The Orient Express Doesn't Have Anything On Eurostar

It isn’t as if I have not traveled by train before. Proud to say I commuted to Manhattan for work daily for two summers straight, gaining a new ability to sleep sitting up and appreciation for my father enduring decades of communiting. Admittedly, the majority of the people who take the 6:45 am train from Greenwich, Larchmont, and other stops along our way to Manhattan are people like my Dad. Clean cut, well dressed, exhausted and just hoping and praying the person who just sat next to them won’t break out their cell phone. So pretty run of the mill. But wait, before you can accuse me of being transportationally sheltered, I’ll see your pointed finger, and up you a New York City Subway. Make that an ace: a New York City Subway out of Greenwich Village. When I stayed over at Auntie’s for work this summer, I would take the subway from the village to times square. I was newly educated on how to distinguish a large woman from what looks like a large woman but is actually a man in a dress, the trend of low cut shirts to show a hint of nipple…again, on a man, and how to clasp a bag to my body and still looked bored enough that nobody will mess with me. And so I would say that I am pretty experienced in rubbing shoulders with some wackos on public transportation, but I was unprepared for the amount of sketchiness found on a Eurostar. These people specialize in sketchiness. They have passed sketchy 101 with flying colors. They are beyond making you uncomfortable with a lingering glance, and have moved on to a straight on stare complete with hand gestures. They are pros in freaking, disgusting, and frightening the people forced to travel with them. Essentially, me. Sketchers or Creepers, whatever term you prefer, can be classified in a few ways: 1. “The Non-Blinker” is always a man, the non-blinker does not have tear ducts, and thus does not have to blink. He can spend the entire train trip, no matter how long, staring at you. Looking you up and down, licking his lips, and occasionally, sighing. 2. “The Discreet Nose Cover” is a man or a woman who pulls out a weird and unidentifiable meat that has an incredibly pungent smell, and proceeds to cheerfully tear it apart, usually with their hands, and let the meat/sauce/smell saturate the entire car, causing you to do the “discreet nose cover” move, where you try to cover your nose with your sleeve and pretend it isn’t because it smells like something died. 3. “ The Belongs In Jail” is always a man, and he always accidentally drops something in your lap or down your shirt the second the train enters a dark tunnel. Whatever he accidentally drops is so important he must grope you to get it back. Of course. (another form of “The Belongs in Jail” male can be found on the subway, and in this case he drops something on your bottom. This weekend, on a train returning from Venice to Perugia, approximately five hours, a new category was defined: “The Non-Blinker Drug Dealer Who Found God.” To set the scene of this discovery, let me describe how this particular Eurostar train was set up. It did not have regular seats in lines all facing the front, but compartments with clear glass doors that have 2 rows of seats, 3 in each row, with the rows facing one another. So you have two people along your side, and you face the other 3 people, with about 3 feet of space for leg room between the seats facing each other. Cozy. Important to note that in a Eurostar, your seats are assigned, so there was no other choice but to sit in that compartment. Sara, Alex and I go into our compartment, and see this tall lanky African American man sitting in one seat, with two huge plastic trash bags on the seats next to him. Sara, poor thing, was assigned to sit next to him, so he moved his trash bag to the luggage rack above, and I sat opposite him with Alex next to me. Part 1, he immediately started off with the non-blinking. He stared at me, and was not even shy about it. When I felt his gaze and met his eyes, he did not even avert them, but continued to stare. An hour into the five hour trip, the conductor comes to check tickets. Turns out this creep does not even have the right ticket, but for whatever reason, the conductor lets it slide after some rapid Italian explanation on the creeps part. The conductor leaves, and the guy is extremely happy about his good fortune of not getting kicked off the train, and smiles a toothless smile to show this. He resumes his staring, propping his head up with his hand as to not tire himself from freaking me out. He only stops when he gets a call on his cell phone, and in English starts yelling at the person on the phone, “Yes, I’ve got the stuff…..I’ve got it….you need to understand…. I’m coming with it…. on my way…yes I’ll throw out the phone after….you better have my money.” Part 2, he is a drug dealer. Perhaps seeking salvation that he is a snake of a drug deal and non-blinker, he pulls out a bible from his trash bag and then a “Rain Prayer Book” and starts humming and murmuring to himself. I am exhausted by this point, and decide to take a nap, but knowing I would never be able to relax enough with his eyes on me, I take my winter coat which is long enough that it hits my knees, and put it over my head, covering my entire body. I awaken some time later, disoriented because in my sleep I got my head stuck in the sleeve of the coat and couldn’t find my way out, to the train slowing down on one of it’s stops. Sketchy drug dealer grabs one of his trashbags, gets out the compartment and goes outside to the train platform, still visible through the window in our compartment. He hands off the bag to another African American guy dressed in black, takes money from him, tosses his cell phone over his shoulder, and hops back on the train. I’ve watched Law and Order enough to know what to do, memorize details of the faces of the two men, check the name of the train stop, and look at the time on my watch so I know when the deal went down. If I have to testify, I’m ready.

Milano (Not the Cookie) & Venice

Alex, Sara and I spent last weekend in Milan and Venice, with approximately 24 hours in each. It took a 5 hour train ride to get to Milan, so we arrived Friday afternoon. We went to the Duomo and climbed all the steps to the very top. I have been to churches in Perugia, Rome, Florence, and nothing compared to this one. The stained glass was breathtaking, as was the view from the top and the city below. We then went back to the hostel to get ready for dinner and shower and change. I showered first, and flooded the bathroom with 3 inches of water when the handle on the hot shower fell off and I couldn't turn it off. Fearful of the water soaking through the cheap plaster floor and causing a cave in, I run out of the bathroom in only my towel, mascara smeared down my cheeks, and pull on my brown riding boots before I run down two floors to the lobby. Something about my appearance must have said panic or emergency, so the joke of a concierge actually hustled up to our room with a screwdriver and fixed the knob, averting a disaster. After the unexpected swim in our bathroom, Sara, Alex and I went to dinner at a place called La Lanteria, a restaurant recommended by Fodors for a fashionable crowd and home made pasta. Not quite. The tiny room with 9 tables was plastered with pictures of roses, and there was no way that the pasta did not come out of a bag from the Italian A&P because it arrived no less than 30 seconds after we ordered it. We consoled ourselves with wine.

The next day we wake up and go to the huge shopping street in Milan, which actually rivals Rome's shopping street, where I pet the most beautiful shoes in Valentino and try to convince myself that 700 euro really isn't a fortune if I wear them every day for the rest of my life. Thankfully my wallet doesn't buy the lies my feet are trying to tell it, and I do not purchase the shoes. I leave the store, with the salespeople relieved that I stopped rubbing the satin d'orsay Valentino pumps against my cheek and making noises of anguish. At 1 pm we get on a train to Venice for a few hours, and arrive in Venice at around 4 pm. Conceptually, I might have known that Venice did not have streets but canals, and cars but boats, but when I stepped out of the train station prepared to hail a taxi, I was blown away by the water surrounding me. It was so shocking and beautiful that I could not possibly describe it. We walk along the canal to our hostel, check in, drop off the bags, and set out to explore. We walked for 3 hours, all around Venice, popping into shops, peering down canals, and trying to absorb every moment. One of the highlights was walking past these huge markets filled with different kinds of glass, pottery, scarves, shoes, fruits, vegetables, candies. Everything and anything. Walking past this market I became riveted on this one particular fruit that I saw. It was a bright orange, with taunt skin like the skin on an orange pepper, but it was rounded like an apple. I bought the fruit from the little old italian woman, and with the same excitement that Columbus no doubt felt when he discovered the real world, I bit into the fruit to discover it's identity. Hmm. Orange skin like a pepper, edible non-peelable skin, shaped like an apple, tasted like a melon. Whatever it was, it was delicious. At around 9pm, we made our way to the famous Harry's Bar, of Cipriani, to do the total touristy thing of ordering a bellini. And it was so worth the 15 euro it cost. The bellinis were delicious, tangy, sour and sweet all at once, and the people watching was even better. I liked doing something that my father recommended, and that felt like a must-do or an institution in Venice. Plus it was so fancy, and I really needed a does of fancy after hostel-hopping for the past few days. By the way, we calculated that they make over 500 bellinis a day. Whew.

After walking around for a few more hours and hemming and hawing over what glass to buy (Venice is famous for their glass factory, Murano) we went to dinner. Deciding to forgo Fodors this time, as they failed us in Milan, we just go into the first place that looks nice. Now, apparentely I have a different view of food than my roommates. To them, it is something to appease their hunger. Big Macs, spaghetti with meatballs, whatever, it is all the same. To me, if you're going to do something, do it right. And we so we only had 1!!! meal in Venice (yes, we would have breakfast the next morning but that is usually fruit and yogurt, nothing special) and so I had so expectations. Anyway, these expectations were not met when we went into the restaurant, where they told us the wait for a table in the white table clothed, soft jazz, candle lit section of the restaurant would be 30 minutes, but we could sit at a table in the bar area. The roomise we starving and did not want to wait, so we sat at the bar. Feld family, if you are reading this, I want to let you know: I did you proud. I asked to change tables. I might have embarrassed my roommates, but we only had one dinner in Venice, and I just could not take the techno music they were blaring or the number of people waiting in line for drinks at the bar who constantly bumped my chair. Table #2 was much better, and in the actual restaurant, so we managed to enjoy the evening.
The next morning, we woke up early and took a ferry to Murano, a little island near Venice that is the location of the glass blowing factory. We saw a demonstration by a very bored man who in 1, 2, 3 managed to manipulate an unremarkable blob of glass into a galloping horse. Very cool. We then walked around the island some more, going into practically every shop, and purchased huge amounts of glass that would no doubt break on our journey home. All in all, probably the best trip so far.

Dolce and Gabbana, Fendi and Madonna...

Oh, do not think for that I forgot to mention it. No, I most definitely did not forget, and in fact I put it in a separate entry because it deserves the spotlight. In an unusual moment of temporary insanity that sometimes strikes my father when on a European vacation and sadly never at home (the last schizophrenic episode occurred approximately two years ago on summer vacation in Lond, in Harrods and Harvey nicks), I was told that I could pick out something special to remember the trip. Since this happens so infrequently, I had to do my due diligence and research the situation and all opportunities available. This involved three hours of marching up and down the high fashion streets in Rome and going in and out of every store that would let me. And not all would, there was a line outside of Hermes as they were above their capacity and it was a fire hazard. Versace was ruled out as it reminded me of Donatella, yuck; D&G was garish and had over-produced, under-designed crap that they stamp their name on and expect to sell; Valentino does not sell clothes but art, unfortunately the artwork of blouse is over a thousand dollars and so was ruled out. Finally, after much debate, blood, sweat and tears, I decided upon a shockingly hot pink, buttery leather, rectangular shaped, Fendi baguette evening bag with the F's tastefully stamped into the leather. It has a silver chain so unlike a clutch I don't have to duct tape it to the inside of thigh when I go out so I won't lose it at night. I also was allowed to get a new wallet since I've had the same one since I was 13 and it has definitely seen better days. I picked out a patent leather red one from Yves Saint Laurent that has room for change, isn't too big that it won't fit in my small purses, fits all of my credit cards, has has the letters YSL stitched subtlety on the front, and best of all is really, really shiny! How can I verbalize my appreciation for my parents generosity and their patience with me, as well as my love for these two purchases? I slept with them on my pillow for a week.

I'll Meet You By The Fountain-Parents in Perugia

Sometimes I forget how old I am. I sincerely cannot believe that I am already 20 years old. When I receive a flirtatious glance from a guy in a bar, say around 25, I have to remind myself that he is not a pedophile, he is not being inappropriate or warranting a whiny "ewwww gross," from my girlfriends. I'm not a child anymore, and even if I don't feel like it, the world sees me as more or less a grown up. Without knowing it, I've seamlessly slipped into this grown up world, and I can't remember what I did to get here. I still can't believe I'm allowed to drive. I get in the car, strap myself in, turn on the car, and drive forward into the shrubbery surrounding my driveway-I forgot I was in drive and not reverse. "Really," I think, "Really, I'm allowed, by law, to do this?" But time marches on. And so it really should have surprised me that the things that I feel like I have been looking forward to since I was a child, events that I thought would signify being a grown up, like prom, high school graduation, study abroad, have come and gone. When you spend so many years looking forward to an event, a time in your life, eagerly smearing too tacky (as if there is any other kind) blue eye shadow on your eyes, stealing the plastic clip used to keep the chip or cookie bags closed to pin your Mom's dress tighter to your too skinny 8 year old body, playing at being a fancy grown up lady, it can be surprising and a little shocking to find yourself on the other side of the event. On the end side. I don't need to steal the chip clips now, I can fit my mother's dresses, and what's more, prom is long over. That's how I feel about study abroad. I spent so many years thinking of it, dreaming of it, planning and plotting, that I cannot believe I only have 4 weeks left.

My parents visited me in Perugia this past week. Another event that I cannot believe has come and gone. I still remember tearfully packing my suitcases, playing "Leaving on a Jet Plane" (as if i would miss a chance to dramatize my life with a soundtrack) in my room and having my mother tell me she would see me in 9 weeks, and it would fly by. Once again, mamma was right. My parents arrived Wednesday night, at the tail end of my sickness. The week before, I had pushed myself too hard to take everything, not miss one moment or opportunity, and of course, in order to do everything, something has to give. So I gave up sleep, and not too surprisingly, the lack of sleep gave me something back. I got sick. Really sick. I don't know how Courtney Love does it. Yeah, she probably has all kinds of hepatitis and a shot liver, but you've got to give her props. The girl knows how to party and avoid the common cold-a skill I have never learned. My body punishes me for too much fun. My punishment came in the form of two ear infections, a throat infection that made me have to sip all my food, and a high fever. I woke up Saturday morning, after going out big for Halloween the night before, and my sore throat had turned into a swollen throat, distorting my voice and worse, ability to breathe and swallow. Usually all too eager to ignore being sick as it is so damn inconvenient, I knew my parents were coming and so I went to the doctor to try to nip it in the bud. Two days later, Monday morning, I'm even worse, fever is higher, and when my school brings me to the doctor, literally half carrying me there, I find out I was misdiagnosed and was on the wrong antibiotic for two days. Kind of a setback. So Wednesday, the day of the parents arrival in Perugia, while I was feeling better, I still wasn't very healthy, and was mostly running on the adrenaline of waiting to see them. I was so excited, in fact, that during my class right before seeing them on Wednesday, I poked my friend and grinned and with a a little shimmy move of my torso indicted my excitement and impatience to see my parents....something which must have caught the eye of my teacher because she stepped class to ask if I was smiling so hard because I found her accent funny. Oops, probably shouldn't count on an A+ in that class anymore. But it was that good to see my parents. I felt excited, relieved and even a little panicky to make sure I really soaked up every second of their stay and parent-ness. As they reminded me more than once, yes I will see them in 5 weeks when I come home, but I know that seeing them at home won't be the same as seeing them here. It was really one of those special and infrequent times when you get to relate to your parents as people. As someone to enjoy, to have fun with, to converse with, more than just someone who reminds you to take out the garbage and stand up straight. I think a lot of little things came together to make the balance so perfect. They were on vacation, and relazed, and they were on my turf: I wasn't in their house (where, as my mother constantly reminds me, there can only be one Queen). They were in my city, andi got to show them around and how things are done.

Because I could go on forever, I'll try to be succinct and just hit the highlights of the trip: the luxury of hanging around with my parents in a hotel room in a huge fluffy white bathrobe; a shower with enough water pressure that I don't have to contort and maneuver my body in ways I thought was only possible by that tiny Asian guy who fit himself into the crate in Ocean's 11; good lighting in the bathroom-haven't seen my face in anything but semi-dark in a few months not to mention the state of my eyebrows; even better, remembering how fabulous moms are because they are so completely unselfish and giving towards their children, demonstrated by how my mother let me use every single one of her toiletries and even gave me her favorite face wash; walking my parents up the huge hill/small mountain to give them a tour of my gym (we were running out of things to do) and discovering that this entire time I had thought the gym was one floor...only it turns out that the staircase doesn't lead to the boy's locker room but another weight room; having my dad continually lead us down small, deserted, winding cobblestone alleys to point out the architecture and the laundry drying out the windows (look at that! oh, and that and that!); my mother's frustration with my father leading us down dangerous alleys to look at drying socks; dinner at La Taverna where the chef gave us free limoncello and my mother was desperate to not drink it, but also desperate to not appear rude and so she dumped it into the glass of red wine my dad was drinking when he wasn't looking; the look on my dad's face when he had a sip of his vino rosso with limoncello; also at La Taverna, my father telling the story to the chef about the time he had his italian friend's grandmother's homemade limoncello and afterward almost passed out on the streets of manhattan-and seeing the reaction of the chef which led us to think that maybe he mistook the the phrase "passed out" for "passed gas" and then laughing uproariously afterward; my mother calling me a "precious gem out there in the world, floating around, vulnerable" in reference to her fear that I walk to the gym at night because the area is pretty run down and the streets littered with hypodermic needles; bumping into Pisco, Gennaro and Daniele, the owners of the bar that we always go to, with my parents and having them tell my mother how I may dance on tables and the bar, but at least I don't dance under the bar (whatever that means); the cheese souffle at Trattoria San Lorenzo; discovering that Trattoria San Lorenzo was located in Piazza Dante which is across from my apartment; getting semi-drunk with my dad in the afternoon off of red wine, which I don't even like, and then deciding that it would be the perfect time to show them my school; the incredibly difficult drive to Rome from Perugia, during which we we did the following things no fewer than half a dozen times each:

-stopped at gas stations to ask in broken Italian for Roma

-argued

-drove into the suburbs of Rome

-U-turned on the highway

-got stuck behind a such a slow Italian driver we thought they must have been eating gelato behind the wheel

-called the hotel for unsuccessful directions

-threatened to ditch the rented car on the highway and walk to Rome. Thanks Mapquest.

The fun did not end there, highlights of Rome include: having my father insist on huge meals of multiple courses every few hours so he would not lose his strength; the mozzarella and tomatoes in the caprese salad at Tulio's, where the mozzarella was so fresh that when I cut into the sacs the milk bled into the dressing; the gnocchi at Tulio's; the irony of expecting my parents to be blown away by my now conversational Italian skills to only be impressed myself with my ability to semi-understand/speak Italian after only a few days; my mother's utter inability to even say "Grazie"-sorry, Mom!; my parents giving me all of the little bottles of cream, shampoo, conditioner, lotion, sewing kits, q-tips, and many other toiletries that the hotels provide; my dad giving me yet another little hotel provided toiletry that he found ont he bedat and apparently did not read before asking if I wanted it...it was "intimate cleanser"; walking through Villa Borghese and being treated to an impromptu concert; running up and down the main shopping streets in Rome and how patient my parents were with me; trying multiple times, unsuccessfully, to rent a pay per view movie in Rome; seeing the Italian boys looking at my mother when she walked past them because let's not lie, she's a babe; realizing that my parent's had thankfully not changed, but having them tell me that I have, and for the better.

.....and these were just highlights of the trip. Thank you for visiting me Mom and Dad.

a little blue bag

as i wrote previously, i met this italian lawyer, 35 years old, on one of my first days here, and in the last two months we have been to club openings, restaurants etc together. i would say he is comparable to mr. big, only with more hair gel, more arrogance (if such a thing is even possible), and with a bad case of undiagnosed adult ADD. Despite this, my friends and i always have fun going out with him, he has a private table at the clubs and is generally funny and shows us a good time, not to mention being very generous to us. now i know what you're thinking, and i thought it too: everything comes with a price tag. and yet, for this guy, the price tag is not that horrible thing one would automatically assume. he has always been very respectful and has not made an overt "moves" on myself, alex or sara. since we are not the only girls that he takes out with him, after careful analyzation i think the reason he has been so generous to us and eager to treat us to special occasions in perugia is because he likes/needs to surround himself with people. maybe with young, beautiful girls....as pompous as that sounds. we also are very accommadating of his needs, such as listening to his very long speeches, stories about his life, and his interests. We all put in effort to engage him in conversation, and give him the opportunity to talk about his favorite subjects, which we are well versed on by now. Give and take, I suppose.
It should go without saying, of course, that this relationship is a friendship , as the guy is 35 years old and all i can think is that is the age my dad was when i was born. whooa. friendship might be a stretch however because while i know a lot about him, he knows absolutely nothing about me. this is for several reasons: 1. it is obvious he prefers to speak about himself, so i let him 2. i learned early on he cannot remember anything i tell him anyway, for example, that i hate red meat.....which for the life of him he cannot remember and often orders it for me in restaurants when i cannot read the italian and he must decide for me. ugh. 3. i have realized that the less he knows about me, the better, because for this kind of ADD guy who bores easily, it is better to remain mysterious and keep him guessing, that way my friends and i can keep enjoying the perks of being his guests everywhere. manipulative? yes. but i feel very little shame as i view it as a girls perrogative and frankly, by hanging out with 20 year old girls, he is asking for it. (although since most people do not get married in italy until 40 because it takes around 7 years for a divorce so everyone is very circumpsect about tying the knot, it is very common to see 35 year olds in the clubs, and normal for older men to hang out with younger women. or that is what he keeps telling us.)

anyway, the point of this post was to chronicle a very amusing situation that occured. the second week that this guy and i met, we were hanging out in a disco with our respective friends, and he asked me when my birthday was. i said "july 13th!" but i guess over the loud techno he did not hear me correctly and thought i said "july 30th" which turns out is his birthday too! i did not realize the mistake until weeks later when he said july 30th, and actually, did not feel compelled to correct him. as i said, it is actually very amusing how little he knows about me. And so the other day, this guy tells me how he has another present for me. and out comes the little blue bag. known to every girl as the tiffany bag. oh boy. high stakes. i open the box, and in it is a silver necklace with a round circle, that says CF, 30 julio.

yes. i now have an engraved tiffany necklace with someone elses birthday on it. this is one for the books. oy vey.

my very own stalker

oh the joys of being a girl in italy. as you no doubt know, there are many stereotypes, perceptions, etc of the italian men. i am here to say that they are all true. they got the name italian stallion for a reason. unfortunately (or, on second thought, fortunately) for me, i have yet to meet an italian stallion....but i can now boast that i have my very own italian stalker. goody.

admitedly, as someone who appreciates attention (aka attention whore) i do not mind when i walk the streets and some guy shouts out "ciao, bella!" it is harmless and can be nice, especially when you look anything but bella after a too late night at the disco. however, what i am now experiencing is on a whole different level, and not a comfortable one.

so monday, i left one of my school buildings after my class had finished to walk to my second school building a few streets away, about half a mile. as i exit the school building on to the street, a silver car speeds down the road. i thought it was one of my friends, and so i tilt my head to make it possible to see inside the car and get a glimpse of the driver. oh, nope, i was wrong, it was not my friend but some random guy, and so i start to walk down the street to my other school building. 10 minutes later, i am just outside the other school building when i hear a commotion behind me. someone chattering in italian. then i feel a tap on my shoulder. i turn around, and i see it is the guy who was driving the car i just saw! (btw, this is especially weird that he caught up with me, as it is extremely difficult to park in perugia, you need a permit to be allowed to park on every street, so would have had to illegally pull his car over and get out and walk after me, also because it is not possible to drive on the streets my second school building was on) he asks for my phone number in italian, and i mumble, "non grazie" and go into my school building. i do not think about it again...

until yesterday, when i had the same class, i once more leave my school building to head to the second one. i notice about half way there that the car guy is following behind me! having seen enough scary lifetime movies i know that is not a good thing, and so i walk faster, and he does not make any effort to catch up, however when i reach my school building and try to type in the code to enter, he comes up behind me. what a surprise to learn that while hardly anyone speaks english in this town, they know words in english that would make jenna jameson blush. for anyone who does not know, she is a retired porn star, arguably the most famous, who now appears in page 6. prone to dramatics, my hand is now shaking and i cannot type in the code to the school correctly and so it takes me three times, prolonging the time that i have to spend with mr. creepy.

and of course, on the day that this happens, all 4 of my roommates went to florence for the night to see a soccer game (bad news though, they paid 50 euro for a ticket for the game, 20 euro for a train, and then more money for a hostel, and it turns out that they bought illegal tickets online and they could not even see the game. all for nothing) and i was left in the apartment alone for the night. just me, a plastic butter knife, and my nerves. it does not help, of course, that it is one day from the anniversary of the death of another study abroad student who was murdered last year. everyone has been discussing it lately, and of course i like to punish myself and look up the gruesome details of the murder. needless to say, i did not sleep at all.

p.s: this was not meant to worry anyone, and i intend on purchasing pepper spray today so all is well!
p.p.s: i know you do not want me to have pepper spray dad, as you so considerately worry about the eye sight of my attacker and a possible law suit that could come from it, but better safe than sorry! plus my roommate have it and you know i hate being left out. ;)

6 subways, 5 buses, 4 trains, 3 taxicabs, 2 planes and 1 partridge in a pear tree

"12 Days of Christmas," would be how I would describe my 10 days of fall break. Only I would call it "10 Days of Public Transportation." The plan was to go to Florence for a day, go to Pisa for an hour to take a few cheesy but necessary tourist pictures with the Leaning Tower, and then head to Barcelona for 3 days and then Valencia for 3, home on Friday so we would have the weekend to re-cooperate and attend the world famous Euro Chocolate Festival which is held in Perugia and is our claim to fame. The best plans, however....

We discover early in the week that on Friday, the day we were planning to leave for Florence, the entire country of Italy plans to go on strike. Why? I don't know. I don't think they know. Because they also went on strike last week. No doubt they just strike so they can close up shop for a few hours and have a gelato. Anyway, we leave Thursday night instead and spend one more night in the hostel. We take a train to Florence and of course travel in style: our wet laundry hanging from empty seats in our train car. Yes, the washer broke again and so our clothes sat in water for too many hours. Maybe it went on strike? 

Spent a few nice days in Florence, saw the Bapistry which was really interesting because I'm taking an Art History class and we had our midterm before we left for break, so all of the information was fresh in my mind. Funny how actually knowing about the statues and paintings makes them more interesting. I'm sure my roommates felt the same way when I led an impromptu tour of all the paintings. Right.... 

Saturday we went to Pisa in the afternoon, carrying our suitcases and handbags to walk to the tower. We snapped the pictures, which made me much happier than it should have, but I always wanted one of those. Our flight to Barcelona was on RyanAir, a very inexpensive airline that flies students like us. After inquiring we found out that the airport was very close to the tower and that it was possible to walk. While it may have been possible to walk, it was not probable.

 We headed down the path the man (or, as I now suspect, the devil disguised as a man) pointed to, only to keep going and going and going.  Turns out the walk to the airport is just over 5 miles!!!! Those of you who know me must know just how overjoyed I was at carrying my luggage (and  you also know that I had a lot of it) 5 dusty, dirty and oh yes sweaty (thanks for the over active sweat gland, dad!) miles to the airport. 

When we finally did make it the airport, much more pungent than we were before, we discover why RyanAir is so inexpensive: they charge you for boarding, for processing fees, for checking a bag, and if they could maybe even breathing. After being practically mugged by a RyanAir flight attendant for anything that resembled something shiny and money like, we board the plane hoping to sleep off the 5 mile walk and hectic day. Not so lucky, as RyanAir apparently thinks techno music is appropriate for a midnight flight. "Untz Untz Untz," which is my poor rendition of a techno music beat, must have caused not only a partying mood in me but also a hallucinatory mood, because for some reason, at the end of the flight, I flagged down a flight attendant and asked "Are we in France now?" Or so my roommates tell me, as I have no recollection. I suspect I had a techno induced seizure.... 

ps: check out the reflection in my sunglasses!