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.