A little karma never hurt anyone

Venice was the trip that never should have happened. Whatever I did in my past life, be it discovering penicillin or introducing the world to chocolate glazed donuts, it must have been brilliant. Conceived the night before at 9 pm, followed by a night of ruckus that brought us back to the apartment with just enough time to throw some things in a bag and hop back out the door to catch a morning train, Kit and I by no means deserved to make it to Venice in one piece - let alone enjoy the smoothest trip yet. .

With Kit visiting for fake break after a winter term in Paris, we had spent the previous few days selecting a weekend getaway to explore more of Italy. With some pricing issues with Pompeii, not to mention a not-so-pleasant collection of garbage currently overflowing Naples’ streets, we decided upon Venice. Namely, the first day of Carnivale in Venice. Within the hour, we had secured train times and found a hotel that looked reasonable enough.

The morning of the trip we missed our train. As we pulled into the station, the train was just taking off. To be honest, we were just proud to have made it to the train station at all. We popped over to the bar, had some croissants and enjoyed the beginnings of Miracle #1. The next train was cheaper, speedier and filled with sleeper cars that Kit and I immediately took advantage of. Next thing we knew, we were hopping trains in Bologna and showing up in Venice with the entire day ahead of us. 

After weeks of sopping rain, the sky was finally blue and the temperature perfect. Despite the weather having a bit to do with it, Venice is by far the most beautiful city I have ever visited. Filled with buildings dripping of history and aquamarine water running through the canals, we began our search for the hotel. A bit overwhelmed, I called up the hotel for directions.

“Get on the bus!”  he said. We looked around. No bus. Actually… no cars or roads or anything - just a lot of water. The bus boat - here, let me repeat that: the Bus Boat - turned out to be the perfect introduction to Venice, as we chugged along the main canal, only a little queasy from all the rocking. At our “bus stop”, we hopped off, entertained the idea of buying a calendar of pin-up gondola men off the newsstand (Mr. September was a real dreamboat), and waited to be met by one of the men from the hotel.

Perched on top of a bakery that smelled up the whole place in the nicest of ways, we were in a perfect location - a few minutes walk from the canal and Saint Marks Square. Perfection.

Our time in Venice would make our parents proud (and maybe a little jealous). We popped into all the cathedrals we stumbled upon and were continuously impressed by how dang huge everything was. Saint Marks was amazing and the cathedral was remarkable. We fed the pigeons (I got bit by a pigeon) and took in the view. Costumes began appearing midday for Carnivale. Kit bought a pink afro. I was a little jealous.

Unfortunately, Friday night some workers had died setting up for the event, so all of the activities had been postponed until the next day. To put a positive spin on things, that meant that Kit and I could both enjoy the streets of Venice and get suffocated by tourists on two separate occasions. It also meant we got to go to bed early. Nice.

We decided to do up a fancy dinner and popped into a little restaurant near our hotel. The food was awesome - especially after we realized we’d forgotten to eat all day because were so excited to be in Venice. Snagged me some fish soup and salmon and was set for quite possibly the rest of my life. After an awkward leaving situation when our waitor held our check hostage until he got off work so he could “show us the city” and we “went to the bathroom”, it was time for a little of the Venice nightlife.

Since all the events had been canceled, there were only some drum circles going on which was mighty groovy none-the-less. We dirty-hippie danced. I took a photo with a drunk Teletubby smoking a cigarette. Then I bought an orange off a fruit vendor who happened be open at midnight and then headed on back to bed where I passed out until quite possibly the next century...

…which conveniently happened to be bright and early for our next day in Venice. After a tasty breakfast we moseyed on over to Mark’s piazza to see what the day held. Enter approximately five hundred gazillion people and a large conga line of the creepiest clowns I have ever encountered. On stage were different “Medieval”/Venetian performers doing everything from drum lines to embarrassing themselves with terribly awkward dancing (but in pretty dresses!). After the social anxiety settled in, we headed off the beaten path to check out a little modern art museum in a more residential area of the city chock full of a lot of awesome artists I’ve never heard of along with some Chagall and Klimt and yada yada. We wondered around, popped into a little shop and I actually managed to have a full on Italian conversation with the girl about the new Radiohead album and how she’s seeing them in Milan in June. Enter proudest moment of the trip.

The rest of the day was really just filled with wandering. We got our face painted, ate some gelato, and when the time came for the train to leave we were set. Adding to the many miracles of our trip, our train was one of the only stopovers unaffected by the train strike. It was one of the first really beautiful days we’ve had so far. I completely understand the worker’s need to take the day off.

Sensory overload in 3… 2…

It’s a telling moment in your life when you are forced to decide whether it’s even worth going to sleep in the morning. Will you wake up? Will it just make you more of a wreck? This morning we decided one hour of sleep was better than nothing. Good choice I would say. Compliments of the responsible roomie in our apartment, we managed to get our unshowered booties up and out to catch the first bus of the morning over to the train station.

As soon as we arrived in Florence it was as though we’d had a full nights rest. I mean, we were in Florence. This was no time to be sleepy! Walking the streets was like seeing one postcard after another. Woops! There’s a cathedral! There’s the Duomo!  There’s David! Complete. Sensory. Overload.

After a bit of searching, we finally located our first hostel. It was definitely a little smelly and the owner had perhaps forgotten what hygiene felt like, but for the location and a comfy bed it was perfect.

After checking in, we decided to wander. No itinerary… just see what we could find. It was probably the best way to see Florence. We found the river, followed it to the Ponte Vecchio, wandered across it, wound up in a park and outside of the tourism sphere, dodged some puppy poo and took in the view. After chugging a few gallons of coffee we went back to the Duomo to catch the sunset from the top and stayed there for a couple hours. Staring down at Florence as it grew dark and city lights began to twinkle was something I’ll never forget (don’t worry, I have about 100 photos of it just in case).

That night, we tried our best to avoid the Americans and their Soulja Boy dance parties and found a Rolling Stones cover band in the basement of a club down one of the side streets. Perfect. Now it’s bed time.

The next day was Uffizi day and what a day it was! After a fabulous interaction with the ticket booth lady, in which I smiled and nodded a lot and she said a lot of words I didn’t understand, I somehow ended up with free entry into the museum. Nice. And no, I have no clue how I pulled it off. I could have spent a good portion of my life wandering through that building. The artwork was breathtaking and every room and ceiling was a work unto itself. It was absolutely incredible to be stopping to view the Botticelli and Caravaggio and oh goodness… just about everything.

Afterwards, we popped in some shops since January is the month of sales in Italy. Found an amazing record store packed to the ceiling with Jimi Hendrix and every Beatles album you can imagine. Grabbed some delicious gelato and eventually made our way on back to the train station, chugged back to Perugia and took the most amazing shower of my life.

Americans live to work. Italians work to live.

As this is a university town, there are constantly random things to be done while all the bars and clubs in the area try to pull the students in the first few weeks. Our apartment has become exclusively obsessed with a small pub called La Tana Del’Orso. Good music, cheap drinks and all around friendly people - not to mention board games upon request (…Jenga anyone?) - have sucked us in.

 

For the first week or so, we spent our naïve nights exploring the bars of the area, constantly with the same result. Despite the cool atmosphere of most of them, there was one really important part missing: the people. We’d walk in, excited about the delayed Happy Hour (usually beginning at 10 or 11) and find the bars completely deserted. Around midnight or so we’d usually head home, befuddled.

 

As the weekend got closer and we secured our bearings, something interesting happened. The later we stayed out, the more people trickled in. 1 a.m. brought two filled tables, 1:30 brought a few more, and by 2 - just as the bars closed - the main piazza was suddenly stuffed with people. Turns out closing time means dancing time. Music started pumping and crowds began filling up the local discos.

 

Saturday, the roommates and I decided to give it a shot. For five euro, we hopped on a twenty-minute bus ride after midnight with some of our friends from La Tana to go to a discothèque on the outskirts of Perugia. The 18-euro cover got waved for us and we were hooked up with free drinks for the entire night from our friend working the bar. Woo!

The club was straight out of a movie. The main dance floor was littered with people, smoke machines and lasers blasting while techno pumped through the speakers. As the smoke cleared, we could see the hired dancers, girls in mini dresses and the men in shiny hot pants and capes. The music, which I’d assumed was a recording, was actually live, with a woman belting it out with a drummer and DJ playing the beats.

Upstairs, where Andrea was working, was one of three other themed dance floors - the Latin room. Inside was a full Latin band complete with brass, strings and group of vocalists. A slightly older crowd, everyone was dancing all of the traditional dances - salsa, tango, waltzing… we stayed on the sidelines and watched. Should have kept that ballroom dancing Blue Book from high school. Drat.

At four (when the bus left), the party was still raging and we stayed on until after six waiting for Andrea to finish his shift at the bar. As the sun was coming up, we all hopped in his car and headed back to Perugia. Since by this point it was nearly breakfast time, we stopped along the way at an extremely crowded(???) patisserie. I ended up with a phenomenal crème filled croissant and we all finally passed out.

Or… my roommates passed out. Turns out, somewhere along the way, I lost my key card for the apartment. Locked out of my room, I curled up on a dining room chair with blanket and pillow compliments of the roomies, setting my alarm clock to wake up in three hours (Umbra opens up at 10). The next morning, still dressed quite impeccably from the night before and with minimal eye-makeup smudged, I trudged on over to the center of town to pick up a new key card.

After that night I finally understand the true purpose of pausa and why everything is shut down on Sundays. Napping is a number one priority in this country. For a girl that never naps, I can’t imagine what I’d do without one these days! 

And we know what we’re knowing, but we can’t say what we see

In a city that speaks very little English, Italian has quickly become a necessary way of life. From the scuzzi’s I keep uttering as my lanky limbs clank around Perugia’s narrow shops to figuring out how to come across as a reasonably polite Americana, the Italian crash course we’re taking this week has become an obligation. Our afternoon “Survival Italian” stays dangerously close to its title.

To be honest, for the first few days here, I haven’t really eaten anything. Not so much by choice, but because of my ineptitude. I just can’t find it. And if I do, I can’t figure out how to buy it.

Italian Lesson #1: Shopping for fruits and vegetables is the Italian textbook exercise from hell. Once the store has been located and the proper greetings exchanged, I am expected to tell the owner of the store what I want and how much of it I’d like - in metric measurements, mind you - completely in Italian. And no touching! Consequently, each day I eat a little better thanks to a long list of vocab words, a cheat sheet scribbled on my hand and some solid hours of Italian lessons. So desperate have we been that the roommates and I have decked out our chicken with sticky notes with the Italian translations hidden underneath.

For a culture so renowned for their food, Italy sure does make it difficult to navigate your way to a fully stocked fridge. Maybe that’s why all of these women are so dang skinny. It takes about two hours walking uphill in every direction to complete your shopping list. For every food, there is a corresponding specialty store. Fruit comes from the fruit store. Meat comes from the meat store. Cheese comes from the cheese store. Paper comes from the paper store. It makes sense, but it sure ain’t no SuperTarget. After that initial shock, I’ve found it pretty refreshing.

The beauty of this, besides working up an appetite comparable to a small army, is that everything is so incredibly fresh.  So fresh, in fact, that I can’t even touch it - as I was so graciously reminded when a man handed me a plastic glove while I was making my selections in the grocery store. Ouch. 

So fresh and so clean clean

I’d like to welcome those interested to the granola lifestyle: 

For Perugians, “environmentally conscious” is an understatement. At least one country is making Jerry proud. Energy, waste, water, food - all are daily concerns and responsibilities to an Italian.

The allotment of seven hours of heat a day is only the beginning. Energy conservation is instilled into every building as well. Most lights are on timers, providing enough light to get up the stairs and into the next room before shutting off again. In our apartment, no electricity will turn on unless our key card is inserted into the wall of that room (this is especially frustrating when trying to charge anything for more than a few hours). The light sensors in the bathroom are also pretty interesting once we realized that in a shower you don’t move that much. Hilarious the first two times the lights shut off. Not so much the other times.

As for garbage, there isn’t really an option besides recycling. Across the street are a bundle of color-coded bins - each with a designated purpose: plastic, paper, glass, compost, cardboard, etc. After the mini road trips required of us back at Elon, this is a dream come true.

As for my favorite part? I still haven’t seen a Starbucks. There are a few markets, like the Coop, but I’ve become obsessed with the covered market. Every morning, before the pausa, there’s a fresh market where local farmers are invited to sell their goods. Just as around the city, the stands are divided by type of food: meat, fish, produce or a larger variety of goods. It’s all the most amazing food I’ve ever tasted. No preservatives, wax or corn syrup. The breads and cakes are made from scratch, vegetables are covered in mud and all food is seasonal to avoid exports. Let’s just say, after trying to survive off of a little organic corner of the Harris Teeter, every bite is a little slice of heaven.

The best part? Talk to the vendor for a bit and they’ll usually knock the price down. The other day I got 3 kilos* of oranges for 2 euro. Nice.

*Note to self: know how much is in one kilo next time… My body’s currently pumping full of the freshest six pounds of vitamin C I’ve ever tasted. Though delicious, it might’ve been a little overkill.

Coming to the land of the ice and snow

It’s a funny thing about Italy. They may listen to a lot of American music, but they sure do have a lot of different habits. Waking up in the morning, it soon became clear that the winter thermals I had so grievously chucked out of the suitcase moments before heading out the door in Connecticut would have been a really really brilliant idea.

It turns out, Italians are legally limited to seven hours of heat a day. Hence, the fleece blanket in the closet. Hence, the hoodie, two layers of socks, long sleeve shirt and man pants from Old Navy I wore to bed last night. Though it may not be as frigid as Colorado or Massachusetts (where my roomsters are from) might be right now, Italian’s sure do have a lot more balls than us when it comes to winter. While we Americans impress ourselves with how long we can stay outside in January, these kids keep that temperature all month long. If you’re cold, you’re cold. And in most cases you’re probably wet too. There seems to be quite the propensity for that light pesty drizzle all day long. With tile floors thrown into the mix, this is quite the wake up call. I’m waiting for my body to adjust. Yep. Still waiting…

Now's the time, the time is now.

Two days after the initial jet lag and I may be almost human enough to write complete sentences. Stumbling around on Day Two with the brain capacity of a cabbage, I waited patiently for the shuttle to take me to my home for the next four months. Entering the situation with the lowest expectations I could manage - of dungeon rooms spawned from the middle ages and beds intended for elves - the moment I stepped into my apartment was possibly one of the most thrilling moments of my life.

But of course, this only occurred after my always savvy self made a few less than savvy decisions. Muddled in confusion, bags surrounding my feet in the hotel lobby at noon thirty, I somehow managed to wander outside. To be completely honest, I don’t really blame myself. Six days after New Years I was sporting a tank and flip-flops and standing in the mountains of one the most beautiful countries I have ever witnessed, surrounded by architecture older than the United States’ lifespan. So of course I had to get outside of the hotel.

Unfortunately, as I wandered outside, trying desperately to focus and think straight with my foggy brain in tow, I did not completely realize to the degree living in a foreign country would require me to speak a foreign language and that assumptions are probably best to be gotten rid of. So standing outside with my suitcase and backpack, I turned to the van driver and asked whether I should get on the shuttle to which he shrugged, grabbed my bags and I hopped on board. Thirty seconds later, after surveying my situation it became quite clear that my roommates were nowhere to be found, that this man spoke no English, and that this was absolutely not where I should be. Slow panic settled in as I realized everyone on the van was headed in quite a different direction. More panic followed when I managed to form one of the possibly three sentences I know: “Dove Via Graziosa?” (where my new apartment was) to which he managed - with highly detailed hand gestures may I add - to respond that he’d never even heard of a Via Graziosa. Excellent.

Off the van we all go, me standing awkwardly to the side and narrowly avoiding some serious dog diarrhea when I remembered the cell phone I had purchased nearly blacked-out on sleep deprivation the day before. Using the one phone number I’d managed to plug in, I called my temporary roomie who picked it up, passed it over to our guide and I was saved.

Fast-forward past the part where I go down all the narrow cobble stone streets with my wheely luggage to the part where I walk into one of the most pimpin’ apartments I’ve ever seen:

Reeking of fresh paint and a glossy marble staircase leading the way, I walked into an enormous kitchen filled with completely new appliances and color-coordinated pastel everything. Not only is the apartment completely operated by a key card system that opens all of the doors and controls the electricity in main rooms with motion sensors in the hallways and bathrooms, but I have my own fully furnished room with fleece blankets. Let’s take a moment there to freak out about this a teensy bit. For the girl that was switched into a new apartment two days before she was sent off in an airplane, I was seriously hooked up.

That night, after a little grocery shopping, we had a roommate dinner of pasta, pineapple and spinach, clinking glasses of red Italian wine in sincere appreciation of all that we already had and for everything that is in store for us.

This is seriously going to be an incredible semester.

Airport scurry flurry faces.

So this one time I was in Italy. And I’m there. And am completely delirious with my bloodshot eyes and splotchy skin pushing on a full rotation of a day (give or take three hours).

Let’s recap:

Wake up. Pet cat. Brush teeth. Relish America. Pack the things I “forgot” to pack last night. Shower. Relish America. Keep showering (mm… fabulous). Invite Kelly and Liz over. Eat breakfast. Gab. Kick Kelly and Liz out. Continue packing. Tell mother I finished packing. Continue to pack. Grab bags. Run out door to meet parents in car.

…Sit. Think about napping. Sit. Relish America…

Arrive in New York! Smell America. Freeze outside. Wait in lines. Make small talk with girl behind me. Wait in lines. Wait in lines. Wait in lines. Kiss mom and dad goodbye. All hold back sniffles. Get through security. Wait. Wait. Wait.

Get on the airplane! Sit next to people I know. Try to fall asleep. Try to decipher scrambled airplane movie. Try to fall asleep. Talk to people I know. Talk to people I don’t know. Wish scrambled airplane movie was worth unscrambling. Nap. Get a neck cramp. Wish I could nap. Eat airplane food. Hit turbulence. Pray I don’t die. Realize that I’m never going to nap. Wait. Wait. Wait.

Get off the plane! I’m in Rome! Oh my gosh, I’m in Rome! Stand in airport. Wonder what is outside of the airport. Wait. Wait. Wait. Talk with new people. Realize all these new people are fabulous. Get excited. Wait. Wait. Wait.

File over to the bus! Block traffic with train of suitcases. Look up and see dead pigeons hanging from the grates. Double-take to ensure they are actually dead pigeons. Confirm they are dead pigeons. Inch away from dead pigeons and remind myself I’M IN ROME!

Hop on the bus. Talk with fun people. Pass out for three hours. Wake up in Perugia. File into hotel. Time travel. Back to the lobby. Chat. Chat. Chat. Wander outside. Breathe in Perugia. Perugia smells nice! Wander with future roomie and people. Find café. Walk inside. Realize I never learned Italian. Panic. Panic. Panic. Decide to order a “café”. This seems logical. Success! Drink coffee. Kill time. Chat. Chat. Chat. Time travel.

Filling out forms. Lots of forms. Somehow acquire a cell phone. Hopefully it works! Give someone my passport. Hope I get it back some day. Fill out more forms. Leave wondering what just happened.

Back to hotel. Locked out of hotel room. Kill time in lobby. Chat and chat. Realize I’m seeing two of Casey. Realize I haven’t eaten since the airplane. Choose to accept the situation. Wait. Wait. Wait. No roommate. Roommate has the key. Wait. Wait. Wait. Still no roommate.

DINNER TIME! Eat. Feel less dizzy. Drink water. Realize I haven’t drunken water since the airplane. Grow concerned. Drink more water. Try to listen to conversation. The yellow curtain behind our table starts to melt off the wall. I drink more water. Chat and eat. Chat and eat. Chat and eat. Drink wine out of obligation. Realize it’s a terrible idea. Put the wine down. Drink more water. Eat chocolate desert. Feel rejuvenated. God bless chocolate. Still no roommate. Go to front desk and have them let me into my room. Settle. Settle. Settle. Wonder what just happened. Pass out