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!

Take Pity On Me

Dear relatives who supposedly love me so much,

Both Jewish and Christian holidays are rapidly approaching and perhaps in lieu of gifts this year around december-ish, you could send them to me now!

What I wish for most is:
low fat caesar salad dressing
graham crackers
goldfish
100 calorie packs
Indian food (just kidding)

Jewel Rocks Italia

My roommate Alex gave us the name "Postergirls for Weekends in Perugia." I was not so kind when I christened Sara, Alex and myself "Broken Dolls in Santa's Workshop." The three of us had elected to stay in Perugia this weekend, and because we were each suffering some sort of malady. Sara had a horribly bruised ankle from a Thursday night disco adventure that while I attended, I left after 5 minutes (a shame because we really worked hard to get there- the bus to get to the disco was so packed we had to sit on random Italian guys laps to get there..don't worry, minimal groping was involved), Alex was sick in every way possible, and I had lost my voice. To describe it, I sounded somewhere in between un ragazzo (boy) and a yippy dog. Tres lovely. Anyway, despite our sickness and all the reasons that we should not have, we decided to go out Saturday night.

Our good friend, Francesco, called and told us that his dear friend was having a birthday party and it was going to be the hit of Perugia, we just had to attend! Plus, it was being held in the former office building of the headquaters of LS, a once very famous european sporting clothing, which he assured me, was the top of the top, and was once worn by President Hoover. How could a girl say no to Hoover?

Saturday night arrives, with Sara is sensibly flat boots, and Alex practically overdosing on cold medication, while I handily brought along flashcards reading "Ciao" and "Voray un bebito molte forte, per favore" (I would like a strong drink, please) just in case my reed thin voice struggled to make even the slightest of sounds. Francesco picks us up in his convertible car, with the roof up, and DutchGirl, some girl that he always has around. Francesco, being 35 years old, and yet not quite knowning it, is playing a mix tape of Ja Rule, Sean Paul, and Jewel...circa 1999. Definite mood music. Especially for what we were about to endure.

As it turns out, the birthday party was not for a 20 year old, as we must have imagined, but for a 40 year old woman, and her 40 year old friends. Francesco, the pimpin' italian that he is, brought three 20 year old girls decked out in disco clothing to a 40 year old birthday party. The men were in awe of him, and the women looked decidedly sour as they sipped their pink drinks. To give the party due credit, it did look pretty spectacular. A huge circular room with glass walls, there were pink bows everywhere, pink carpeting, guests in pink, a bar serving only pink drinks, and little white leather cubes and white tables, a live band, and waiters in pink bow ties circling with pink chocolates. Pepto Bismal threw up over the entire place.

You could say we took a little too much pleasure in the open bar, but before long Sara, Alex and I were enjoying ourselves, and rocking out to such hits as "YMCA" and "RESPECT". We also brought the limbo to Italian, something not to be taken lightly, as very few Italian men would ruffle their Dolce and Gabbana to bend their torso in such a manner. The highlight of our incredibly wonderful inappropriateness was no doubt when Alex casually strolled through the lobby of the building on our way out, walking through a huge black and white patterned circle on the middle of the floor. Turns out, the circle was some sort of fountain, and had 4 inches of water in it. Elegant despite her soggy soles, Alex, Sara and I strolled out of the party knowing we had rocked the 40 year old birthday party the way 20 year olds would: drinking a tad too much, wearing a tad too sparkly clothing, shoving too many chocolates in our purses, and receiving no less than 1 invitation for a private plane ride, 2 for dinner, and 2 to travel to Milano or Roma. Great Success!

Baby's First Opera

From left to right are Angela (pink sweater), Alex (blue sweater), Sara (glasses) and some stunningly beautiful girl that is no doubt a model visiting from Milan. ....oh i wish.
Here we are at our first opera in Perugia/our lives. While it was not quite what I was expecting (i.e: a scene from Pretty Woman, complete with Richard Gere, a gorgeous red dress and borrowed jewels for the evening (my parents are right, I do watch too much TV)) it was entertaining nonetheless. And through and through it was Italian. The opera was Cinderella, and so of course being girls who grew up in the 1980s we are Disney freaks, and only for the princess movies (Beauty and the Beast, Little Mermaid, Cinderella, Snow White, Sleeping Beauty etc), none of this Lilo and Stitch bullshit, and so we thought we would be able to follow the plot of the Opera.

We were wrong. As I said, it was most definitely Italian, and reflective of their culture. And so, there was not only one Prince Charming, but TWO! Yes, there were two men with her slippers there to wisk her away, and no doubt would have wisked each other away as well...Italian men are surprisingly touchy feely with each other, though they are very clear that they are not "Ohmosexualll" (homosexual). Anyway, being a one guy kind of girl, as I do hail from the States, which was founded by Puritans, I quickly lost interest in the plot and studied the decor instead, which was gorgeous and marvelous all the -ous adjectives you can think of. As it turns out, Operas are really very long, as in around 4 hours. So I took a little nap...shhh....but no doubt that is what the little opera cublicles are for, so no one can see you. a duh.

The Italian Paradox

The Italian Paradox, as we learned it in class, is that Italy produces some of the best quality wine in the world, and yet the inhabitants of Italy, the Italians, actually prefer to drink cheap wine of lesser quality. The high quality expensive wine that Mario Batali boasts of is actually created with foreigners in mind. 

However, the Italian paradox that interests me has very little to do with wine and more to do with kcals-which is what the Italians call calories. Kcal values are on every box/product of food here, and they are done per 100 grams. 75 kcal per 100 grams of pesto/beans/salami. Only it is really more like 100000000 kcal for salami, but I digress. The paradox that I am referring to is how little interest the Italians have in exercise, and a great interest in food, and yet America is the country struggling with obesity. The logic just does not make sense. Yes, yes, I know, everybody thinks it is because Italians walk everywhere and have smaller portions and don't have processed food. Only this is bullshit. Very few Italians walk great distances ever since the Vespa was invented, and Nutella is most definitely processed and full of transfat, and that is a staple in an Italian's diet here.

This is how an Italian eats: Breakfast consists of a pastry of some sort, and a foamy and milky coffee. Lunch includes mozzarella, lots of bread, pasta, and wine. Many glasses of wine. 

After that, later in the night before dinner, the "aperitivo" is taken. This is basically happy hour for the Italians. They gather at a popular bar and have an aperitivo, which is a drink that is supposed to open/ready your stomach for dinner. A typical aperitivo is a glass of white wine, champagne or Compari Orange. Do not be fooled however, by the word aperitivo. It might be singular, but it always involves drinks in the plural. Two or three glasses of wine. If my mother had 3 glasses of wine before dinner, she would be on the floor. 

Dinner is then eaten much later at night. So late in fact that my parents, despite being 6 hours behind me, probably have dinner before I do. In Italy, dinner starts at around 9:30 pm, and goes for around 2 hours. They also have four courses-so this stuff about Italians having small portions and us being used to extra large Olive Garden portions of pasta is simply not vero (true).  Also, the Italians start their first course, primi, with pasta. Their secondi with meat, and their contorni (third) with salad. This is the opposite of the United States, where we eat our salad first to prime our stomachs for heavier food, and to help full us up so we don't gorge ourselves on pasta and pizza. Finally, after the third course of salad that no doubt they cannot really eat after all of the wine, cheese, pasta and meat, there is dessert and coffee, or sambuca, which is an after dinner drink that tastes like licorice.  

This is, as you can imagine, quite an assault on the stomach. A lot of alcohol, a lot of food in general, and then because it is so late, the food simply sits in your stomach. This is the paradox. How can Italians shun exercise, and then eat all of this fatty food, especially in such large amounts late at night and still remain slender?! It goes against all of the advice of South Beach, Atkins, Weight Watchers and most importantly, Oprah (otherwise known as God) who never eats later than 6pm because otherwise the calories you take in will not be burned off. 

This may just sound like an interesting anecdote about food and culture and Italian, but to me, this realization has rocked me to the core. Everything I thought about life (and as girl who recently relinquished, quite unwillingly and not without a few temper tantrums, her teen years to enter her early 20s, I have spent a good portion of my life thinking about nutrition and calories) is no longer true. It is as if I just found out that the sky is not actually blue, but red, and that nothing is how I think it should be. Much like a Quentin Tarintino movie. 

...while I may be exaggerating a little, this Italian paradox is still quite shocking, no?