And Now I Say I've Studied Abroad

Study abroad wasn't about the people for me. I didn't make too many friends on my trip because I was more into adapting to the culture than having it adapt to me.

Study abroad wasn't even about the places for me. There was no real satisfaction to be found in putting another tack on a map or wrapping up another flight itinerary on Expedia.

It was the jangles from the gypsy's accordion on the tram to school. It was picking a strand of lilacs from a churchyard because they smelled good and looked beautiful tucked behind the mirror in my bedroom. It was bile rising in my throat in the medical experiments room at a Berliner concentration camp. It was champagne fizzling in my throat with my neck cast back to better ogle the Moulin Rouge dancers. It was a cigarette on a Spanish night bus. It was pasta so rich and delicate it kind of turned me on. It was fear and love and passion and sex and heat and my fingers on marble and canal water lapping at my heels and unwashed hair and burning.

What to do now that I know just a little bit more of what is out there for me to clutch onto with my fingernails and ravage?

Strangely, coming home has been alright, because my body was tired and sometimes I need traffic to stop at a stoplight because that is the law.

But this whole generic predictable unpaid internship downtown blah Google blah El rides blah notepads thing is going to kill me slowly. So I might as well do something productive with my nights in my room surrounded by album covers and dusty books.

I've gotta write my own to pledge my allegiance to exploration and unbridled cravings for new territory. Besides, I've already picked out the title.

Roam.

Irish I Lived in Galway

Finally finally finally made it to the motherland. Except, it's more like a mistressland to me, now that I've discovered that where I previously thought I was 62.5% Irish, I am only 37.5%. My mother failed to inform me that instead of being 100% her whole life, like I thought, she is only 50%. This is after my horrendous 2-minute speech I made during Heritage Day in fourth grade while wearing my grandfather's XL wool sweater and cap. Do not appreciate the veiling of my ancestry from the parental units this year- my dad only recently told me that he was a quarter, but it doesn't matter because his skin says he's all Italian.

Anyway, I arrived in Dublin by myself on Thursday since my sister's flight didn't arrive until Friday morning. After checking into my 6-bedroom hostel room, of which no other roommate came all night, I hit up the Writer's Museum because I would do that. I had no idea that most major Irish authors went to Trinity College, and now I vastly regret my educational decisions. After buying the complete works of Oscar Wilde, I walked around the city to find where St. Patrick's cathedral and Temple Bar was to show my sister the next day. After grabbing a dinner (mashed potatoes- I missed you so!) I basically crashed, I was so beat/hungover from the night before.

On Friday, I picked up my sister from the airport and she kept up with me the whole day, although the constant "Ugh, it's four am in Chicago"'s got a little annoying on the ears. We hit up the Guiness Storehouse, which, I must admit, pales in comparison to the Heineken Experience in Amsterdam, in case you were considering a beer manufacturing crawl in your near future. Then after a failed attempt to visit the K-sifhsldfhsdf Gaol, an example of the Panopticon that my theory teacher would have came in his pants to visit, we stopped at a local pub for a few beers and then hopped on a bus to Galway. Thankfully, because my sister is an idiot and she didn't figure out how to get to the hostel from the bus station, it was right next door. So we checked in and immediately went pub-hopping. We first saw an Irish version of an American bar where they had a mechanical bull ride. When some guys asked me to get on, I said "My heart says yes, but my muffintop says no", effectively killing the mood for everyone. I blame the 'Belfast Bomb' I had just had after failing miserably at getting an Irish car bomb. Note- they are the same, despite the confusion the bartender may feign at your asking for "a bomb". After hitting up O'Connell's Pub and Bar903 (nine-oh-tree), we got some drunk food and went home for the big day ahead of us.

The day in question was a trip to the Cliffs of Moher, a contender for the new natural wonders of the world. They were gorgeous, definitely, and tucked away into a little Irish village called Doolin or something. We passed thatched roof houses and sheep farms galore on the way, but the real beauty was sitting on the edge of the cliff, laughing in the face of the anti-suicide posts and watching the seagulls soaring below our toes. I really want to go back there again someday to contemplate my role in the world and blah blah blah. It was just reeeel purdy.

Well, truthfully, I want to go back to all of Ireland a lot in my life. The people there- they were so warm, so friendly, so down to earth and ready for a laugh and a pint. Whenever my sister and I would head into a pub, we were greeted by tons of males (seriously, the male: female ratio was so unbalanced in our favor it was unreal) who were drunk and happy. I love the lifestyle there- love your ma and da, work a little, and then go have some Guinness with ye friends and sleep it off the next day. Maybe we had such a good night because we had met some friends on a bachelor party, which is probably the prime group of people to run into in Ireland. After downing some cider, hitting up a night club (oh, THERE are all the girls), and taking a bike taxi back to our hostel, we discovered that they, too, were staying in the hostel, and not only that, but 2 doors down. I ended up passing out in their room, amidst the kind of people with dragon tattoos and names like 'Eamon'. Woke up feeling pretty disgusting but insanely jealous that these guys got to live in such a place.

The next day was a slow-moving one for us, so we walked to Claddagh and got some new rings and other trinkets. We also returned to Dublin, where we went to Temple Bar to round out the weekend. The Guinness was thick, the people were sweaty, and the live band played "I'll Tell Me Ma", my favorite Van Morrison song. And then "Hey Jude". And then "Shout." I couldn't have asked for a better finishing lineup to a relaxing weekend in a lowdown country.

This trip sealed it for me. I just finished applying to work in a number of hostels in the Galway area. Why go home when I have no job or fun lined up for me? I can see myself in Ireland. I can see myself, arms slung around new friends, cheering on Man U and throwing back potatoes like famine times are on the brink. I can see myself stealing away to a cottage for a week, with horses as my neighbors and Wilde as my lover.

But I can't see myself loving the suburbs anymore.

-Sarah

La Vita e Bella

These lyrics have been playing in my head for the past week but instead of home, insert Rome, and not that I want to go back there, but that I never want to leave:

Romeward bound, I wish I was

Romeward bound...

Rome, where my thought's escaping

Rome, where my music's playing

Rome, where my love lies waiting

Silently for me...

Sniffle, sniffle. I was supposed to go to Ireland with my sister this weekend, but Iceland's volcano decided to blow its load everywhere and grounded us both. It's okay, though, because I am getting reimbursed by Ryanair, I'm getting my homework done, and after celebrating Rome's 2,763rd birthday in Piazza del Popolo on Wednesday, I learned that for the "Settimana della Cultura", all state-owned museums are free.

JACKPOT! Therefore, I decided to can the bitching about missing out on Publin to do the rest of the things on my list. Accomplished this weekend: inside the Pantheon when it rained (the oculus lets the rain fall to the marble down below), scoured the Palatine Hill and saw Augustus's house, held a gun in Castel Sant'Angelo, toured the Baths of Caracalla, and went to the beach.

Now that I have a month minus 2 days left in Europe with no job for the summer or money to enjoy myself with, I am seriously contemplating many risky life moves. What if I work in a hostel? No, not in Italy, because of the language barrier, but maybe in Ireland? What if I spend the last of my money on the one thing I've been thinking about nearly every day I've been here- a tattoo? What if I just...miss my flight home?

What could happen?

Would you leave this?

-Cason

Budapesht & Wien

Does anyone else find it extremely odd that we don't pronounce all countries' names the way that they are spelled in the native tongue? All I'm saying is it took me an extra ten minutes to buy a train ticket to Vienna because Wien was too reminiscent of weekend for my taste.

Anywho, me and two friends traveled to Budapest this weekend and were not disappointed. Well, let me rephrase that. It started off with disappointment, fear, and slowly melded into relief, stress, and relaxation. First things first- we needed to take the train to the airport straight after class to make it to the airport on time. We were cutting it so close that we decided to forego buying tickets and just sneak on the train. Well, what do you know- the one time out of the past three months that I have utilized the public transportation at least 4 times per day happens to be the one that I don't have a ticket for. About halfway through the trip, the ticket man was nice enough to let us off in the middle of nowhere instead of charging us the 50 Euro fine. We tried calling a taxi, which apparently did come to pick us up, but couldn't find us and hung up when we tried to explain that we were near the tracks. My roommate Claire threw back her head and howled at how fucked we were, which grabbed the attention of a nice old lady waddling to her car nearby. She came over to us and asked if we needed help. We said "Noi abbiamo andare al Fiumicino" (We need to go to Fiumicino airport), and she said "My son. My son pilot. I drive you." After a few sideways glances, we shrugged and accepted the ride. No one wearing pantyhose and orthopedic shoes has been arrested for murder as far as I am concerned, and look, we got a free ride to the airport- right on time. Must remember to pay it forward sometime in the near future- but preferably not in the hitchhiking vein.

So blah, blah, blah, we get there in one piece, have a nice dinner (beef stew) and wake up in the morning for the obligatory free walking tour. Saw the quintessential sights- Parliament, Palace, various monuments and viewing points, and then made our way back to the hostel to prepare for one of my favorite moments of my time in Europe. We went spelunking in 200 million+ year old caves in northern Buda. We're talking rented suits with lighted helmets, safety words and army crawls. It was incredible. I saw shell fossils, I pulled myself up from slippery clay slants and at one point, we were in "the ballroom" a giant area with what appeared to be a rock "stage" with "bleachers", we all turned our helmet lights off and were silent for 15 seconds. There is no such thing as silence in your life until you are 250 m underground, your hands keeping you balanced on smoothed rock, knowing that people are with you but not sensing it because their breath mingles with the dusty air. I loved every minute of it, happily scrambling up the ladder that I had shakily descended three hours before. I really hope there are opportunities to do things like that in America, and if so, that they are reachable for weekend trips from Champaign.

The next day, we went onto the next incredible activity. We hit up the Turkish baths, which are pumped with water from nearby thermal springs. They were like huge outdoor jacuzzis, with one filled with cold water, one with temperate water, and one with hot water. That's the one we favored, and where I kept eyeing 8 old men leaning over a concrete table thingy that held their 3 hour chess game. What a life- soaking in natural mineral water and keeping their minds intact. Can't wait to be a senior citizen. Anywho, we dabbled in the saunas and steam rooms inside, only to build up to our- get this- $15 dollar massage. Although my Hungarian masseuse was a bit rough with the whole sideways hand chopping motion, it felt great on my sore sore muscles from spelunking. Little off-putting though- she rolled down my bikini bottoms a little bit so she could get lotion onto the top of my buttcheeks. What do I know about massages, though? I wasn't about to pull them up and get in an awkward tussle situated over my backside, so I just went with it and hustled out of the room, red-faced, once it was over. Besides, the sounds of her hands slapping my less chiseled places had been reverberating over the unfinished massage cubicles in what turned out to be a very acoustic hallway, so I was not about to find myself running into any Budapester pool boys after that.

The next weird situation occurred at the club we went to that night. I was at the bar, being very innocent and typical, trying to buy a drink, when a woman stops talking to the man next to her to start asking me questions. "Where are you from?" "Uh, me? Uh, Chicago." "Oh, that is so far away, what are you doing HERE?!?" this went on for a while, until she asked me how I liked the night life here and if I, too, thought the boys were, "Ooh, how you say...easy? They are sooo too easy, no?" I shrugged and politely turned back to my friends and my mango rum drink. A minute or two later though, I felt some arms draped around me and the word "horny" being whispered into my ear. I looked at the woman in alarm, who said, "Horny was the word I wanted. Don't you think the men here are just too horny?" she said with a smile, backing up into the man next to her. At this point, it dawned on me that I might in fact be being approached for a threesome. The man moved his hand over hers, and I grabbed my friends' to get closer to the stage where some Killers sound-alike band was jamming away. We left soon after, with no other run-ins to speak of. Still though, I am not sure if I should be flattered or offended that I give off whatever vibe it is that seems to scream, "I would like to participate in group sex with you."

The next day, we hopped on a 3 hour train ride to Vienna for the day, where we enjoyed beautiful architecture, Klimt's eclectic painting style, and the best Weinerschnitzel in Austria, which can be found at Figlmuller. Other than that, though, we have started to become a little bored with churches and museums and decided to head back to Budapest to catch some much needed Z's before our flight home. I must sound like a brat complaining about the opportunities to see all of these ancient relics, but after living in Rome for three months, sometimes a church is a church is a church is a church.

Before signing off, I just wanted to include a paragraph about an incredible night I had here in Rome. Some of the friends we have made here (yes, they are all male) invited us to go to their villa by the beach one night. Of course we jumped at the chance. It was an amazing night- we sat around playing cards and drinking wine, sharing stories and learning about each other's young adult ways of life. We wrapped ourselves in flannel blankets (the smell of the beach caught in the fabric is surprisingly similar to that of the Indiana dunes) and walked to the beach where me and my American friends could see, for once, what seemed like all of the stars in the night sky. That's one of the things I remember from travelling to Italy in middle school- I was so shocked to see that the constellations over my head in Illinois were still right smack over my head in Italy. It helped me get a tiiiiny but of a better perception of how vast our universe is. Anyway, after we had all had our fill, we slept wherever we could make a bed and begrudgingly went back to class the next day.

To me and my friends' surprise, we found that other people in our program were considerably shocked to find that we would do such a thing. To many of them, Italian boys should be immediately written off as perverted rapists, and we are naive skanks for getting so close to them. If I have learned anything during this trip, it is that Europeans are there as a foil for us, to learn from and to reach a level of intimacy that can only be found between two people that come from different cultures altogether. I have had the best and most educational nights when I hang out with my Italian friends. And, as petty as it sounds, I am fairly certain that people in my group are jealous that we have reached out and made a connection to someone outside of our typical social realms. Whereas they seem to have transported their Champaign lifestyles to Rome, we have adapted ours to the hilly, poetic landscape. Our footprints are in sand on a beach they will never see, our lips have kissed the cheeks with more "nice to meet you's" than they will ever utter, and our ears are filled with music playing from car speakers that they will never hear.

That is all I need to know that this trip has been worth it.

-Sarah

Spring Break

Well. Well. Well. I have quite a lot of updating to do, don't I? At first, I was thinking of doing a three part entry: one for Spain, one for my two days alone in Paris, and one for the rest of my time in Versailles and Paris with friends. But you know what? That's a heck of a lot of writing and I have a heck of a lot more on my plate, such as the fact that I withdrew over $300 from my banking account and now have the equivalent of 60 Euro to last me until May 22, the fact that I have done little to no homework for my one difficult class this semester, and the fact that gorgeous weather is now here to stay in Rome.

Madrid was eclectic, to say the least. I went to visit my friend Owen, who is studying there and vastly more fluent than any other students I've met. Thank God for that, too, considering that I accidentally booked my hostel at 11:00 pm, forgetting that it was actually at 23:00. Many scolding fingers and helpless shrugs later, he helped me get settled in. Not for too long, though, because the next day I went with his friends to Valencia to celebrate Las Falles, a celebration that somehow involves St. Joseph but mostly involves the creation of humongous and beautiful statues that...get burned down at midnight. Kind of sad, but mostly awesome for the 8 year old boy in me to witness.



After taking a 6 am bus home, I forced myself to visit both major art museums, where I saw at least ten pieces that I learned about in Art History class senior year. Seeing that and the Palacio Real and the city park was the extent of my sightseeing- the sangria and paella at night usually tuckered me out. Although I sort of wished I went to Barcelona, the "crazier" city of Spain, Madrid had its own share of shock- such as the prostitutes that lined Gran Via, offering to suck my friend's dick while casually leaning against the window of McDonald's. Gives new meaning to the happy meal, doesn't it?

Anywho, then I was off to Paris. From Monday to Tuesday night, I was alone to wander the streets of the city I was most excited to visit. Surprisingly, I want to go into the least detail here. I did everything, basically- the Louvre, Musee d'Orsay, at least ten churches, a day trip to Versailles (and for fifteen Euro, it really wasn't much better than the Palacio Real in Madrid), climbed the Eiffel Tower, ate crepes in the Jardin du Luxembourg, and, by far the best thing I did, was see a Moulin Rouge show. Complete with champagne and a woman swimming with snakes, it was everything I thought it would be. I don't think my smile left my face the whole time, especially when looking at the outfits. They were gorgeous, and so meticulously crafted to outline the boobs. The boobs, by the way, were all extremely well-shaped and perky, not huge and flouncy like I expected. They really choose the most perfectly shaped women they could find- a fact I faced by eating Italian Oreos in my hostel bed later. It's okay though- I befriended the night bus driver on the way home and he let me drive it around a corner. Girls with 10 tits don't have all the fun.

Travelling by myself for a while was a welcome treat. I learned a bit of French in high school, which took me a long way in this place where, upsettingly, I found the people to mostly match the stereotype of being snooty. At one point, after climbing up the steps of Sacre-Coeur and watching a guy do tricks with a soccer ball that Pele couldn't even do, I realized that I have grown a lot this trip. Not only did I get myself from my Madrid hostel to my Paris hostel by myself, but I genuinely enjoyed sharing my dinner with The Fountainhead and resting with the birds outside St. Sulpice. If I've learned anything so far (beyond how to cook risotto and that I should hate the Italian prime minister), it is that I need to take risks, do the things that I know will truly make me happy, and spend time just simply sitting and enjoying.



It's not like I can afford to do much else now anyway.

-Sarah

Rome-ing

It's finally happened. For a few weeks, I had the notion that this semester I would get my fill of Rome, that I would probably never return. This past weekend was a proverbial slap in the face- "This is ROME, Sarah. Cities don't get much more beautiful than this, more ancient, more dysfunctional and surprising. You will never see it all". And I'm listening.

A week ago, some Italian boys that we met invited us over for dinner. They (and not their mama, I asked) made a huge vat of pasta with porchetta (pig meat), slices of horse meat, mozzarella di bufala, eggplant, jugs of wine...it was perfetto. At the beginning of the trip, I never would have done such a thing. Go to an Italian's apartment? That is asking for a reverse-Amanda Knox-murder-trial scenario. However, after drunkenly accepting rides home from discotecas (oops) and establishing a very sturdy text relationship, we decided it would be alright.

And it was. We all ate and laughed around a giant table and I learned more things about the Italian youth than I have in all of my classes combined. They all live with their mothers until they are about thirty because school takes that long- and a school year is measured in tests, not weeks or semesters. If they want to bring a girl home, "if you are at one end of house, and your parents are at other, is okay!" We learned that they don't trouble themselves with politics, mainly because the Prime Minister is a complete and total slimeball.

We taught them how to play beer pong and Connections, and they taught us "Limone", an Italian variant of Zumay Zumay. So fun. One of them is turning 25 this Wednesday, and we've been invited over for the celebration. You can bet your balls that invite was accepted.

This past weekend, I relaxed a little and visited the catacombs of San Sebastian, a network of over 7 miles of 100,000 tombs built because Ancient Roman law prohibited the burial of bodies inside the city walls. Christians hid there when being persecuted, and had to eat, pray, and generally live amongst the dead. Creepy. After that, we strolled along the Appian Way, which was the original road leading to Rome. It was beautiful and filled with dog poop.

After failing miserably at finding a pub with the Illini/Wisconsin game on, we called it a night. The next day, we meandered around Trastevere market, where I almost, but did not quite, buy a ton of crap. Followed by a day of studying on a park bench on the Juniculum hill and playing with some bambinos that creeped up to us, I would say that this was a successful day of Roman living. By far, though, the best experience so far has been that night with the Italian guys. That, as far as I'm concerned, is what studying abroad is all about.

Next up: spring break in Spain and France. Oh Dios Mio!
-Cason

Amsterdamned if You Do, Amsterdamned if You Don't

Assuming my brain is on the mend, I will try and let you all know as explicitly as possible what went down this weekend. Two days was quite enough debauchery and shock for me, and I feel like boarding the plane back to Rome this morning was a definite and solid goodbye to a city that is so magically open-minded and free that I want to relish this trip as an incredible voyage to realms of human pleasure that need to be experienced in relative modesty in order to retain the spectacle for life.

That being said, I feel like shit today. After puking in a potted plant in the Amsterdam airport and sleeping on the ground for about 2 hours total, I was Dam tired. But I am getting ahead of myself. On Friday, we hopped on a night plane to Amsterdam. Upon landing, I was all prepared to tram our way to the hostel, until we met our first Dutch man. He stared at us as we huddled in the kiosk, and started to call us assholes for not accepting the candy he was holding out. After trying to take our picture and laughing maniacally in what I can only assume was the voice of the devil possessing him, he said "fuck you black devils" and walked away. To be cautious, and because we realized we were waiting for the tram going in the wrong direction, we walked a few blocks away to the correct kiosk. What do you know--- the man showed up soon after. He had been following us. Luckily, there was another group of girls in the same waiting area that he decided to bug instead. When they walked away, he followed- our cue to hop in a taxi to our hostel. Wonder if they are alright...

But I'm alive, so it doesn't matter. After dropping our shit off, we wandered around to buy some marijuana brownies so we could have a good night's sleep. Too bad so sad- the coffeeshops where weed is legally sold all close after about 10 pm :( We got entertained in a different way, though- our extremely hairy Indian hostelmate stumbled into the room at about 5 am and ate chips two feet away from my face. Love roughing it.

The next morning, we went on a free walking tour (that's how I see so much on my trips, Aunt Mary!) and saw the beautiful and kooky architecture of Amsterdam. The land taxes you pay are based on the surface area of your house, so many of the buildings are smaller on the bottom and grow up and out, thus causing them to all lean onto each other. Makes for some great pictures. More so than that, however, are the prostitutes beckoning to you from windows at noon. According to our tour guide, the current Dutch government is looking to essentially shut the Red Light District down by 2013. What does that mean for us? Pack in everything we can.


Monument in the ground symbolizing the open-mindedness of Holland...

Therefore, we headed to a nearby coffeeshop to indulge. While one of my friends had a space cake (pot brownie), me and three other girls decided to purchase a pre-rolled joint. Conveniently, coffee shops (and the smart shops, which sell more hallucinogenic drugs and amphetamines), outline each type of drug with the intensity, length of influence, and bodily effect. We chose a spliff with Northern Lights and gaily smoked it in the shop, the other customers rolling their eyes at our excitement. Whatevs. After getting a pretty good high going, we bought tickets to the Van Gogh museum. iPod and journal in hand, I must say I was disappointed by the exhibit. Out of the approximate 200 self-portraits Van Gogh completed in his lifetime due to a lack of funds to get models, the museum had about 3, none of which showcased his insanity. Also, the famous bedroom painting was on loan to another museum. Would have liked to have known that ahead of time before shelling out 14 Euro for the experience, but I am glad I got to see paintings from his flower still-life stage. So beautiful, so decorating my walls when I have money and...well, walls that are not also housing my beer posters.

After eating our weight in tapas, because Italy lacks ethnic food that I have been craving, we went on the Red Light District barcrawl. At night, the district is a completely different place. Obviously, red lights still outline the prostitute's windows, but they reflect off the canals and multiply by 1000. Sex shops light up too-advertising Real Couples! Teen Sex! Animal Show! AHHHHHHHH. Even I couldn't stomach that one, but for 25 Euro, I would lie if I was saying I didn't consider it. Anywho, the bars we went to were actually pretty tame, and with my one friend passed out from the space cake and the other forced to take her home, I was left with a Brit named Adam who actually told me that I have "the cutest accent". Damn English bloke definitely knows how to twist things into his favor. Might have brought him back to the hostel...thank goodness the Indian was gone and he dropped Euro on the floor when he left. Sometimes, bad decisions can be good decisions.

Sober enough, we woke up and went to the Anne Frank house, where we got to see the annex she lived in with 7 other people before being ratted out by a still unknown informant and dying in a concentration camp a month before its liberation. Very poignant- the pictures she pasted on the walls were still intact, as were the markings of she and her sister's height and the bookcase hiding their stairwell. The only survivor of the 8 was her father, who eventually found and read the diary that she had already begun revising in the hopes of publishing her story, The Secret Annex. It was very moving and I highly suggest you visit if ever in the Dam.

To uplift our spirits, we went to the Heineken Experience shortly afterwards to learn a little more about my favorite beverage. I tasted wort, or barley and water (blech) saw the horses, and tried out a "See How Well of a Bartender You Are" game, which I of course passed with flying colors.


Come to Mama

After getting a little buzzed, we decided to do the ultimate. Friends and family- please pass no judgment- we were too cheap to book a hostel, needed some energy, and needed to do something extraordinary while it is still legal. We headed into a smartshop and purchased some herbal...let's say...energy helpers- 8 pills of which that were supposed to give us a body high in 90 minutes from the intial ingestion. After eating some delish Chinese food, we grabbed our backpacks from the hostel, took the first of what we were instructed to be 4 doses of the good stuff, and wandered around the district. Drunkenly the night before, we decided we needed to talk to a whore, which, by the way, is a PC term there. We decided 15 euro was a good price to talk to her for five minutes. Us innocent little Americans just wanted to know a few things, such as does she get tired of sex at the end of the day, what do her parents think, and did she aspire to be a prostitute, or is this job a necessity for surviving? Despite the gawking (and, might I add, almost all male) tourists, we knocked on a few windows, only to find that it is a flat rate of 50 Euro to even enter the room with her. Even when we lowered our standards from blonde, natural, and attractive, to non-transvestite, the rate would not change.

Oh well, at least we gave it a shot. Noticing that the first pill hadn't really affected us, we popped another and made our way to a club. It was alright at first, just a DJ playing some beats and a few people dancing, but we were excited to get our dance on. After checking our backpacks and heading to the stage, we realized that these pills were really doing nothing to make us happy or, in our minds, better dancers. We went to the bathroom and opened the next pack of four pills, only to discover that these were filled with powder, whereas the first pack had pellets inside of the capsules. At this point, we were pretty sure we had been conned, especially because when we were counting the last of our Euro coins in front of the smart shop man, he said "Oh my god, just take the second pack for free". We were determined to stay awake until heading for the airport, so we broke the capsules, licked up the powder (by far the shadiest thing I have ever done, and in a bathroom no less), and went back the dance floor.

What do you know- my legs felt like jelly and I danced a little more. I waited and waited- still no euphoria. Still no feelings of intense comraderie with my fellow drug abusers. Still no onset of disabling horniness. What I did happen to feel was intense fatigue and nausea. After sitting on the stage edge and passing out, the dreadlocked bartender nudged me awake and told me I need to go home. The other girls weren't feeling the best either, so we got our bags and trudged to the airport to pass out on the floor.


What I was hoping to experience, but didn't

Although I vomited, tried a drug I never have (even though it was probably just flour, paprika, and a tiny bit of MDMA), and talked to a prostitute, I still didn't get to trip on shrooms (no time in 2 days for a 4 hour trip). However, I pushed my boundaries and for that I am proud. For now, I need to continue nursing my hangover and think back wistfully to the craziest 2 nights of my existence. That is, if my brain isn't too full of holes, or at least that's what I think ecstasy does to you. You know, if that is what I actually took.

Alive but Dead-
Cason

News Flash: Not All German Women are Borderline Male

Guten Tag! Just got back from Berlin after an 8 hour delay due to "a missing pilot." For real, easyJet? At least we got a 4.50 Euro voucher to go mad with at the Duty Free shop aka I bought Milka, the most delicious chocolate in the world, only to find it is in my local Italian supermarket for about a quarter of the price. Stupid, stupid me.

Anyway, Berlin was a great experience. I kept debating about going to Munich or Berlin (because both were way too expensive for a 3 day weekend) and I decided to go with the capital because I figured there would be a lot more history to see. And I was extremely correct. On our free walking tour, we saw the Brandenburg Gate, the new Holocaust Memorial, which was extremely moving, as you are supposed to walk through it and reflect:


The stones are sprayed with anti-graffiti spray from a company that originally manufactured gas to the Nazis- a point of huge controversy for Berliners

We also saw the site of Hitler's suicide, which is now a paved-over parking lot with only a diagram to mark the area. Germans thought it best not to build a potential mecca for Neo-Nazis, and I agree. We also saw Checkpoint Charlie, which was the American checkpoint between East and West Berlin, as well as the remains of the Wall, which were recently re-muraled to celebrate the 20th anniversary of the fall. I can only hope David Hasselhoff was present this time, too.


The Italian artist contribution

That night, we bought some 60 Euro-cent forties of Pilsner, Zubr and Rothbrau and pregamed with our hostel roommates, who were 4 boys studying in London. We went to this crazy club called Maria's which was essentially in an abandoned warehouse. Lots of characters at that one- the dreadlocks and hairy armpits went on for days.

The next day was extremely sobering- pun not intended. We took a train to Orenienburg, a town about an hour outside of Berlin that is the site of the first concentration camp set up by the Soviet Union in Prussia. It was the concentration camp from which all others were modeled. It was extremely haunting to see the housing structures, the pits where people were slaughtered in masses, original ovens, and, the worst part, the tables and medical rooms used for human experiments. I thought that between school and Schindler's List, I had had a grasp of the enormity of suffering that the Holocaust had caused to Jewish, Polish, Czech, and more outcasts of the time, but it was not until I saw the gas chambers themselves and this chilling quote that I finally understood: Upon leading new prisoners into the camp, a Nazi pointed to one of them and said, "See that smoke rising out of the chimney? That's your only way to freedom." Ugh.

To brighten our spirits, we downed some currywurst, took a quick nap, and hopped on the U-Bahn to the Berlin pub crawl. It brought us to some interesting clubs, like abandoned garages-turned-rap venues, Jagermeister pubs, and the best, factories filled with cages of people dancing and smoking rooms. We met a bachelor party, the head of which wore shorts with suspenders and was apparently very anxious to get as much female attention toward his leiderhosen as possible. Lots of pictures that Blogspot would ban are now in my personal Berlin collection, if anyone is interested. The (albeit diluted) Jager shots took their toll on me, and I eventually lost my friends and befriended a lovely German man named Stefan who hailed from Hamburg. The guy barely spoke English, and we all know the only word I appreciate in German is fahrt (translates to trip, but still very giggle-worthy), but we made a good connection and I gave him my email. Because that's what they ask for here.

The next day, we groggily pulled ourselves out of bed and hoofed it to the Jewish Museum, which was probably the best museum I've ever been to. The architect designed it to be uncomfortable for the visitor, what with its unparallel walls, slanted floors, and staircases leading to nowhere. It was three floors full of interactive Jewish history lessons, like a convert your name to Hebrew machine and a "break the glass" wedding game. Zabes- I must be invited to yours. Despite the Holocaust Tower, a sectioned off room with a hugely vaulted ceiling and one tiny window as a source of light to remind you of their isolation- it was a merrier way to celebrate Judaism. Definitely an uplifting morning that I needed to counteract the day before. After that, we wandered around the weird shops (Ass-Store? Schmucks?) and made our way to the Erotik Museum. Ten Euro, but SO WORTH IT. It was INTERACTIVE, as seen below:



After that exciting break from history lessons and depressing excursions, we got a huge meal of potato-shnitzel, brussel sprouts, and dessert, which was pineapple ravioli filled with white chocolate. SO INCREDIBLY DELICIOUS.



To round out our Sunday night, we caught the tail-end of the USA/Canada hockey game (much to the chagrin of our extremely nationalistic hostel staff) and slept on the cold benches in the Schonefeld airport until our flight. Despite how we looked 12 hours later and still without a flight home...



I had an incredible time on the wurst fahrt ever, as was expected. Next up is Amsterdam...Lord help us all.

Ciao ciao!
Cason

The Senate and the People of Rome

So I didn't travel this weekend. In a way, though, I was still very much the tourist. We were scheduled to have a visit to the local TV station, but of course, all forms of transportation went on strike in Rome on Friday so we had the day off. Just another day in Europe- you have to roll with the punches because things don't usually pan out the way I think they will.

On Friday, I enjoyed sleeping in (a luxury here) and then took a walk around Trastevere, the neighborhood I live in. It is the "Lincoln Park" of Rome, and I climbed to the top of the Janiculum Hill and got a great view of Rome from the west. After walking and walking, enjoying the nice weather, I eventually descended again and, oh, what do you know, there's the Vatican City walls. Now I've been to the Vatican before, and every time, it is extremely breathtaking to the point of awe. It's hard to walk down the central nave and not believe, what with the band of gold mosaics, colossal sculptures. Behind the altar, there were pews set up for mass and I checked my watch. 4:55 p.m. I knew that every day after 5 p.m, they have mass in Latin, so I sat by a pew and watched the priest and altar boys walk up the aisle, Swiss Guard closely behind them. I stayed about halfway through. I appreciate the sanctity and reverence of the ceremony, but the Guard is what made me leave. I don't want to get into specifics or huge theological arguments- you can interpret that as you will.

On Saturday, my friends and I woke up and went to the Capitoline Museum, where we saw the original sculpture of the she-wolf with Romulus and Remus as well as the remains of Augustus's statue that was once in his basilica in the Roman Forum. It was absolutely humongous- his foot was easily a person and a half longer than me. Afterwards, we rendez-vous'd to the Circus Maximus (original chariot tracks) and saw the Cappucine Crypt- another all-bone church. This one was made up of only monk bones however, complete with outfits or still-rotting corpses. Delish.

That night, we went to a local club where the dance floor was on par size-wise with the bathroom. Enormous fun- until I gave the bartender 2 Euro and asked for the strongest shot he could make. Thanks for the tequila and limoncello, Fabrizio.

On Sunday, we hiked up to Villa Borghese- the biggest park in Rome. After renting bikes and exploring the gardens, we chilled on a bench and watched dogs playing with each other. Note- Italian dogs are just like American dogs. Minogue- One was named Nina. You know how I feel about animals with people names. After effectively tiring ourselves out, we ate at a pizzeria called Rosso Pomodoro (Red Tomato- wow! I'm learning stuff here!). I got a broccoli and Napoli sausage pizza with fizzy lemonade. Magnifico.

Sorry this wasn't more entertaining- but I really enjoyed spending time in Roma and getting more familiar with the 7 hills. Next up is Berlin.

Aufweidersen! (or something),
Cason

"Walk two blocks that way and then ask someone else. This is Venice, honey."

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Pra-ha-ha-ha-ha

DISCLAIMER--- FOR RELATIVES OR OTHER AUTHORITY TYPES READING THIS ENTRY- SOME THINGS THAT ARE ILLEGAL IN THE STATES ARE QUITE LEGAL IN PRAGUE. PLEASE DO NOT HOLD WHAT YOU MAY DISCOVER BELOW AGAINST ME, NOR BRING IT UP AT FAMILY GATHERINGS. THANK YOU.

Well chickadees, I had one of the best weekends ever. It all started with Thursday afternoon, when we had our first wine tasting lesson. Cramped up in a cellar in the basement of our cooking school, we all learned how to A) open a bottle of wine B) read/understand the label and C) the reasoning behind swishing it around, the smell, the color, the taste, and the aftertaste. Giuseppe, our sommelier, turned off the lights so we could utilize our senses as best as we could to discern the different layers of the wine. We would all be silent, inhaling the smells of our wine, sipping silently and thoughtfully, until he would yell out, "OH-KAI?!? Is very good, no?!?", effectively making us drop our glasses.

Then, about half the study abroad group jumped on WizzAir to Prague for the weekend. After a good night's sleep in the hostel, we woke up to do a walking tour, where we saw the astronomical clock, the New and Old Town Squares, the Prague Castle and cathedral, St. Charles bridge, the Lennon Wall, and much much more. I fell in love with the Lennon Wall, where young Czechs/people in general go to write down their messages of peace and love.



After all this, we went out to dinner at Kozicka, where we all shared dumplings, goulash, and spatzle washed down with hot wine. We didn't leave without stealing a steaknife, however, because of a weird girl we met in the tour group. She was travelling by herself, getting oddjobs in different cities around Europe and living with her on and off Irish boyfriend at the ripe age of 19. One of the girls in our group mistakenly told her what hostel we were saying at, and she said she'd love to switch and stay with us. Considering the security at our hostel consisted of one locked door, we pushed the armoire in front of ours before falling asleep, steaknife at the ready.

Before crashing, we went on the Clock Tower Pub Crawl, where we went to three different clubs and met people from all over the world. Absinthe shots stowed away in our stomachs, the second stop on the crawl led us to Chapeau Rouge- an underground club with more concentrated marijuana haze than Cheech's van. Drugs were openly being bought and sold, so I took a few hits with a Jack and Leo from London. It was pretty weak stuff, but the thrill of such an open exchange of pot made my buzz that much more intense. All I could think about was that movie Reefer Madness and how insanely difficult it would be to ever change drug laws in America. You are allowed to possess and purchase small quantities in Prague starting this past January 1, but Americans are expected to mow through mounds of cocaine like nasal skiiers if given any amount of privilege in the drug exchange. Whatever. The next bar was more posh and clubby, like the ones I expected to find in Europe. When trying to buy some beers, I confused Coronas with Korona, the national currency. After walking away from the bar, my friend and I were hunted down by bodyguards and yanked over to the side of the bar, where the manly female bartender furiously shouted "WHY YOU NO PAY ME! WHY YOU NO PAY!", I tried explaining myself, but considering that they spoke no English, they confined me to the wall until I threw some more change at them and melted back into the crowd.

On the second day, my friends and I figured out the train and travelled to Kutna Hora, where there is a bone church. Made out of the bodies of Black Plague victims, the place was like walking on the set of the Goonies, except everything was made out of skeletons, not just the organ.




A really lively place. Once we got back to the city center, we managed to visit the Dancing House, designed by Frank Gehry (Milennium Park). It was awesome looking and made me even more jealous of their architecture. We then saw the astronomical clock ring, and hightailed it to the metro to visit a friend of a friend who is studying there for a semester. He took us to an authentic restaurant where I ate more dumplings and goulash and tried just a tiiiiny bit of rabbit. Couldn't get images of Thumper out of my head to venture further.

Then comes the best part of the trip. We went to this bar called Cross Club. The only way to describe the layout is that it matches what I can only assume is the inside of WALL-E. Light up moving mechanical objects covered the walls and it was laid out like a maze, with different shaped rooms and lowered ceilings so we had to crouch down to sit at a table. We found a dance floor with a DJ and plenty of people tripping to some electronic jam band music mish mash mayhem. We decided to get a little more inebriated before making out way back, and I started to talk to a young and old man in one of the chiller rooms. The younger was a 28 year old electrician who loved the "adrenaline" feeling of his dangerous job and grew pot to chill out when he wasn't on the clock. The older man, however, stole my heart. He is around 60 years old and a self-proclaimed hippie without a cause. We talked about Woodstock, his attempts at yogic practice in India, life in China, LSD trips in Amsterdam cafes, and how he would never want to be my age today. The man is probably a con artist and pathological liar, but I accepted the marijuana he offered and we bonded some more. He has the life I lack the balls to try, so I gave him my email address to learn more about how he came to be the couch surfing, virtually penniless but spiritually wealthy person he is today. I've already gotten to read a rundown of his life (burning draft cards, losing his virginity with a man in a protest outside the Pentagon, living with a candle crafter in Denmark, visits to his mother in America with his heavily tattooed 50 year old girlfriend) and I can't wait to learn more. Call me gullible, but I can't ignore a guy who met Wavy Gravy at Woodstock.

Anywho, after some dancing and drinking, we found our way back to the hostel to prepare for day 3. We visited the Jewish cemetery, where about 12,000 graves are stacked on top of each other in order to avoid desecrating the others around it in a space confined to them by the Nazis.



Really moving. Even more so was the museum, where they had drawings made by children detained in concentration camps. It was a very sobering experience and I want to learn more about Jewish-European struggles when I go to Berlin in a few weeks and possibly Poland.

After some shopping, we all exhaustedly went back to the airport. Now, when 30 Rock joked that "nothing makes sense, it's like an Italian airport", they were clearly mistaken, in that it should have been a Czech airport. Since my friend and I checked in online, we had blew through security and went to the gate, while my other friends had to check in and get stickers on their luggage confirming it was the right size to go on the plane. I got stopped before boarding, and they made me put my backpack in the bin, which, to no surprise, fit perfectly. The flight attendants on board, however, stopped my two friends, who had THE SAME BACKPACK, one of which was tagged as being the right size, and made them stow their bags under the plane. What. the. hell. I had to laugh- especially because they were then asked to sit in the emergency exit rows because they speak English. Oh, the inconsistencies of Europa.

Well, I must rest up. I have an excursion to a vineyard on Friday and am going to Venice for Carnivale (European Halloween) on Friday. My life is so hard.

Buona notte,
Cason

Assimilation Nation

Sometimes I feel like I could update this thing every night, considering how packed my days are. Here are some of the weekend highlights...

A group of us went out on Thursday night to a discoteca-ish place called Coyote. It's a little alarming how accustomed I've come to pregaming a night out with a bottle of wine to myself. It's only a euro here, and hilariously, it comes in juice box form, which I have taken quite a liking to. When I have my first wine seminar next week, it will be a hard adjustment to go from rating chugabillity to potency and age. Anyway, if I've noticed anything about the nightlife here it's that Americans make their presence known and the men who frequent these discotecas are always in their late twenties. I met a friendly fellow named Allesandro who invited me on a motorcycle ride to his flat where we could "do hashish or something else you like". While I always like a good date with a drug lord, I politely declined in favor of passing out on my couch with Nutella smeared on my face.

On Saturday morning, my roommate and I walked to the fresh market in Testacchio, one of the "few Roman neighborhoods not overrun with tourists". Under a huge spanning tent, we walked amidst stands full of fruits, vegetables, AS Roma (soccer team) paraphernalia and kooky trinkets. Among the highlights were slabs of equina, or horse meat, that we are planning on finding recipes for and finding cookware suitable for simmering the thigh of a stallion. Then, we stopped at a fish stand and began talking to the 77 year old man who had woken up at 1 am that day to haul in fish from his boat. We told him we were from Canada, as that usually reaps a more positive response, and upon noticing that we were English speaking, said hold on and went to the back of the shop. We were afraid he was going to come out with some type of hideous sea creature or ancient Toronto maple leaf, but instead he showed us an international newspaper upon which he graced the front cover. The article was about how the fresh markets are still relatively unspoiled by foreigners and that Lucciano, our new friend, had worked at the same stand since 1941 during WWII. He had never gone to school, but loved his work and never wanted to change it. We plan on revisiting this place every weekend to load up on some goodies.



On Sunday, everyone in my program went to the AS Roma futbol game at Stadio Olimpico. We played against AS Siena and beat them silly. The crowd was crazy- everytime we scored a goal they would cheer and hug and push each other like mad and a few of the guys on our trip took a tumble down the bleacher rows. There was one tiny section of Siena fans who all sat in one section with Roma polizia officers at the end of every row. Two years ago, a West Side Story-ish struggle broke out after a particularly heated match and someone got stabbed, so there is ultra high security around the opposing team's fans. The fans spent more time heckling Senia and singing offensive songs than actually watching the game, but seeing as we were ranked much higher than Senia, their passion could be directed elsewhere.



Some other highlights:

Went to a bank to exchange some leftover francs from Switzerland into Euros. To get inside, you have to press a button that opens a clear glass door. Then you walk inside and the door shuts behind you. A very pleasant woman says some rubbish in Italian and a thumbpad glowed down next to my hip. After scanning your thumbprint, another door opens to let you inside. Doesn't matter though, because it was 1:30 pm and thus it was lunch time for all of the employees.

Old Italian ladies rule this place. They shove past you with no mercy on the trams, they yell at you when you are in front of them to get in line on the bus, and they walk whenever and wherever on the street, letting vespas and smartcars pile up behind their sashaying mink coats and Italian loafers.

On the way home from the AS Roma game, my friend and I got on a bus that was supposed to go to Termini, the train station where we catch a bus to go home. This bus, however, went down some long and winding roads into a giant Italian cemetary. At this point, it was nighttime and we were the only ones on the bus. The area was what I can only describe as ethereal. There were long cement building type things that were like graves stacked on top of each other, a light shining in front of every person's name. Through the window, it looked like big fireflies floating over fields. The whole graveyard was probably the size of Champaign-Urbana, and the bus driver had to get out to ask directions twice. This was about the fifth or sixth brush with death I've had since coming here, and I really need to settle down on my urges to wander and test my navigational skills.

Okay, time for some studying for Italian and beddy-bye. Buona notte!

Dampenfahrt-ing

Guten Tag! I hope you've all had a great weekend like I did. First, on Thursday, our Layers of Rome professor took a picture of our whole class, telling us to "say lesbian" before the click. My kind of fellow. Then me, one of my roommates, and two other girls on the program hopped on a double-decker autobus to go to the Alps.

First off, Switzerland is just plain queer. It is primarily a German-speaking country, but the translations were so off it was comical. For instance, a sign in one of the store windows said, "Due scratches on window I please you not sit on windowboard. Nice meet you tomorrow". They still use the franc, which is much weaker than the Euro, so we would always buy things in cash and have a lot more change to spend.

On Friday and Saturday, the girls and I took a train up to the top of a mountain to the stop Kleinshaidegg to tear up some powder. Now, I have been skiing about 5 times, and I thought I was decent. Not in Europe. Every single person there was better than me. In Colorado, I'm used to avoiding ten lazy snowboarders parked in the middle of a mountain or laughing gaily as other people tumble into trees. Here, though, I would timidly follow a German family as they skiied from sign to sign, slowly trailing behind their 6 month old that didn't even need poles. In America, the trails are all clearly marked and people stay within the lines to avoid things like death. In the Alps, a number or color might be posted on some tree, and people view the entire mountain as fair terrain. Whenever I was on a chairlift (or a standing lift, which I fell off of and the whole machine stopped so the man could lift me up and say "STAND!"), I would notice the curlicues of trails going every which way, going from one run to the other. Moreover, there were no nets or fences keeping you from tumbling to your death. We're not talking falling onto a soft powdery pile of fluff, we're talking head over heels down the cliff edge of a mountain. Needless to say, I would make myself fall before I got too close to an edge. The others had enough skill to maneuver around me.

When I wasn't falling and sliding down the intermediates, which we originally had thought were the easy slopes, my friends and I would get bratwurst at the restaurants and order Jagers from the ice bars. At night, we went to a club at the bottom of our hostel that reminded me of a very diverse CO's. Make that the basement of CO's. It cost $4.50 for a Rugenbrau, which was the cheapest drink available and I heard the Black Eyed Peas and the Fresh Prince theme song about 6 times a night. The hostel in general was decent and definitely what I expected- cabin style rooms (even coed...I was surprised), buffet-style breakfast and plenty of chocolate to buy.

On Sunday, we went for a hike through the woods and found the Rugenbrau brewery and what I can only assume is the house from the Shining. That, after a 96 franc Swiss cheese fondue meal was enough of Swiss life for me. The skiing was incredible and the town looks like a gingerbread wonderland, but I am still far too intensely involved in my affair with Roma to make any other commitments.

Stay tuned, lovies. Prague and Carnivale await.

Piacere,
Cason

Broadcasting from the Boot

Buongiorno a tutti!

Well, I've been in the Land of Wine for 4 days now and I couldn't be more in amore. Every turn of the corner is a new beautiful sight, every interaction with an Italian is a new lesson learned, and every street stepped onto is a death sentence what with the lack of any rules of the road and Vespas tearing in between the Smartcars and trams.

I don't even know where to start. Well, I guess I'll start with school. I have it every day but some Fridays off, and I take Italian language, Layers of Rome, Food and Media, Italian Culture and Society, and Food and Culture. I know, right? I am getting graded on stuff I actually want to know more about. Some of my classes are at the Scuola Leonardo da Vinci, and some take us to the actual sites and monuments that we are studying. Our cooking classes are in the GustoLab, which is attached to the school and served us an amazing welcome dinner, complete with fried pizza (which is how it was originally made), pasta carbonara, eggplant parmesan, tiramisu, and, of course, vino. Did you know that the thought of spaghetti and meatballs makes Italians want to vomit, and that they have penis shaped pasta? Because they do.



But anyway, what I have taken away the most is what our program director, Sonia, has said to describe the country and people. It's a nation of organization and anarchy right next to each other. When another director, Leonardo, clicked out of his introductory powerpoint, every student was quick to tell him how easy it was to get back to the current page. He, however, chose to close and reopen the whole program, clicking through every page and link to get to the right one. That's how the people do things here- close down a pizzeria because they want a long lunch, but get furious when you give them a Euro bill over 10. They always suggest taking a ten minute break in the middle of class or bring you your food right away at a restaurant, but you must do everything short of throwing your empty bottle of wine at the waiter's head if you want to be given the check.

What's given me the most perspective on the differences between Italian people and Americans is the nightlife. Here, public drinking is allowed and utilized, mostly in the form of sipping vino in a piazza and people watching. However, a tour guide I met one night at an American bar said that this summer, the Prime Minister banned the sale of food from 2 am to 6 am. In protest, street vendors set their carts up outside of the government building and sold all that they could, leaving their trash on the front steps in their wake. Me and my roommates tend to side with these types of Romans, chugging vino on the bus to the bar and giggling endlessly at the beer called Splugen. In the bars themselves, there are always signs written clearly in English, not Italian, saying to keep our voices down. It's hard to gauge how to act appropriately, because some are genuinely enthused by our atrocious behavior. Our taxi driver last night, for example, sped through the streets at our request, proclaiming that he was "NASCAR driver, si?"

All in all, the first four days have been incredibly eye-opening and breathtaking. Right now, though, I need some friggin sleep because I am waking up at 8 am to get to an island in the Tiber river for class and then hopping on a bus at night to go to Interlaken, Switzerland to shred some foreign powder.

Speaking of shredding foreigners, I have made some more goals for this semester. Renting bikes and riding in Villa Borghese, attending a futbol game, seeing the Queen cover orchestra band, and visiting a Latin mass at the Vatican, among others. Because that, among other sites such as this ancient royal castle, are my current neighbors:



Jealous much? Also, note how the use of totes is embraced:



Probably the only thing they do that makes their appearances unattractive. Welp, I need to go finish up packing and do some Italian language homework.

Arrivederci!
Cason

I'm alive...

...and sort of well. Just got into the apartment- wanted to leave a quick message. So far, we have discovered that we need a lighter to light the stove, we paid upfront in cash for the internet which the landlord pocketed and then used to buy cigarettes in front of us, and my bedsheets have smiling moons and stars on them.

When we were waiting to get inside of our apartment, one of the flats was playing some weird house music and we could see a disco ball through the windows. I think I'm going to like my neighbors.

Okay, time to unpack, shower, and try to not clog the toilet. Wish me luck!
Arrivederci-
Cason

p.s. Saw Lamb and Mint chips at a duty free shop at Heathrow...so tempted to pick some up on the way home.
p.p.s. backpack strap broke at O'Hare. WTF Dave

Basta, Uscita, Andiamo

...are the three helpful Italian words I know. Enough, Exit, and Let's Go, respectively. Kind of quaint, isn't it, seeing as I leave tomorrow? I just wanted to drop a little update before I land. The next time I'll have an internet connection is up in the air-- the company my "romemates" (teehee) and I have a deal with require us to pay in Euros once we land. Shady, no?

As for my last night in the States, it was very nicely Westernized, consisting of takeout, a newly released flick from Blockbuster and the creeping realization that the next shower I take will be one where I have to physically maneuver the showerhead over my body with about five minutes of hot water. Also, I'm very curious as to whether or not my apartment will have a bidet in it. The last time I was in Europe I thought it was a convenient leg-shaving device, and now that I know what it is, I heartily scrub my feet at every bathing. Suffice to say is that I will not be doing that again, at least not when the other girls are around...and if the door doesn't have a lock.

But seriously folks, it's time for me to catch some Z's before I have to scramble together a slew of toiletries in 1 gallon size bag and suspend my cell phone service for the next few months. No unlimited texting? Hold me, I've had basta.

Ciao Ciao!

Well, it's here. 6 days and I will be nestled snuggly in my airplane seat, watching some atrocity on Brit TV and stabbing an unidentified particle of meat on the tray in front of me. Every day my departure date looms closer, I'm in a sort of limbo between excitement and sheer terror, the latter and former interchanging between 30% and 70%, depending on the time of day and the level of difficulty my Italian "word of the day" phrasebook bestowed on me that morning.

It's usually at night, when I'm lying in my bed, an array of needless electronics and wrappers of processed food around me, that I start to get more and more nervous. I mean, I've been to Italy before, and I can reflect upon the people as being, in general, friendly and accommodating. I think the biggest issue is the first few days, when the stuff that I forgot in my bedroom at home is beating me over the head, or when it finally begins to dawn on me just how much I should have gotten a job over break. It's the self-subsistence and loss of comfort that most frighten me, but I feel that, as with all things, it will be fine.

Thankfully, then, the excitement usually wins over and coddles me to sleep. In a week, my mailing address will end in Roma, Italia. In two weeks, I will be skiing (read: falling) down the Swiss Alps after a 10+ hour bus ride filled with newly downloaded iPod tunes or, perhaps, a textbook. I have such high expectations for the next four months, and the best part is that they will most likely be reached.

I plan on taking the biggest risks of my life and doing what makes me uncomfortable. If my hair gets long, I will walk into a salon and tell them to do what they want with it. Who knows? Maybe my barber will ask me to go dancing (a la Roman Holiday) and I will discover how the moon hitting my eye is, in fact, love, as Dean Martin so proudly reassures me. What's the worst that could happen? I wake up in an unidentified apartemento with a stranger's mother breathing over me, wielding a wooden spoon and spewing countless expletives? The consequences may manifest themselves, but I am ready.

I'd like to list a few goals here and there, as I'm sure some will crop up and others fade. For now, my main goals are to see Paris, Greece, and Ireland. I want to find a bench in a park in Trastevere where I can write in my (count 'em, 3) different journals. I want to buy a pack of shrooms in Amsterdam and go on a canal cruise. I want to visit a nude beach and at least go topless, be it whether or not I close my eyes to avoid the double takes of the Smurf-size Europeans that need to verify whether or not a beached whale is in their midst. I want to visit Brendola and see where my family comes from, see how the villagers live their lives. I want to make a close Italian friend that I stay in touch with after my return. I want to know a thing or two about wine, I want to be mistaken for a native, but most of all, I want to feel as though Rome truly is my home.

And who knows? Maybe a book will come out of it. But for now, bellas, I must be off to gape at my wardrobe and wrap my head around the fact that I can bring one eighth of it along me.

Wish me luck,
Cason