signed where I needed to sign and paid when I had to. At least I understood passaporto. Another thing I’ve noticed in Italy: Everyone I have given my passport to comments on how bellissima (beautiful) it is. Are Italian passports ugly? I mean, my passport is pretty, but I didn’t think it was that extraordinary. I guess we Americans do it good. ;)

That Monday afternoon, Danielle boarded a bus to Florence for her remaining 3 days. I said goodbye, and tried to hold back the tears I felt welling up inside. But I couldn’t. I was nervous and scared. She had been here with me through the entire trip, and now I was utterly alone in a town where the majority does not speak English. I turned from the bus wiping away my tears and started heading towards my apartment, when I heard my name. What the heck?

It was my roommate Romeo. He asked if I was okay, and I said yes. Then he told me he was going to study at the University, but assured me that he would be home that evening. I said thanks and headed back to my new home.

I spent the evening unpacking and called Anna Giulia. We would go out and get coffee or something. I could definitely use the company.

The Weekend

2010-02-08T08:21:00.000-08:00

The next morning Danielle and I woke up, showered, and met Paola to sign my lease. After signing all the dotted lines and handing over a copy of my passport, I was official. I legitimately live in Teramo, Italy. Paola then drove us to a little building on the other side of town. I was introduced to Francesca, the local Italian teacher. I would take lessons with her to learn Italian. Bene (good).

I would start Tuesday.

Danielle and I then left Paola to enjoy the rest of her weekends sans Americans and walked the streets. Saturday mornings, the streets shut down for the market. You could find some AWESOME Christmas gifts at these things. I think I’ll be spending quite a few Saturday mornings out on the streets of Teramo. After perusing the streets and finding a new shirt, we searched for somewhere to eat. Danielle wanted pizza, so we dropped by a pizzeria next to my apartment. Except that they weren’t serving pizza in the middle of the afternoon. Wonderful. We had shrimp and pasta, which was about as good as pizza would have tasted. There was a cute cook who came out to take our order, and asked if the bread was good. We told him it was buono (delicious), and he beamed, saying that he baked it himself. I love Italians. We thanked the staff for the meal, as we were the only 2 people in the restaurant. Must have been that middle-of-the-day naptime for the rest of the Italians. As we left the restaurant, the owner came running out with 2 cookies for us, free of charge. How sweet. :)

That night, on Danielle’s request, we had pizza. Italian pizza is not like American pizza, and from reading a nifty little travel book, I knew not to order “pepperoni” unless you wanted green and red peppers on your pizza. Danielle did not know this. I laughed when she looked at the pepperoni pizza, so unlike the pepperoni in America. Maybe I should have said something, but I didn’t realize what she had ordered until it was too late. I watched the pizza man cut the pizza with scissors (yes, SCISSORS) and sat down with Danielle to enjoy my first piece of Italian pizza. Buono.

We were told that the city shuts down on Sundays. They weren’t kidding. Danielle and I slept until noon, then decided to roam the city around 3:00. It was like a ghost town. We were starving, but none of the restaurants were open. Luckily the bars (sandwich shops in Italy, not like bars in America) were still open, so I grabbed a prosciutto panino (ham sandwich) and Danielle a pizza and insalata con tuna (tuna salad). Then we walked the town, taking pictures like the tourists we were. If it’s not enough that I am blonde and have a bright red coat (I had noticed that most people wore black and brown coats around Teramo), the fact that I am taking pictures of every little thing labels me: foreigner.

Sunday night one of Paola’s friends that we had dinner with, Stefania, took us to visit her sister and niece, who spoke English. That’s when I met Anna Giulia, and knew that I had found one of my new Italian best friends. She spoke very good English, and our personalities seemed to click right away. We talked a little with Anna Giulia and her mother, then Stefania drove us to the Gran Sasso shopping mall. Yes!

We shopped that evening, and I found charcoal gray dress pants for 5 Euros at H&M. Pretty much a steal. We went to Burger King that night, and I thought, “Okay, if I ever need America, at least I can come to Burger King.” And after a long night, we headed back into town. We had a lot of formal paperwork to fill out on Monday.

I had NO idea how stressful it was going to be.

Our First Afternoon

2010-02-08T08:18:00.000-08:00

We meet Paola in the lobby at 4:00. She says that she can give us a tour and take us around to find an apartment tonight. Already? I’m excited.

So we meet her again an hour later, and she takes us to the first apartment. It is an ADORABLE little home, but definitely too big for only one person. And quite out of my price range. The next apartment we visit already has 3 boarders, with one room open. Roommate? Sweet. Oh yeah, 1 roommate is a girl and the other 2 are guys. OH….

I decide to check it out anyways. We meet one of the boarders, Romeo, and he takes us up to the room. It is PERFECT. Besides the fact that I might be living with 2 guys. But I have a brother. I think I can handle it. I’m shown my room. It’s tiny, but exactly what I need for only 5 months. And I have roommates, instant friends. This is just what I need. So I tell Paola that this is perfect. The only problem: the lease is for 6 months, and I’m only in Italy for 5. I’m not willing to pay 200 euros for a month that I’m not going to be here. Paola works a deal with the landlord, and I get the room. One thing off my to-do list accomplished within 12 hours of landing in Teramo. Not bad.

Afterwards, we get a tour of the city at night, and Paola takes us to the University. It’s very unlike universities in America. It is simply 2 buildings to house classrooms, a library, and faculty offices. Not to mention that it is completely removed from the city of Teramo, sitting on a giant hill overlooking the cute little town. The administrative offices and International Relations office are in a separate building in the middle of town. Not that I’ll be going there much after the semester starts.

After visiting the University, we head back into town to pick up some of Paola’s friends. We are going to dinner.

We go to a restaurant on top of the hill, the 2 Americans and 6 Italians. I didn’t understand 80% of the conversation all night. But the experience was wonderful. At the restaurant, they kept bringing out food. I though it would never end. First was bread and fried cheese. I though cheese couldn’t get any unhealthier, but the Italians find a way: Fry it.

It made me sick to my stomach just looking at it.

But I tried it, and it was good! I couldn’t eat half of it though. All that cheese, all that grease. I shudder inside. Then came the bread and ham. Followed by more appetizers. Followed by our dinner.

I ordered what I thought were lemon scallops…imagine my surprise when I was brought lemon-scalloped steak. Better than what I was expecting! But I had already filled my stomach with yummy Italian appetizers. By some miracle I managed to find room to eat half my lemon-scalloped steak. Then dessert. Holy crap, do these Italians ever stop eating? How do they stay so skinny?

Of course I can’t say no to dessert. And I am certainly glad I didn’t. I tried tiramisu for the first time, and was in heaven when I dove into this chocolate-cake-thing. Danielle and I get up to pay when everyone is leaving, and are told that it is covered. Thank you Marcello from the International Relations office!

They say that Italians like to take their time when eating. We arrived at the restaurant around 8:30 and did not leave until midnight. Danielle and I were close to a zombie-state by this point. Stuffed to the brim with Italian delectables and probably suffering from jet lag. We would get to sleep a little bit, but we had to meet Paola at 10:30 to go sign my lease.

We drag ourselves into the lobby, grab our key from the gentleman behind the front desk, say “Grazie, buenanotte” and squeeze ourselves into the tiny elevator. It did not take me long to wash my face, check Facebook, and worm myself under the covers. It had been a long day, and I had another one facing me tomorrow.

Buenanotte, Teramo. See you in the morning.

The Trip

2010-02-08T08:11:00.000-08:00

So I’ve never flown alone. PERIOD. And here I am, facing a 2-transfer flight across the Atlantic. What have I gotten myself into?

Actually, the flight began pretty normally. Said my goodbyes at the Little Rock airport to my teary-eyed mother and Little. I did pretty good with my tears as well…it could have been worse. I get down to where they check your carry-on luggage. Apparently, computers have to come COMPLETELY out of the computer bag. Consequently, I take up FOUR of the ugly gray boxes by myself. Four. Then I set off the beeper when I try to walk through. I take off my belt, and my pants are nearly falling off, because they are a bit too big. At least I didn’t set off the beeper again. I gather all my crap out of the four ugly gray boxes and make my way to Gate 5, with an hour and a half before take-off.

At least I have my computer.

I open my computer, and the first thing that pops up is “You are now running on reserve battery power. Plug your computer into a A/C outlet.” I left my computer on all night. Fantastic. I search the terminal…no outlets. I look across the hall. Eureka! There is an outlet near the floor by Starbucks. So, I truck across the hall, plant my rear end on the floor and plug up my computer. I cannot count the number of stares I got sitting down there. What is so different about someone sitting in the floor with their computer OBVIOUSLY plugged into the wall charging? Geez.

Well, I’m impatient, so once my computer had charged 1/3 of the way (and once my tailbone could no longer take any more pressure from the tile) I made my way over to the gate again. And sat there. Luckily, Danielle (the Study Abroad Coordinator from UCA) showed up and we could talk for a bit. We went through details…she would get to Rome 10 minutes before me, and we would meet in the baggage claim. Easy enough.

“Now seating sections 1 and 2 of flight 5899”

That’s my cue. See you in Rome, Danielle.

My first flight is to Chicago. Not long. I get the window seat (YES!) and a nice elderly lady sits next to me. I pop in my iPod and Stages and Stereos accompany me all the way to the Windy City. We land, but they couldn’t get a gate for our airplane, which “happens in Chicago a lot” apparently. Did I mention that it is 5 degrees Farenheight outside? So I grab my carry-ons, and the right strap of my backpack (recently mended with LOTS of duct tape) decides to rip. Wonderful. One-shouldering my backpack, precariously balancing my computer bag and oboe on my other side, I make my way across the tarmac in 5-degree weather. I get inside, my appendages now frozen, and find my next gate.

Which HAD to be across the Chicago O’Hare airport. Just my luck.

So, with my balanced belongings and only 44 minutes before my next flight takes off, I quickly walk towards that God-forbidden gate. My cell phone is exploding with text messages that I cannot check while I am power walking across O’Hare. Plus, I have 3 layers on, and they like to keep airports heated. I make it to my gate drenched in sweat. I go from 5 degrees outside to sweating now…I’m going to get sick. At the gate I try to fix my backpack strap with no avail. Literally 3 minutes later, “Now seating Sections 1 and 2 of flight 950.” Good gosh can I not get a chance to sit down?

I board my plane. Window seat again (YES!), and this time next to a nice elderly gentleman. Who sleeps the entire way to Washington D.C. Pretty nice for me, and once again Stages and Stereos joins me on the flight. We land in D.C. (getting a gate this time) and I make my way over to the monitors with all the gate numbers listed. I find my flight and once again truck ACROSS the airport, one-shouldering the backpack and balancing the rest of my carry-ons. I find my gate, packed with people. I find a seat, and then realize I should probably use the rest room before my 9-hour flight. I don’t like peeing in the air.

I send my final goodbye text messages and my mother calls me one last time. She tells me to remember every detail of this once-in-a-lifetime trip. Which is part of the reason I decided to blog. I can write out every detail and the lovely Internet can remember them for me! Now boarding all sections of flight 966. That’s me. Goodbye friends. Goodbye family. Goodbye America.

Italy, here I come.

I don’t get a window seat this time, and a girl my age comes down the aisle. She is supposed to sit next to me. We settle in as comfortably as you can for an Economy flight, but she immediately looks around.

“I’m going to go sit up there by myself. Nothing against you,” she says with a smile.

My feelings aren’t hurt at all. I get the window seat and the row to MYSELF. What a nice 9-hour flight.

Pretty uneventful, actually. It took me 20 minutes to figure out that the movies have, like, 30 different channels for different languages. I naturally had to go ALL the way back to find English. And then the movies listed on the bulletin weren’t even the ones playing. And I was definitely looking forward to watching Cloudy With A Chance of Meatballs. Dangit.

So I pop in my iPod for the 3 time today and settle into my rather uncomfortable seat. At least they give you a pillow and a blanket. And since I’m alone in the aisle, I have 2 sets. I definitely use the 2 pillows. I nap on and off. The flight attendants come by 4 or 5 times JUST for drink orders. I’m so used to only 1 offer. I quickly find out that if you ask for water, they pour it for you and you only get that glass. If you ask for a soft drink, they pour it for you and give you the rest of the can. And if you ask for both water AND a soft drink, you get a glass of water and the can of Coke. That’s the way to do it.

Sometime that evening (I’m not sure what time it was…I was jumping time zones all night) they served us dinner. The choices were chicken or pasta. Naturally, coming from Tyson land in Arkansas, I opted for chicken. Tyson does it so much better. The chicken was actually chicken and rice with what was supposed to be green beans and carrots. For some reason it had a distinct taste of curry, and I hate Indian food. So I munch on the chicken, trying to get SOME protein in my system, and pick my way through the wrinkled green beans and soft carrots.

At least the roll and brownie were good. Naturally, the 2 things I don’t need to be eating more of taste the best.

I nap on and off, sometimes cold, sometime hot, with a constant crick in my neck. I wonder if it’s worth paying the extra money for first class? I wake up after my longest nap session to breakfast being served. An apple pastry, yogurt, and juice. This actually tasted delicious. But I’m a fan of pastries…and yogurt…and juice. It’s hard to mess up breakfast.

I look out the window at the little lights that cover the terrain. Flipping to my nifty flight map on the video screen, I see that we are flying over France. Oui. At least if we crash we’ll take a nosedive to land and not into the ocean. That makes me feel a little better, until I notice that we have more water to pass over before landing in Rome. So much for that.

Once we land in Rome, I follow the crowd to the baggage claim. And the signs that have the luggage symbol on them. Easy enough. We have to jump on a tram to the baggage claim. Another lady asks me, “Do you know how to get to the baggage?” “You jump on this tram,” I say, sounding so sure of myself. Wow. I was proud of myself. I totally sounded like I travel to Italy all the time…good thing she didn’t know that I’m a Europe-virgin. We take the tram to the baggage, and I make my way to the seventh claim. Apparently all the American flights dump their loads here, because Danielle is standing there waiting. Ciao!

As we wait for our luggage, I decide to change my American money into Euros. My net worth has now essentially been divided into 2. Awesome. I get to the counter, and exchange my bills. Then I’m told they cannot exchange American coins, and the banks cannot either. WHAT? I’m stuck with $0.87 of useless American change. Maybe I can play Tiddlywinks with them. Grrr…

Danielle and I grab our luggage and make our way to the main lobby. Where do we go now? We make our way up the stairs with all our luggage, and she asks around to find out that we must take a train to the train station, then a metro to the bus station, then a bus to Teramo. How far out of the way IS this place?

We make our way back down the stairs, find the train, and make it just in time. Except there are stairs up the train, apparently made for skinny people. Not made for Americans with 2 bags full of 5 months worth of supplies. Making it up is fine; Danielle and I manage to twist my luggage out of the way. Getting off, though, I get stuck. I have 2 Italians pushing my luggage and me and Danielle pulling. I’m never coming back to Italy for 5 months. This isn’t worth it. I break free, and we begin our search for the metro.

We find it, down more stairs. Then, down MORE stairs is the ticket booth. We spend about 5 minutes trying to decipher how to get a ticket, and an impatient Italian behind us tries to cut Danielle off. Excuse me; did you not see the 2 other AVAILABLE ticket-thingies directly next to us? Jerk. We get our tickets, grab our luggage, and stop in our tracks.

Stairs, going UP.

Both my luggage bags weigh nearly 50 pounds, not including my 20-pound backpack and 30-pound computer bag. My shoulders still hurt thinking about it. I slowly drag my luggage up the stairs, and this adorable Italian with a guitar comes to my rescue! He grabs the bigger bag and easily carries it up the 2 flights of stairs. I am ahead of him struggling to pull my one bag up each step. He tells Danielle, “You can ruin your luggage dragging it up the stairs” and smiles. I know this. But do you think there is any chance I am lifting each 50-pound bag in one hand up 2 flights of stairs? Not possible.

We make it to the metro, and I am sweating. So much for looking cute when I get to Teramo. Getting on the metro was easier than getting on the train: no stairs. We chill out for a little while then make it to the bus station. Danielle asks where to find the bus to Teramo. She comes back to me with a disgusted look on her face. I ask, “Where are we going?”

“Up the DAMN stairs.”

I couldn’t help but laugh.

Luckily my vision and attention to detail was not lost with my 6 hours of sleep combined for the past two nights. I notice a sign for an elevator…Thank the Lord. We take the elevator, and then try to figure out where the heck we are headed. We head across the street, only to see that the buses are on the side of the road we just came from. Perfect. Apparently, God wants to make this trip as hard as possible for me, or he just has a wacky sense of humor. There is construction going on near the ticket station…so Danielle and I must 4-wheel it across gravel and mud with our luggage to find the buses. She asks a man if this is the bus to Teramo. He says no, and points to the other bus station hiding behind the bridge supports. Back in the direction we JUST came from.

Once again, I couldn’t help but laugh.

We 4-wheel it back across the mire to the other bus station, buy 2 tickets to Teramo, and have about 45 minutes to sit. I grab a sandwich from the concession store. I don’t know if it was because it was an Italian sandwich or that I was simply completely FAMISHED…but that sandwich was the best thing I have tasted in a long time.

We board the bus to Teramo, our luggage stored beneath. And we sleep. The next thing I know, people are getting off. Oh, no! Where are we? We ask a guy next to us, is this the stop for Teramo? No, it’s the next one. He was headed there himself. We’ll just follow him.

The bus drops us off in the middle of nowhere. On a curb. In the snow. This is NOT the University. I have no idea what is going on, and for the first time this trip, I have to put on my gloves. My luggage by this point has nasty dirt streaks all over it. I’m wondering if it is even going to make it back to the States in June. Danielle is fuming.

“There is NO way we are doing this again. If we are sending student over here, there has got to be a better way to get to this place.” I agree. Had I been by myself, there would have been NO possible way I would have even gotten this far. Ludicrous.

After what seems like an eternity, 2 buses with “Teramo” on the front roll around. This must be us. We load our luggage underneath one, and hop on. Only to discover that there are no seats. So Danielle gets off the bus. I follow her, losing my footing on one of the steps and careening down the stairwell. At least I caught myself on the last step. We grab our luggage and drag it toward the other bus. We get the last 2 seats, and I must sit next to an unpleasant woman. I don’t think she was planning on sharing a seat, let alone with my, my 3 layers of clothes, my 1-strapped backpack, 30-pound computer bag, and oboe. Sucks for her. But I have a University to get to.

The bus makes it to Teramo, but we have no idea where to get off. Not the first stop, how about the second? We end up at a little coffee shop. It’s about 1:30 in the afternoon. Apparently Italians take a break from work in the afternoon…so the city was dead. We get a taxi called for us, and 20 minutes later the driver shows up. 20 minutes? Really? We find out that Pino (our new taxi driver friend) is the only taxi in Teramo. I must be in the boonies. He takes us to our hotel, where we check in and make it up to our room.

Holy crap. It’s like a hostel.

There are 2 beds against the wall, with about 2 feet of walking space between them and the wall. The walls are a hideous dark turquoise color, and the carpet looks questionable. And this is the place all the visiting professors stay in for the University, the best of Teramo? Oh. My. Gosh.

I walk over to the bathroom. “Danielle, why are there two toilets?” She informs me that one is, like, a butt-cleaner. I don’t plan on using it.

“I’m using the one with the lid. That’s what I’m used to.” She laughs.

She calls Paola at the International Relations office. We will meet her at 4:00 in the lobby. Until then, we can shower and relax. I plop down on the bed, and pull out my computer. It’s only been 36 hours and I already miss everyone.

Thank goodness for Facebook.