tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86762452944865443382024-03-14T12:11:40.890+01:00Baci from Rome!One New York girl's adventures in the Eternal City...Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03816075916092263788noreply@blogger.comBlogger24125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676245294486544338.post-76015264428568699352009-12-13T22:48:00.003+01:002009-12-13T23:06:58.106+01:00Food, wine & music in Frascati<div>Last Sunday my friend Ana and I took a day trip to Frascati. The Lawyer (a guy I had a little flirtation with when I first arrived) had invited me there one evening but I turned him down since he asked me at the absolute last minute and I just don't roll like that. But he made it sound really cool so I put it on my list of cities to check out. Frascati, about 20 mins away from Rome by train, is known for its wine so it’s a popular nightlife destination for Romans looking to do something different on a Friday or Saturday night. But without access to a car, Ana and I decided to just go for the day.<br /><div><br /><span style="font-size:+0;"><span style="font-size:+0;"><img style="WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413019619335460626" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTu22Z9ZOULNqhUWHS6Kkyt9Sbe0aqamYrtOWL5osSVWgde6M1aVmbED09NXWcPfEkye_cddCKgSzwzc-QDrKuDyDwjWS2Lenyt7MSfi9BUofbUcq1QO136zAAKUhheJRIO3jqt-oHDiXB/s320/100_4694.jpg" /><br /><br /></span></span><span><span>It’s a beautiful little town but that’s not really saying much because Italy in general is beautiful—you gotta be bring a whole lot to the table if you want to stand out as a special, unique city. Physically I wouldn’t rank it any higher than say Milan. BUT the trip to Frascati will stand out as one of the best, most-authentic days I had during my entire stay in Rome.<br /></span></span><br /><div><span style="font-size:+0;"><span style="font-size:+0;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRQ3P1wrVe0elMySqyUNNBViIYb-VwgkYv4bQqpcnVvUTsrzqzHeAqCumLbTpIaORXNPYDsR2ULwspJvgzDOTAsYlNVX-BmuZgh4Av8xa_jEWoaj7YjPEyvMnvvU7QpcO1_lcUzcuNUqnD/s1600-h/100_4713.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413021227097467794" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRQ3P1wrVe0elMySqyUNNBViIYb-VwgkYv4bQqpcnVvUTsrzqzHeAqCumLbTpIaORXNPYDsR2ULwspJvgzDOTAsYlNVX-BmuZgh4Av8xa_jEWoaj7YjPEyvMnvvU7QpcO1_lcUzcuNUqnD/s320/100_4713.jpg" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"></span></span></span></span></span></div><span><span></span></span></div><span><span><br />There was a huge street market going so we wandered around the town for a while (it seemed like every single resident and their dog was out enjoying their Sunday afternoon passagiata), looking at the random merchandise, stopping in the church and checking out the views of Rome. Finally we stumbled onto a piazza that had cart after cart of the very thing I came after: PORCHETTA.</span></span></div><div><span><span><br /></span></span><div><div><span style="font-size:+0;"><span style="font-size:+0;"><img style="WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413019630136498786" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG1C2OoiNW2k6Uqszs1dkLLaVbXxfkwkcIK4_M6WNdc-DlFhkBnTtaLRCwv6gZi3cRGXiC0tZ2qDcY1cSoYbsIdH4JcW0VZX88pp3sl0-8BF6d9mjWBr1AOV0twoMLqxLLkW2EsEsuFWeN/s320/100_4698.jpg" /></span></span></div><div><br /><span style="font-size:+0;"><span style="font-size:+0;"></span></span></div><span><span>Last year a porchetta shop opened on my block in New York. It got great write-ups and there was always a long line out the door but I would pass by the place every day without so much as a second glance. I'm just not normally a pork eater, if I have it five times a year its a record. But now that I was in Frascati (right next door to Ariccia where porchetta comes from) I had to have it—if only to be able to tell all those downtown hipsters I had the real deal :)</span></span><div><span style="font-size:+0;"><span style="font-size:+0;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe2xjOMvQMe_CPmIuRgmneEXK8mBM1BdEaspbaTDg4Dsqn0M9HvkCqGFuw3IVaPYs59spOzdRoscTyHcbhX9ssz6VJgIujdHTwfX4T191rbQRTp8oRaW2eTP1apM1aaQYMGCL0Fw0obtyA/s1600-h/100_4696.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413019626798851826" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe2xjOMvQMe_CPmIuRgmneEXK8mBM1BdEaspbaTDg4Dsqn0M9HvkCqGFuw3IVaPYs59spOzdRoscTyHcbhX9ssz6VJgIujdHTwfX4T191rbQRTp8oRaW2eTP1apM1aaQYMGCL0Fw0obtyA/s320/100_4696.jpg" /></a><br /></span></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:+0;"><span style="font-size:+0;"></span></span></div><span><span>So we stopped a man on the street and asked him to point us to the best place to buy porchetta. We bought the sandwiches along with a large container of sundried tomatoes, artichokes and grilled eggplant (all of it drizzled in olive oil) and walked down the street to the cantina he recommended.</span></span><div><span style="font-size:+0;"><span style="font-size:+0;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhidoeowOIwpHE0yIgJe_qxD5GC5lraPalPtaxSTxb3i4oISup5I1hAXTHkOh5Fh0W2g8dSWArcciUcGMs-fBRFoTAguNuRxr-GwJJHJlgwynDl629HnCw0oaNuDecx8k-MTEWuiXwGMuBO/s1600-h/100_4702.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413019636870146690" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhidoeowOIwpHE0yIgJe_qxD5GC5lraPalPtaxSTxb3i4oISup5I1hAXTHkOh5Fh0W2g8dSWArcciUcGMs-fBRFoTAguNuRxr-GwJJHJlgwynDl629HnCw0oaNuDecx8k-MTEWuiXwGMuBO/s320/100_4702.jpg" /></a><br /><br /></span></span></div><span><span>Now this was the coolest part: you buy your lunch then bring it to a tiny little cellar that serves nothing but homemade wine. For 1 Euro we got to fill up a pitcher with wine from the huge barrels in the back of the shop, spread out our food on a picnic table and eat and drink to our hearts content.</span></span><div><span style="font-size:+0;"><span style="font-size:+0;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPCpa77tms01s3795L51RMZnD6a_bEDSIdrHADlIi1hj94AbutkZRGkTKpjSI73DYl7QBdvvQxC5j7JoOmrFw1zr53nfgQbeNykhZ2hRQpjYTbmIa_JrOVmbb4M4zuwl-5-2WzFVQt-IGn/s1600-h/100_4704.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 240px; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413021214549062994" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPCpa77tms01s3795L51RMZnD6a_bEDSIdrHADlIi1hj94AbutkZRGkTKpjSI73DYl7QBdvvQxC5j7JoOmrFw1zr53nfgQbeNykhZ2hRQpjYTbmIa_JrOVmbb4M4zuwl-5-2WzFVQt-IGn/s320/100_4704.jpg" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK7bzUA83TfH0dwqStkF_1zwV-awF0eMMiKhVebiChT8XTG69NfshgX6PvyIElifNzyrz9r9NpHeOMiQuAyCBpj5QQixrvMGQKV4_ftQ0IoPFgo6koVxU8frz9mhSY6p-YmDqu6iXPoRiw/s1600-h/100_4705.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 240px; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413021220395983474" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK7bzUA83TfH0dwqStkF_1zwV-awF0eMMiKhVebiChT8XTG69NfshgX6PvyIElifNzyrz9r9NpHeOMiQuAyCBpj5QQixrvMGQKV4_ftQ0IoPFgo6koVxU8frz9mhSY6p-YmDqu6iXPoRiw/s320/100_4705.jpg" /></a><br /></span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-size:+0;"><span style="font-size:+0;"></span></span></div><span><span>While we were eating we chatted with the owner of the cantina as people came in and out with empty bottles to fill up with wine (someone even came with a empty liter bottle of Pepsi, no joke). As our wine ran out, Max (the brother of the owner) came over and filled our glasses back up with wine from his pitcher. He was clearly nuts (in the best possible way) but we somehow got into an interesting conversation with him about Italy (he emphatically insisted that he wasn’t Italian, he was Roman) that segued onto the topic of music and he told us he was a musician who performed all over Lazio. Suddenly he stood up and ran out of the shop. Five minutes later he came back with his guitar, plopped himself down at our table and started to sing for us.</span></span><div><span style="font-size:+0;"><span style="font-size:+0;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiaFsOJhlfb6KuDYFI4VQGNVzjn7dUgciOy_APHVZhNgYrjbFTJ8w9BZA4OL9zzDLCBs08ZlYZSTc9gLZQKsTJ8zrNQSLYSQR90ta4WU6Q4-xZXIjDt_eNsvyjoRbpaX-k4Mm4iB1JVvjE/s1600-h/100_4706.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413021223854641186" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiaFsOJhlfb6KuDYFI4VQGNVzjn7dUgciOy_APHVZhNgYrjbFTJ8w9BZA4OL9zzDLCBs08ZlYZSTc9gLZQKsTJ8zrNQSLYSQR90ta4WU6Q4-xZXIjDt_eNsvyjoRbpaX-k4Mm4iB1JVvjE/s320/100_4706.jpg" /></a> </span></span><br /></div><span><span><span><span><br />Aside from us, there was an older couple from Rome who had driven to Frascati for lunch. Between listening to the beautiful Italian songs, talking with the older couple, speaking in French with one of the customers (he was explaining the concept of the cantina to us but asked to switch to French as his French was better than his English—yay for knowing a foreign language!) and chatting with the shop owners, it was an incredible afternoon. We stumbled out of there 3 hours later, tipsy from the delicious wine (in addition to the two carafes we bought, Max must have filled our glasses 4 times), stuffed from all the great food and grinning from ear to ear. I live for those kinds of experiences.</span></span></span></span><div><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dx4eC2sam6NkOWSN6uwYR6P4xOjir_yVQofiHApB-DyhL545RyjRoVGkKhByozZpbPDy5EfcIOkfgWl4lwnAw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /></div><span><span><br />One funny thing to mention: there were tons of gnats flying around the cantina, one even fell in my drink. I’m really squeamish in general but the owner insisted that they wouldn't hurt us and it was totally normal to have them around since they just finished making a fresh batch of wine that morning. Um… ok. We spent half the time swatting gnats and trying to keep them from falling into our meal. As we were leaving Ana joked, “Don’t worry. If we’re lucky we only ate 10 of them.”</span></span><div><span style="font-size:+0;"><span style="font-size:+0;"><span><span></span></span></span></span> <!--EndFragment--></div></div></div>Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13493637078660630466noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676245294486544338.post-59316394697302061412009-12-08T23:28:00.003+01:002009-12-09T01:56:30.041+01:00Happy Immaculata!<p class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">Today is Immaculata, a feast day dedicated to the Immaculate Conception of the Virgin Mary. It’s a national holiday in Italy but since I’m not Catholic (and in fact grew up in the Protestant tradition) I had never heard of it until a friend mentioned it yesterday. After doing a bit of research I learned that it’s sort of a big deal—big enough that the Pope comes out to give a public blessing and pay homage to the Virgin.</p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifnUthHsQtQwRQOjenILxz_TCiUbSAuXI5j4mBmJ9RGBUvQuAI-YTyUBKcFDLeAOu1KSlEERFjRuTCqovvwbqbf-Ywed49ynnVuq-dDdfOzS7CYtIeXSWp_r2haG9Fsj2Y7_JS6F9DgMPu/s320/100_4718.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413028612143241794" /></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Now a chance to see the Pope in the flesh, Popemobile and all, was too good to pass up so I walked over to the Spanish Steps and took my place with the hundreds (thousands?) of other people packed into the piazza. By the time I arrived at 3:30pm (the blessing started at 4pm) I could barely find a spot on the Steps so I can only imagine what time the folks with the front row seats got there.</p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">I couldn’t see the entire ceremony from where I was standing on the steps (the Pope places a garland of flowers on the statue of the Virgin Mary at the other end of the piazza) but I did get to see the military guys come in, the whole motorcade procession and THIS:</p> <!--EndFragment--> <iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dy-MREzrTY9-nXI5Bw3blhERDZlMVOUyqxAzDebdML89dmY6lpkecv749TOaWD_UxGjUZH2J5mIeL9JXksLNw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><div><br /></div><div>And I’m done. I can go back to New York happy now :)</div>Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13493637078660630466noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676245294486544338.post-64432821355375142142009-12-07T23:15:00.000+01:002009-12-09T01:17:23.135+01:00Day trip to Ostia AnticaI spent an afternoon at Ostia Antica, the ancient Roman colony founded in 620 B.C. It’s a quick 30 minute trip on the metro so I decided to go there one afternoon last week and check it out.<br /><p class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8D_-hJLcBVe1Xtk1KZcXAOuU57hlx19Kxa2VIUAfFdovJXmqHK5ImV3X9QnaueYUpcwRwXjcu7VlfC5Efy_drW85D5jnmv8KD4hErYLX1Q1j1FfEMEC8Wv-BWRtrerU_OgLB714rVPNa6/s320/100_4634.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412994610658248338" /></p>The funny (or sad?) thing is that I was so spooked out by the place that there were a couple instances where I didn’t do/see everything I should. I just didn’t expect the place to be so damn creepy! Just imagine traipsing through a bunch of old ruins, its nearly deserted, deathly quiet, in the middle of nowhere, with crazy pigeons popping out of every corner to scare you half to death. Yep. <p></p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiskZ9YTnkuHCJgk4lrWw2LTpQRzdMWfEzLxPHo__bpn4NkSe2EwzyMSfhC0QDx-YAcb4m-zc8J_kZYCJsg0U-ovTvg0z8GZTWGGQKH7tzBuwhda499zV76znM8ANeU8OPDIJOXQzShAa2h/s320/100_4648.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412995931528111778" /></p><span><span>Like at one point, I walked down this long deserted backstreet to check out the old tenement-housing complex. It was built for the lower-middle class families, complete with several 5-story apartment buildings and even a tavern that had a real bar with shelves for food & drinks, a sink and wall paintings— very cool.</span></span><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWYQbcwuWNO5-8e5sfx0BKKAzEh2N-utPce-HfAylu8YKbLHQQxXn3c7BaPEiG2TswLfDphbqM3aSXixopJnDp5-MrfhwvPu3Tj2wGUqP1NOSSQ5MykjVrJ0Lbdhud5zIlHh4_mkH_3l6u/s1600-h/100_4665.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWYQbcwuWNO5-8e5sfx0BKKAzEh2N-utPce-HfAylu8YKbLHQQxXn3c7BaPEiG2TswLfDphbqM3aSXixopJnDp5-MrfhwvPu3Tj2wGUqP1NOSSQ5MykjVrJ0Lbdhud5zIlHh4_mkH_3l6u/s320/100_4665.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412995918951146226" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><i></i></p><span><span>Towards the back of the area there was a building with stairs you could climb up to take a peek inside the apartments from above. I really wanted to look inside. But after a few minutes wandering through the deserted, maze-like place the hairs on the back of my neck started to stand up (it was Ostia’s “projects” after all). </span></span><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSqwvdYSt0kdEE4zjQIc5zZGKY3zdt8AauN9Igaoi7ubWiT-KDVsYFf7V0Bxrpwuqex8RI5oDZalGr3jZLNUQnSjoplrM_7-hWH9xzPvnZY2IcuTQWR4xvcSuNn_7rORAUIvUOZWvF6tI3/s1600-h/100_4663.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSqwvdYSt0kdEE4zjQIc5zZGKY3zdt8AauN9Igaoi7ubWiT-KDVsYFf7V0Bxrpwuqex8RI5oDZalGr3jZLNUQnSjoplrM_7-hWH9xzPvnZY2IcuTQWR4xvcSuNn_7rORAUIvUOZWvF6tI3/s320/100_4663.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412995911265748802" /></a><br />It was like being in a horror movie and I just though, 'You need to get your ass out of here before this turns into some sort of <i>Night of the Living Dead</i> situation!' So I quickly left—walked back out and onto the main path where there were at least a few other living humans. Its so stupid, believe me, I know. Why would I be freaked out by a bunch of old buildings? lol, as my mom would say, I need Jesus.</p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">The thing was that it was a random Wednesday afternoon and it was late in the day so there were hardly any tourists around AT ALL. And the whole place has an eerie, frozen-in-time vibe… if I had known I wouldn’t have gone by myself. To my defense, my friend Ana went a few weeks ago and said she felt really creeped out too and left early. So I’m not totally crazy :)</p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj424jU7oON90sPM02wqPzYV_DytleZRKi7R6ylAIPiBLr9RcJ79CjvmNcVhQQkP-c9n05CPLp6F3OgS9aENEr0I33QGiwNs5tbE9v5LL-Rz3nW5c5m4XeK7UpNwPDR0gQVMmCxt3rwDTAR/s1600-h/100_4653.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj424jU7oON90sPM02wqPzYV_DytleZRKi7R6ylAIPiBLr9RcJ79CjvmNcVhQQkP-c9n05CPLp6F3OgS9aENEr0I33QGiwNs5tbE9v5LL-Rz3nW5c5m4XeK7UpNwPDR0gQVMmCxt3rwDTAR/s320/100_4653.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412994620430990450" /></a><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj424jU7oON90sPM02wqPzYV_DytleZRKi7R6ylAIPiBLr9RcJ79CjvmNcVhQQkP-c9n05CPLp6F3OgS9aENEr0I33QGiwNs5tbE9v5LL-Rz3nW5c5m4XeK7UpNwPDR0gQVMmCxt3rwDTAR/s1600-h/100_4653.jpg"></a><i>(The Theatre)</i><br /><br /><div>Anyway, here are more pictures from the trip. It was still awesome. Very cool to wander around an ancient village, its so amazingly preserved (the entire town was covered in mud after a bad storm which preserved it and kept it safe from medieval thieves until the excavation in the 1930s and 40s). At the same time, its always hard for me to really wrap my mind around something of this magnitude. This town was here centuries <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">before Christ</i>. That’s a whole lot of history!</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWVL0hJCNzrH-u3YwAPI6qdVDYacIKDaNwi7-162evj8xFMTajPvjTIdW7n3eDvCaaRzbTISNx3XwJKNWoaO86tNP2-Z-3aTIe8DhpFgeVIfT6ZAKsWqXmCDKMRtRq9etYO_fmRjaRxnnU/s1600-h/100_4640.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWVL0hJCNzrH-u3YwAPI6qdVDYacIKDaNwi7-162evj8xFMTajPvjTIdW7n3eDvCaaRzbTISNx3XwJKNWoaO86tNP2-Z-3aTIe8DhpFgeVIfT6ZAKsWqXmCDKMRtRq9etYO_fmRjaRxnnU/s320/100_4640.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412994616039636178" /></a></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWVL0hJCNzrH-u3YwAPI6qdVDYacIKDaNwi7-162evj8xFMTajPvjTIdW7n3eDvCaaRzbTISNx3XwJKNWoaO86tNP2-Z-3aTIe8DhpFgeVIfT6ZAKsWqXmCDKMRtRq9etYO_fmRjaRxnnU/s1600-h/100_4640.jpg"></a><i>(The Thermal Baths of Neptune... cool mosaics on the floor)</i><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidmEb3PndkYOgIOjHqkDur8vm1n9uAiowujT4Yclu3aUcALc-lXEhHqn0EWqmLjvrwpfAEPeqACHSOHiuywg1B3rpN8qOyhhnAjbpqPP9EgLG30sWAbBFQ5Wre3LAxrhZHOyqsfzPJ-gmw/s1600-h/100_4660.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidmEb3PndkYOgIOjHqkDur8vm1n9uAiowujT4Yclu3aUcALc-lXEhHqn0EWqmLjvrwpfAEPeqACHSOHiuywg1B3rpN8qOyhhnAjbpqPP9EgLG30sWAbBFQ5Wre3LAxrhZHOyqsfzPJ-gmw/s320/100_4660.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412994623137520770" /></a></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidmEb3PndkYOgIOjHqkDur8vm1n9uAiowujT4Yclu3aUcALc-lXEhHqn0EWqmLjvrwpfAEPeqACHSOHiuywg1B3rpN8qOyhhnAjbpqPP9EgLG30sWAbBFQ5Wre3LAxrhZHOyqsfzPJ-gmw/s1600-h/100_4660.jpg"></a><i>(The Mill from 120 A.D., where grains were ground by twisting those blocks of stone)</i><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmf2L42xKV59Nq7xx2_vvTOl7WvuZdYQbAmCLcyiaxI2disKPsNvsIBOFqCVNtxxPE94aRWF10OIMVr0Hwp2z6SGaYuq5FCxEzTa4gGkFd1OgLPT2u9poQCcOb70KAMxtaqkrvcSXbyU7Y/s1600-h/100_4662.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmf2L42xKV59Nq7xx2_vvTOl7WvuZdYQbAmCLcyiaxI2disKPsNvsIBOFqCVNtxxPE94aRWF10OIMVr0Hwp2z6SGaYuq5FCxEzTa4gGkFd1OgLPT2u9poQCcOb70KAMxtaqkrvcSXbyU7Y/s320/100_4662.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412994631180691298" /></a></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmf2L42xKV59Nq7xx2_vvTOl7WvuZdYQbAmCLcyiaxI2disKPsNvsIBOFqCVNtxxPE94aRWF10OIMVr0Hwp2z6SGaYuq5FCxEzTa4gGkFd1OgLPT2u9poQCcOb70KAMxtaqkrvcSXbyU7Y/s1600-h/100_4662.jpg"></a><i>(An oven to bake bread)</i><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-_Q6dzGuDuxl3-_iF2HhaWKA8Cf20NLqPTC-QiTHOrQjf-MhjMimTW_b0ngPkBNzgEC3GNAoJom2Xyw-zb5q4J5fEVnNJffdV7xEYh0xzvwphG8ElO7HKbS09AF6d-XW4znnUOdaiFzLq/s1600-h/100_4679.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-_Q6dzGuDuxl3-_iF2HhaWKA8Cf20NLqPTC-QiTHOrQjf-MhjMimTW_b0ngPkBNzgEC3GNAoJom2Xyw-zb5q4J5fEVnNJffdV7xEYh0xzvwphG8ElO7HKbS09AF6d-XW4znnUOdaiFzLq/s320/100_4679.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412995925877214882" /></a></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-_Q6dzGuDuxl3-_iF2HhaWKA8Cf20NLqPTC-QiTHOrQjf-MhjMimTW_b0ngPkBNzgEC3GNAoJom2Xyw-zb5q4J5fEVnNJffdV7xEYh0xzvwphG8ElO7HKbS09AF6d-XW4znnUOdaiFzLq/s1600-h/100_4679.jpg"></a><i>(The Grand Temple/Forum, dedicated to Jupiter, Juno and Minerva)</i><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihA3GXMczZNZcQI1KSGZhrwgGZ68F2T0mbw2NGz5z-rBQDPIzPK0kg5dE-b7OBieBSd_W1forWn7mfZNTPmwnUDZxSg2v7wAeO8oghcr-_fSgFrVG_QlumdwXsGZRfjFgtnXqEVZW6AItI/s1600-h/100_4671.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihA3GXMczZNZcQI1KSGZhrwgGZ68F2T0mbw2NGz5z-rBQDPIzPK0kg5dE-b7OBieBSd_W1forWn7mfZNTPmwnUDZxSg2v7wAeO8oghcr-_fSgFrVG_QlumdwXsGZRfjFgtnXqEVZW6AItI/s320/100_4671.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412995921999615538" /></a></div><div><i>(Gov't-subsidized forum baths: it had steam rooms, pools, masseuses, the works!) </i></div></div>Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13493637078660630466noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676245294486544338.post-60465566156289448822009-12-01T12:46:00.001+01:002009-12-01T12:49:48.764+01:00The countdown<p class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">2 weeks from today I’ll be leaving Rome…</p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">As I write those words I still can’t believe its true. Where did the time go? I feel like I just got here and yet nearly 3 months have passed since I first arrived. Initially I planned to go home for the holidays and return to Rome in the New Year. This was based on the idea that I would have a great apartment to return to... not the case. Lord knows I can’t and won’t stay in this SanLo apt a second longer than I have to. And with no home to return to I don’t know if I’ll be returning at all.</p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Leaving Rome feels almost like a breakup. Even though the city kicked my ass a few times, I loved it here and the fact that I have to say goodbye so soon is heartbreaking. But when I look back at this experience, it won’t be Rome that makes me smile the most. What I will think of most is how Rome served as a base for me to explore this beautiful country. Before I arrived I made a list of 19 Italian cities I wanted to visit while living in Rome—I’ve since crossed off 13 of them and that fact thrills me to no end. I have seen the most incredible sights and have collected experiences that I'll be able to savor for a lifetime.</p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">But more than anything Italy brought me back to myself. Just a few months ago I woke up to the realization that the life I was living wasn't for me. The nearly 10 years I spent working in my field were great, perfect for the girl I was then. But by the time I got back from Paris I had finished that chapter and was ready to move on to something new. What? I didn't know. But then there I was, back in that same old job, feeling miserable under the weight of other people's expectations... until I decided to <a href="http://bisousfromparis.blogspot.com/2009/04/paris-part-2.html">return to Paris</a>. And from there began my journey of being totally authentic to myself. Loving myself enough to ensure my own happiness, seeking out my life's purpose, trusting my instincts, taking a leap of faith. By coming to Italy I proved to myself that I have the strength to start over; that doing things for the simple fact that you <i>want </i>to is not always a bad thing and definitely not something to be ashamed of; that sometimes the unclear road is the best one to take. And finally, I learned to love this period of uncertainty. To really relish in the simple act of living just as strongly during the times of doubt (as Rilke phrases it, "living the question") as when you're floating through life with a concrete plan in place. Its the most valuable lesson I can take home with me. Boy, have I lived. And by now I've walked too far in the right direction to start moving backwards... the road is still uncertain but I'm finally at peace with that and I'm excited about what will come next.</p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Speaking of strength, last year I saw Benjamin Button and this speech from the final scene really resonated with me:</p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst"><i>“For what its worth, its never too late to be whoever you wanna be. There’s no time limit; start whenever you want. You can change or stay the same—there are no rules to this thing. We can make the best or the worst of it… I hope you make the best of it. I hope you see things that startle you. I hope you feel things you never felt before. I hope you meet people with a different point of view. I hope you live a life you’re proud of. And if you find that you’re not, I hope you have the strength to start all over again.”</i></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">I'm going to enjoy my last days here: spending time with friends, traveling around Lazio, eating everything I can get my hands on and just soaking up the magic of Italy. Living here has been surreal and I’m really going to miss this crazy place. The good news is that I've thrown enough coins in the Trevi Fountain... I'll be back :)</p>Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13493637078660630466noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676245294486544338.post-67825530603932817322009-11-28T20:11:00.010+01:002009-11-28T01:23:54.122+01:00On family...My aunt and cousin came to visit me for a few days last week and we had an absolute ball. Their timing couldn’t have been better… they arrived in Rome on the same morning that I <a href="http://bacifromrome.blogspot.com/2009/11/aint-that-about-bith.html">lost the apartment of my dreams</a> so I didn’t have time to wallow in self-pity. They just helped me clean up the SanLo apt, get the place organized and stock the fridge with food. And they convinced me that I was better off just where I was.<br /><span><span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoGbDqnznyjY5VDKbtaqD9EJGhaLg8ZmhzCuwKsJA1cCz1_l2NlAVY8WNFNxi0UcmMPBeNG6ptc_2iib9FS4PcnlFf6RciyvMSewhHyG5ZqihBHnI-TjZQFJwCf8DsgPtoSQZ-_UMgJ7wf/s1600/rome.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoGbDqnznyjY5VDKbtaqD9EJGhaLg8ZmhzCuwKsJA1cCz1_l2NlAVY8WNFNxi0UcmMPBeNG6ptc_2iib9FS4PcnlFf6RciyvMSewhHyG5ZqihBHnI-TjZQFJwCf8DsgPtoSQZ-_UMgJ7wf/s320/rome.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408932720325241970" /></a><br /><br /></span></span><div><span><span>We didn’t do much touristy stuff—a trip to the Vatican for Sunday mass, a stroll through Trastevere, a nighttime walking tour of the major touristy sites (Spanish Steps, Trevi Fountain, Piazza Navona), shopping on via del Corso and a visit to the Colosseum. One night we had dinner at Tram Tram in SanLo,</span></span></div><div><span><span><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9DvRq90WGlribdn8_3SeiYUAkTjKdVM8m_X3TdGz9bmLrXPUE_s2tS99Tq8hgWHGtJyueXP0K90VTq-yEQggPmY0LwqP0ugbfKHVU0zdehwLF3-FSsEJk6wWo69zQcsOfUBEzk7RwQpQ5/s320/rome7.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408933603688270146" /> </span></span></div><div><span><span>another night dinner and drinks at Etabli; but other than that we stayed home. My aunt is the typical Haitian mother and insisted on cooking three elaborate meals every day instead of "wasting money" by eating out— great for me considering that I was wiped out from my Amsterdam trip. So we spent most of the time in my kitchen, sitting at the table drinking wine & prosecco, eating and talking. </span></span></div><div><div><span><span><br />At one point, my aunt decided to cure me of my single status by teaching me how to cook (which is of course is the indicator of whether or not a woman is ready for marriage, lol).</span></span></div><div><span><span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtkkizXlDvvjGpOiOfdmrVr44HcljIDHcHirbxMCKJ5-rPLA5QqaZBs9u_NNC8eePOZaOY6eLu3HwX_6O4bfFjmKDqWMdlncefhAJ6d62OMn3ad1iXCUfChsXtJL6fGMpwHx_i9ofS5XBn/s1600/rome4.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtkkizXlDvvjGpOiOfdmrVr44HcljIDHcHirbxMCKJ5-rPLA5QqaZBs9u_NNC8eePOZaOY6eLu3HwX_6O4bfFjmKDqWMdlncefhAJ6d62OMn3ad1iXCUfChsXtJL6fGMpwHx_i9ofS5XBn/s320/rome4.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408932733291806466" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1RajNxRhMQaAoGIAb_cl-zDqWCO-NMZSDljMwIiUNsjl5PCb85QFIPiq87QJ3QgjZqFT35NRqMxwi_2DFcSoJnwQpZw4VNAN00tcurFQ2V0bg_VEb-QzulyEhq7RItLoHHnBvn-mEclbF/s1600/rome3.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1RajNxRhMQaAoGIAb_cl-zDqWCO-NMZSDljMwIiUNsjl5PCb85QFIPiq87QJ3QgjZqFT35NRqMxwi_2DFcSoJnwQpZw4VNAN00tcurFQ2V0bg_VEb-QzulyEhq7RItLoHHnBvn-mEclbF/s320/rome3.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408932726408131714" /></a><br />She taught me how to make pork chops, rice & peas and potatoes (in lieu of plantains) and it turned out pretty darn good if I do say so myself, especially since it was my first shot at cooking something other than spaghetti.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxlzheCVAi586TuOVduuRvEkOIvwUbyr2aDWRINkl9QNEsdlX46UJoQNbxueputPWYgYxI7lrm5hqFDeq3CFCqBGKuOHbgoWjgisaSJ2bL7eKrdIeBbTZGbcYmTAjUDimJBJJFI9nLBnPX/s1600/rome5.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxlzheCVAi586TuOVduuRvEkOIvwUbyr2aDWRINkl9QNEsdlX46UJoQNbxueputPWYgYxI7lrm5hqFDeq3CFCqBGKuOHbgoWjgisaSJ2bL7eKrdIeBbTZGbcYmTAjUDimJBJJFI9nLBnPX/s320/rome5.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408932737464451346" /></a><br /><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span>When they left on Tuesday morning I was really sad to see them go. Being so far away I often miss my family so it was nice to have a little slice of home with me, even for a few days. Plus I haven’t laughed so hard in a long while. </span></span><div><br /></div><div><span><span>For the record I must say (I'm a bit biased but so what): I think Haitians are hands down the best storytellers ever. I don’t know if it’s due to growing up in a country where most people don’t have regular access to other forms of entertainment (TV, movies, etc), but no one can tell a story quite like a Haitian can— the kind of story that has you on the edge of your seat, eager for more. Its the intonation of their voice, the colorfully outrageous choice of words used to describe the simplest things, the facial expressions, gestures, dancing and full out Oscar-worthy acting that leave you with tears running down your face, gasping for breath. Sadly I wasn’t blessed with the storytelling gene but I've been lucky to have been around it my entire life.</span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span><span>Though my parents came to America when they were teenagers and I had a very typical suburban American upbringing, our family was always intrinsically Haitian (much to my chagrin when, as a kid, I just wanted to be like everyone else). I remember lying in bed with my grandparents and my mother every Sunday morning, listening to them “by blag” (telling funny stories, the level of truth varying widely). And even though I could barely understand their grownup talk at that young age, I laughed right along—it was better than any sitcom I’d ever seen. I remember holidays and parties when all my aunts and uncles would get together, the shrieking laughter that would go on all night, and my cousins and I, the American-born kids, begging our parents to keep their voices down as we tried to watch cartoons in the next room.</span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span><span>These stories are meant to serve as warnings, teach lessons, share family histories, gossip about things going on “back home”, reminisce about the good old days, and sometimes just plain entertain. Translated into English it would lose its magic. Its a beautifully rich culture with wonderful old traditions and though I haven't been to Haiti in many years, its such a part of me. Its something I want my children to experience but considering my fabulous way with languages it probably won’t be me who teaches them :)</span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span><span>So it was in that world that I spent the past 4 days. The fun we had! It still makes me smile to think of it.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqMoAFleqdN5_dwjDgS5OxFs494rluY7UPU5D_RAfw_VbibYnhyphenhyphenEoALikH096J0X2I4xnDcIzk-tIkyDms8Yiq2gQuvCgG-IveD2LGuF3R2uWPkaxSb4JU1O-y6HWyJXHjBsbqhs4seHPe/s1600/rome6.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqMoAFleqdN5_dwjDgS5OxFs494rluY7UPU5D_RAfw_VbibYnhyphenhyphenEoALikH096J0X2I4xnDcIzk-tIkyDms8Yiq2gQuvCgG-IveD2LGuF3R2uWPkaxSb4JU1O-y6HWyJXHjBsbqhs4seHPe/s320/rome6.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408933126507029234" /></a></span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span><span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqMoAFleqdN5_dwjDgS5OxFs494rluY7UPU5D_RAfw_VbibYnhyphenhyphenEoALikH096J0X2I4xnDcIzk-tIkyDms8Yiq2gQuvCgG-IveD2LGuF3R2uWPkaxSb4JU1O-y6HWyJXHjBsbqhs4seHPe/s1600/rome6.jpg"></a><span><span>I’ll leave you with a little T-Vice, a popular Haitian band my aunt turned me on to… go figure.</span></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10px; white-space: pre; "><object width="480" height="295"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/qapFAO7TZok&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/qapFAO7TZok&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="295"></embed></object></span></div></div></div>Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13493637078660630466noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676245294486544338.post-56995943247139135772009-11-26T14:15:00.011+01:002009-11-26T15:20:10.165+01:00A real AmsterdammerAhh, Amsterdam. How I love that beautiful city.<br /><p class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE1iGXhjj-oeM3uaQkTg1U0G5R_ipC9gF9k4t0BVI34Lj6RXghresZKwONaBk_ZTxawv3nyHJU0tSX7hb_j4TG9iRwE8-WyZdFJbHyzC9ZdY4-9PnCjJkkqUawCjpQLIMkcIduD7YV27eu/s1600/100_4555.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE1iGXhjj-oeM3uaQkTg1U0G5R_ipC9gF9k4t0BVI34Lj6RXghresZKwONaBk_ZTxawv3nyHJU0tSX7hb_j4TG9iRwE8-WyZdFJbHyzC9ZdY4-9PnCjJkkqUawCjpQLIMkcIduD7YV27eu/s320/100_4555.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408404352133798562" /></a><br /></p><span><span>I met E’s sister-in-law at her <a href="http://bisousfromparis.blogspot.com/2009/09/countryside-wedding.html">wedding</a> in Ardeche this August. She’s a super sweet girl and her husband (E’s brother) is also really great. We had a blast in Ardeche so when they invited me to come to The Hague to celebrate her 30<sup>th</sup> birthday in November I agreed. Even though I hardly knew the couple, I figured there would be a few other people at the party who I did know so it would be fun.</span></span><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">E, who lives in Paris, just signed on for a new film (she’s an Art Director) shooting in Amsterdam so she would be there; an old friend from college in New York happened to be in Amsterdam for a business trip and to celebrate his 28<sup>th</sup> birthday; I would get to see a bunch of friends who I haven’t seen since E’s wedding; I planned to take a train to Berlin afterwards to see a <a href="http://sirposhalot.blogspot.com/">dear friend</a> who’s been doing the music thing out there for the past 2 years; and I’d get to see another part of the Netherlands and visit my beloved Amsterdam again after a long <a href="http://bisousfromparis.blogspot.com/2007/10/joyeux-anniversaire-moi.html">2-year absence</a>. </p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">In the end none of that worked out. The production on E’s film got pushed back so she wasn’t coming to Amsterdam after all. My friend in Berlin got a last-minute gig in Spain. A few of my Amsterdam friends were out of town or busy with work. My New York friend and I kept playing phone/email tag and didn’t end up meeting up. None of the people I knew ended up going to The Hague for the birthday party so it was just me with 40 semi-strangers. And it didn't help that by the time November rolled around I was broke from my train trip around Italy. Plus it was freezing cold and rainy every single day—which is such a pain in a biking city. It was just one of those trips. But when you travel you have to be prepared for everything to go wrong and just be determined to have a good time anyway. Not to say I didn’t have a great time—its impossible not to in Amsterdam—but if I hadn’t gone, things would have been much better on my wallet.</p><div><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Hvu9nMrDb5inojnCKbBNjUir8pQxUWVd4jXXyOkGlG6Lszpmj4kdEHZBDIsvhkC72MmNUOxm7sZCjPBsbjPzQwhGUiZEy5zX6VnB_2OSpeMoChdrF7kFzLCYHYtCIldRP-WOqkwlOPfQ/s320/100_4562.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408405337021498578" /></div><div><i>(Vending machine dining on Leidseplein at 2am. Surprisingly delicious)</i></div><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">I arrived on Wednesday and my friend picked me up from the train station and took me back to her place to drop off my bags before she went back to work. The absolute first thing I wanted to do was go to the movies to see ‘This Is It’, the Michael Jackson documentary. Rome being Rome, they only have a handful of random English-language movies playing at any given time. Everything else is dubbed in Italian. And I desperately wanted to see the film before it left theatres (by the way if you haven’t seen it yet, go immediately. I cried like a baby the entire way through. Then again I’ve been a die-hard MJ fan my whole life).</p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">My friend lent me her bike and I spent the entire week trying to be as much of an Amsterdammer as possible. I wanted to relax on this trip, to see just how lazy I could be. I spent long luxurious days in the brown cafes, rode up and down the canals just to admire the scenery, went vintage shopping on the Nine Streets (I bought a fabulous fur coat and a great army tote bag) and the Dam, ate anything Dutch I could get my hands on, hung out in various English bookshops, had lovely dinner parties with my Dutch friends, met friends for drinks, checked out a couple music venues at night and visited a few sites (including the Anne Frank house which was incredible).<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijOer4oxaVhkLu_sG9glNgg5tQnnDxpTUNvZsnuuKSQJOG_4W5K8IzFWGyy4VB4o3xlFAg-wNZtg4PHkWxGzV3piCXLkuLppn43dzDpZVh7ENH4SIh3iXl_D2PYgSnEhJC75KNbrDk88Fy/s1600/100_4613.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijOer4oxaVhkLu_sG9glNgg5tQnnDxpTUNvZsnuuKSQJOG_4W5K8IzFWGyy4VB4o3xlFAg-wNZtg4PHkWxGzV3piCXLkuLppn43dzDpZVh7ENH4SIh3iXl_D2PYgSnEhJC75KNbrDk88Fy/s320/100_4613.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408416482816972834" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAXRcoYuFmy0H4SaYSYZUgit8t0E4CdJ-LerA3-3NLM-mqnqAIZltYHvEWP0PmPurMK2O0WO7V-vmYx9F-YilOZkBMkTYAeo-WCCAkU8bNMvdyFJEIGswDwr_L5EryOeCeIPZk7oz_vMcX/s1600/100_4613.jpg"></a></p><span><span><i>(Anne Frank House)</i></span></span><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span><span><span><span></span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg1q036MN1OhYgPFqejhcRcHkkEQrWDHyeoRhLF_o_jcV15S6LoZSypoong9V3TcM0D00MiJ9QKtIYbNbx2W60IzHLDd0WlJX6WTdI6svLNjpV58MLrm6WtzB1NceE1XICkzx5x_BViv00/s1600/100_4551.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg1q036MN1OhYgPFqejhcRcHkkEQrWDHyeoRhLF_o_jcV15S6LoZSypoong9V3TcM0D00MiJ9QKtIYbNbx2W60IzHLDd0WlJX6WTdI6svLNjpV58MLrm6WtzB1NceE1XICkzx5x_BViv00/s320/100_4551.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408404349969758754" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyNvQaFNS3POxXpAvqfuKmXJlaxH6q3eEk9InpUNaBVEupFnElQ-fIYMR3EJIlYLu1CSvU8fzCTwFeumvR7jK-FUeqtI8ZdtX9zy435M9rOB1WYJw3lNgycX4pSgxIGvR7yOSDF6QZwQ-h/s1600/100_4560.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyNvQaFNS3POxXpAvqfuKmXJlaxH6q3eEk9InpUNaBVEupFnElQ-fIYMR3EJIlYLu1CSvU8fzCTwFeumvR7jK-FUeqtI8ZdtX9zy435M9rOB1WYJw3lNgycX4pSgxIGvR7yOSDF6QZwQ-h/s320/100_4560.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408405335720092546" /></a><br /></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><i>(Hotchpotch at Moeders restaurant)</i></p><span><span>I even became a local at Café Winkel—I went there so often that the waiters started saying “See you tomorrow!” when I left. They’re known for their <a href="http://www.ericasp.com/blog.php/2007/03/22/the_best_appeltaart_in_amsterdam">delicious appeltaart</a> and once I tasted it I kept going back for more. Plus its a super cute café in a great neighborhood—cozy and warm and I would stake out my favorite seat in the corner, order my pie and latte, read a book or write in my journal and watch the rain fall outside for hours. It was blissful.</span></span><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVPz-reBMGOEyDPpSOrZy7TyZqFtodh9x_TQUe418QdblpWlsAPA9Owge20vqKgLxSn70SzxZzTVNBmzg4O3hBhP7uSikei03ncAKyasDTVH37KIHvgEB8IHlg0k8dgzPjBimW2MObYBr4/s1600/100_4558.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVPz-reBMGOEyDPpSOrZy7TyZqFtodh9x_TQUe418QdblpWlsAPA9Owge20vqKgLxSn70SzxZzTVNBmzg4O3hBhP7uSikei03ncAKyasDTVH37KIHvgEB8IHlg0k8dgzPjBimW2MObYBr4/s320/100_4558.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408404357876628674" /></a><span><span><br /><span><span></span></span></span></span></p><span><span>O<span><span>n Saturday I left for the birthday party in the Ha</span></span>gue. I was a bit self-conscious since the party would be full of strangers and people I barely knew. But I was determined to make the best of it. I helped with the cooking and the setup.</span></span><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbnrNFZL_stueBpcOWwVhKnabcAWV5M0hAaMuAr9AJHfsSfDT70-RUdnowecfBOJU2nISqSocKqnhBMnYxomYXPBKt7Yzh_sjGXhwYUFbh5DhchD_2qWd9EZRM4SQuVftV1zXZVfpTSibD/s1600/100_4575.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbnrNFZL_stueBpcOWwVhKnabcAWV5M0hAaMuAr9AJHfsSfDT70-RUdnowecfBOJU2nISqSocKqnhBMnYxomYXPBKt7Yzh_sjGXhwYUFbh5DhchD_2qWd9EZRM4SQuVftV1zXZVfpTSibD/s320/100_4575.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408405344275087410" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibbFXAwIb81jQioBDf3MFSAQ74lcIZHZe4-s68CMyH0XmJ8OoWrgzW9oHUVLiKd1rYpP8w2pICIfuSU8s5nSYj9wL26Zeyi6DYzkK0BM-GLUJZrL97zUimA87AQl41w6d5ebtsWpQFD0RU/s1600/100_4578.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibbFXAwIb81jQioBDf3MFSAQ74lcIZHZe4-s68CMyH0XmJ8OoWrgzW9oHUVLiKd1rYpP8w2pICIfuSU8s5nSYj9wL26Zeyi6DYzkK0BM-GLUJZrL97zUimA87AQl41w6d5ebtsWpQFD0RU/s320/100_4578.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408407718514047426" /></a><br />I was prepared for a lousy time but it actually turned out to be really cool. Nothing to write home about but a nice atmosphere. I mingled with the guests and met lots of interesting people—among them a renowned physicist and a rock musician and a Dutch guy who entertained us with stories about his trip to Compton (LA).<br /></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoyZ9I6UUgKdxc8YD5h2n2JL9p-ZroIbi6lN2ip2-UMUHilMl76VejKB0EEMbNYCgF3d79fGXB_cTbvannQKQVKQ0SYRnjvrB5gpFFoLpJQOjNhcSlfU00mVfC-bUj94PfF2pDH2oI1nJ3/s320/100_4577.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408405350918512978" /></p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">On Sunday afternoon we took a tour of the Hague.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWmeJRfnCw6PTlq6siHsklF82NXpYTyRMIBk58gPk0Yv7gbX1QVbL0CZnYOTx61E_0wIbK_laCJuTV-WuEj8NwlgO3D6TIhe0upRyEAwkO736KgdEK_Sj5oarHX-1QOtx40HuTF-Witq3j/s1600/100_4587.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWmeJRfnCw6PTlq6siHsklF82NXpYTyRMIBk58gPk0Yv7gbX1QVbL0CZnYOTx61E_0wIbK_laCJuTV-WuEj8NwlgO3D6TIhe0upRyEAwkO736KgdEK_Sj5oarHX-1QOtx40HuTF-Witq3j/s320/100_4587.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408407729845877586" /></a><br />Stopping by the beach for pancakes, and the city center for raw haring, a Dutch quick snack speciality. I'll try it once but that was more than enough for me (note: it does not taste like any sort of sushi). I guess its an acquired taste.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUWBKYDF0odt32kG1bDCBVCPF_ecn8Q1BUF1lDKUwjUp__ubxbDgWQeAaHzAkcs6ttL4MrOkgzqSNwiNvW5f9syUi1TeBvHPjj9QqsBo34bwME5UHF6YhhdhNL1uYQwn2X9BQs6d97xGV3/s1600/100_4605.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUWBKYDF0odt32kG1bDCBVCPF_ecn8Q1BUF1lDKUwjUp__ubxbDgWQeAaHzAkcs6ttL4MrOkgzqSNwiNvW5f9syUi1TeBvHPjj9QqsBo34bwME5UHF6YhhdhNL1uYQwn2X9BQs6d97xGV3/s320/100_4605.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408407742070149570" /></a><br /></p><span><span>Then we walked around the city center, window shopping and checking out the Sinterklaas displays (is it just me, or is the concept of "Black Pete" very bizarre?). The Hauge is a really nice city but its no Amsterdam so I was happy to get back on Sunday night.</span></span><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2Xx2pBtqrqoLFGx1q0Wkhb5-b4MotcoRts8lyWKgW-bBk03Z70W8tndefIXrDzBhUL42B8AsCwOrI0XqJRoU1kBXDYNlpvwYCrPwaMvoTpAw2bbCmNqX-6UZDLhf6UNJ4bw4VgExIM2AU/s1600/100_4603.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2Xx2pBtqrqoLFGx1q0Wkhb5-b4MotcoRts8lyWKgW-bBk03Z70W8tndefIXrDzBhUL42B8AsCwOrI0XqJRoU1kBXDYNlpvwYCrPwaMvoTpAw2bbCmNqX-6UZDLhf6UNJ4bw4VgExIM2AU/s320/100_4603.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408407735997320306" /></a><br /></p><div>On my last afternoon in Amsterdam I went to check out the new Jimmy Choo collection at H&M (it sucks by the way) and happened to park my bike in front of a coffeeshop. </div><div><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOV75vOBxAX1rkh-yYmQcTttR0pPnG51bN1ensuxGnxunKknrYESxiIi9T-D9KAyeTcLAvVf_8_kL7hibl3TVbhus2KannXBODCs9lnUnBt21Oo8tHTC5cm3xdZXpvYMXgEBC8OGWrmcy4/s320/100_4543.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408404342020980722" /></div><div><br /></div><div>I’d never been inside of one before. The last time I was here my friends wanted to show me the real Amsterdam, minus the stereotypical touristy stuff so I skipped it. The thing is, I’m not a smoker but I always thought it would be interesting to give it a try in Amsterdam since its legal and all. I hesitated for a couple minutes before finally deciding to go in. I went up to the bar and looked at the menu while I waited in line. I felt kind of stupid trying to figure out what was what while everyone else just came in an expertly ordered their drug of choice. By the time my turn came up at the counter I was already feeling a bit lightheaded from the contact smoke so I decided to leave. I’m such a lightweight (this summer I tried pot brownies for the first time and spent an hour throwing up in the bathroom) Lord only knows what that Dutch weed would have done to me! lol, maybe one day I’ll finally try it but not this time.</div><div><br />So that was my trip. I had a great time and it was so awesome seeing all my friends, but by the end of the week I was so ready to get back to Rome. I’m not sure when I’ll get to go back to Amsterdam again... but next time it had better be warm out! That winter weather is no joke!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkQZvf9kDafJAL5F4ZY_3ADSngZ-P-7_XtkBCtxexb2YzD6u5p7tIoN1sPGQp5sh6r2Wzez6Z3nmK146GT12XD9v6zbKHBsTj3z5Nr7aNdDPPskwDDePBdVD7xcGqdCx1bPrTMJUR4e4I7/s1600/100_4612.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkQZvf9kDafJAL5F4ZY_3ADSngZ-P-7_XtkBCtxexb2YzD6u5p7tIoN1sPGQp5sh6r2Wzez6Z3nmK146GT12XD9v6zbKHBsTj3z5Nr7aNdDPPskwDDePBdVD7xcGqdCx1bPrTMJUR4e4I7/s320/100_4612.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408408866135574306" /></a><br /></div>Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13493637078660630466noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676245294486544338.post-36982989356700451192009-11-21T10:45:00.003+01:002009-11-21T11:28:58.591+01:00Ain't that about a bit*h...<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst"></p><span><span>The past two days have been an absolute whirlwind! Intense highs and lows, all within a 24-hour time period. You know when every single thing that can possible go wrong DOES GO INSANELY WRONG?! </span></span><div><span><span></span></span><br /><div><span><span>About 2 weeks ago, just before I left for Amsterdam (still need to blog about that, forgive me), I got an email from a woman who saw my Craigslist ad in search of housing. K is an American filmmaker who lives in New York and keeps and apartment here in Rome. She emailed me and said her place would be available from mid-Nov to late-Dec and from the pictures and description it looked great. Unfortunately it was also out of my price range and I told her so—she said she would email me in a few days and if no one else was interested in the apt I could have it for my price (I gave her a figure at the upper end of my budget). A couple of days later I got the “OK” from K and we scheduled a time for me to view the place. She was in Germany but her French boyfriend B could show me the apt the day after I got back from Amsterdam. I went to see it on Thursday evening and it was absolutely gorgeous. It’s a cozy 2-bedroom apt in a lovely old building near Forum Romano, beautiful indoor courtyard, amazing views of the ruins and a big slice of Rome, all white furniture, working fireplace, new electronics—it looked like a hotel. And the best part is that it would be all mine. I quickly agreed to take the apt and scheduled to come by at 8:45am the next morning to hand over the money and get the keys from B. </span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span><span>That night I was literally on cloud nine. I could finally leave the hellhole of an apt I was staying in and really enjoy my last few weeks in Rome (more on that later). I stopped by the ATM but it wouldn’t allow me to withdraw the full amount so I decided to do half that day and get the other half the next morning. But the machine spit my card back out, giving me the message “Invalid Card”. I didn’t think too much of it, just went home and called my bank. They said they would increase my credit limit so I could withdraw the full amount and my card would be functional again within the hour. </span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span><span>At this time L (the girlfriend of the guy I’m renting my room from) comes by to pick up the money for that month's rent. She didn’t get my text so I had to explain to her that something came up and I would be moving out in the morning. After a little protesting she left but 30 mins later I get an angry call from T (the guy who’s room I’m renting) from Ghana. He was going on and on about how I have to give him the money for the month anyway since I gave him no advance notice that I was leaving. I was going to tell him exactly where he could shove his stinkin’ apartment but once again my mom had (wisely) told me to be polite and calm and just say I was sorry for leaving suddenly but something came up. We ended the call with my telling him I would do my best to try to find someone to take over my room and we would discuss details later. </span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span><span>2 hours have now gone by so I went back to the ATM. Again, “Invalid Card”. I tried several times then decided to walk down the street to another ATM. Still no go. By this time its midnight and I’m starting to freak out. I tried to call the bank again but there was a long wait for a live person so I said to myself, 'Ok I will go to bed and wake up at 6am to try again'. Then I'll have 2 hours to straighten this out with the bank if my card still doesn’t work. </span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span><span>Meanwhile I did feel really bad about skipping out on T. He’s a really nice guy, its not his fault that his roommate is sh*t and he lives in a crappy neighborhood. So I prayed on the situation—I asked God if I had done the right thing and to show me some sign if I had made a mistake. The next morning I go to the ATM to try again: “Invalid Card”. I’m on the phone with the bank for the next 2 hours—alternately running to the ATM and back to my apt to frantically call and tell them its still not working. On their end they said there was nothing preventing my card from working—no block, no hold, my available daily limit had in fact been increased. And the weird thing is they didn’t even see any activity showing that I was attempting to make a withdrawal. </span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span><span> By this time its 8am and I have to head over to the Forum apt to meet B. I tried 3 more ATMs along the way, each one said “Your card is not valid for international transactions”. I was nearly in tears. When I arrived B was in a big hurry—he had to leave at 9am to catch his flight. He looked at me and said, “Where are your bags?” and that’s when I told him what happened. I told him I had my checkbook for my American bank account and I could write him a check for the amount in US dollars but other than that, my hands were tied. He told me that since it wasn’t his apt he’s not sure what K would want him to do. Understood. He said she was flying back to NYC from Germany that day but I could try to reach her. He would leave the keys with the grocer downstairs and maybe in the next day or two it would all be sorted out and I could move in then. </span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span><span>I called K and couldn’t get through to her. So I sent her an email asking her to let me know what we could do ASAP. Meanwhile, L had been calling me nonstop all morning, 15 times in a row! I ignored it. She was in the neighborhood and wanted to come pick up the keys from me. By noon I still hadn’t heard from K and the idea of being homeless on the streets of Rome just didn’t sit well with me. Plus I couldn’t dodge L’s calls and texts any longer so I took a deep breath, called her and gave an Oscar-worthy speech: I told her that I had slept on it and realized that I made a mistake in not giving them adequate notice that I was leaving. That they were really nice people and I didn’t want to leave them in the lurch so I would do the noble thing and pay for one more month. I wasn’t sure if I wouldn’t be able to stay for the entire month but I would let them know if I had to leave before Dec 15th. In any case, this would work out nicely for them as they would not have to scramble to find a replacement. It would put both our minds at ease. (Thank God I my mom made me be nice about it in the beginning or they could have thrown me out on my ear!)</span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span><span>And with that, the Forum apartment was gone. I was irrevocably tied to the SanLo apt until Dec 15th. </span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span><span> By 2pm K finally sent me an email saying she was at the airport but I could send her the money via Western Union and when it posted (next Wed) I could go pick up the keys and move in. Of course, Western Union costs 50 Euros and since I was already exceeding my budget for this apt, I just couldn’t afford the extra expense. Plus by that time it was too late. And there’s no way I could have stayed in the SanLo apt for another week while I waited for the money to clear. So I would have had to move into a hotel and that’s just way too much drama and expense. I tearfully wrote her back saying that I wouldn't be able to take the apt after all. </span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span><span>And wouldn’t you know it, by 4pm that very afternoon my ATM card suddenly decided to work. Now ain’t that a bit*h...</span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span><span>I believe that everything happens for a reason. Yesterday was a strange series of events that made it IMPOSSIBLE for me to get that apt: </span></span></div><div><span><span> 1. My card stopped working the day I needed to withdraw money; in the 2 years that I’ve been in Europe (and the 3 years I’ve been with this bank) that has never happened. </span></span></div><div><span><span> 2. B had to leave Rome at 9am, if his flight were in the evening instead, my card would have been working again and I could have given him the money. </span></span></div><div><span><span> 3. K is traveling and doesn’t have access to phone or internet so I can’t contact her to find out how she would like to handle things. Maybe that US check would have been ok. </span></span></div><div><span><span>4. My cousin arrived from NYC with enough cash to lend me for the rent. But her train got into Rome at 10am, just one hour after B left. </span></span></div><div><span><span>5. By 4pm my card is working again, 7 hours too late. </span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span><span>I don’t believe in a vindictive God so I know it wasn’t that He was punishing me for handling things badly with T and my sudden move-out. God makes no mistakes so I know there must be a reason why I was meant to stay here in SanLo (to work on my patience perhaps?) or why I shouldn’t have been at that Forum apt. I have no idea what it is. And even knowing that everything worked out exactly as it should it doesn’t stop it from hurting (it was soo painfully close!). I just have to swallow the feelings of disappointment and keep it moving… I will stay positive and continue to enjoy my time in Rome regardless. As a wise man once said, “You can make the best or the worst of it. I hope you make the best of it.”</span></span></div></div>Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13493637078660630466noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676245294486544338.post-58474177000850546642009-11-18T13:42:00.008+01:002009-11-18T16:17:00.887+01:00RANT<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">Before I mention my trip to Amsterdam I just need to rant about my roommate for a bit or I may be driven to do something irrational... </p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">Last night around 11pm I come home after a looong day of traveling. I’m exhausted and have the beginnings of a cold so I’m feeling pretty crummy, I’m just glad to be back in Rome and ready to climb into bed. As I walk around the front of the building I notice that the lights are off in the apt so I’m even more excited—great, my roommate isn’t home so I’ll have the place to myself. I unlock the front door and what greets me? An overwhelming stench of stale cigarettes and hot garbage that nearly knocks me right over. And it didn’t help that he left the heat on (meanwhile its 65 degrees outside), just to cook everything to the right level of putridness. I put my suitcase and bags in my room and went to investigate.</p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">When I left for Amsterdam last week I said I would not throw out the trash or do the dishes this time. No matter that I use maybe one plate and two cups per day, I’m always the one doing the dishes. And the trash was just about full when I left so I was sure that by the time I got back, Asshole (that’s my roommate’s new name) would have been forced to clean up a bit. The dumpster is RIGHT in front of the building, its not that difficult. But no. Of course not. When I opened the cabinet the can is literally overflowing with garbage (I hate when people leave trash teetering on top of the pile. Its obviously full! Just throw it out!). Then I look at the sink and its full of dirty dishes (one of which is a cup of milk which has turned bad, adding to the delicious smell). Then I notice that the same ashtray full of cigarette butts and joints (can I call the police and get him arrested?) is STILL on the kitchen table. Then I notice a pot on the stove. I lift the lid and what do I find? Something that I imagine used to be tomato sauce is now a pot full of mold! MOLD for goodness sake! That was the absolute last freakin straw. All I was thinking was that this motherfu*ker better be murdered in his bed, there is no other excuse for the place to look like this (I actually went to check. No body).</p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">But wait, it gets better. After the assault in the kitchen I escaped to my room, determined to leave everything exactly as it was and give him a piece of my mind when he got home... never mind that he doesn't speak English. Later I went to the bathroom and of course he had left the seat up… fine. I can deal with that 3 times a day. But then I went to use the toilet and stopped dead in my tracks. There was literally FECES smeared on the toilet seat. This disgusting, stupid, no-good, cheating, lazy, nasty ass piece of SH*T! I cannot and will not.</p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Do people seriously live like this??! I am not a clean freak by any means. I don’t mind leaving dishes in the sink for a day or two, my clothes may be strewn around my room from time to time, that sort of thing. But to live with someone who NEVER cleans up after himself? Who lets things get so bad that you’re literally gagging from the smell? I have to close his bedroom door when I go past b/c it smells so bad in there. I don’t know if it’s the Italian male thing and he thinks that since there’s a woman in the house, he doesn’t have to clean up after himself. I know he just moved in recently (the guy I’m renting the room from only said by way of an explanation, “He’s not the most interesting roommate but he’s never home so that’s good”) and I don't know what his level of cleaning participation was before I arrived but this is downright ridiculous.</p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Now you know homeboy and I already had some <a href="http://bacifromrome.blogspot.com/2009/10/cheater.html">issues</a> but this just pushed me over the edge. I planned to put the bag of trash in his bedroom, along with the pot of mold but my mom talked me out of it—she said, “You don’t know him. He could be crazy and kill you for doing something like that.” I guess she’s right. So I left the pot of mold on the stove (I cannot even look at that thing, let alone touch it. Just the thought makes my stomach queasy), threw out the trash, washed the dishes and opened the windows to air the place out. But would it be so wrong if I cleaned the toilet seat with his toothbrush?</p>Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03816075916092263788noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676245294486544338.post-56649279370028642402009-11-10T12:04:00.013+01:002009-11-10T13:07:13.519+01:00Day 5-7: MilanoAnd finally, Milan. The last stop on the trip and the city I was LEAST looking forward to. I don’t know what it is, but every time you mention Milano to anyone in any other part of Italy, they give you a look and say, “It’s the worst city in Italy. Don't go there, you'll hate it.” Consistently. Every single time, same response. Well all I have to say is that I didn’t hate it one bit.<br /><span><span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiThWftOMGRMD0JXyVcqD2Yu_XYL7Len8_OZFZaqDzLIs3kx3s2NBcylsBWVTkQr63ZsVD3grSK8bDTn52-JgM34QYqS2rFIKiZ6JvTIbTHTwZFqUZBNGPpolF6df_VCHZ37UQuG4-kMe0/s1600-h/100_4516.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiThWftOMGRMD0JXyVcqD2Yu_XYL7Len8_OZFZaqDzLIs3kx3s2NBcylsBWVTkQr63ZsVD3grSK8bDTn52-JgM34QYqS2rFIKiZ6JvTIbTHTwZFqUZBNGPpolF6df_VCHZ37UQuG4-kMe0/s320/100_4516.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5402434561830164402" /></a><br /><br /></span></span><div><span><span>I stayed with my friend Sonia who I met at M’s wedding in France in September. She works at an executive search company for the fashion industries and travels between Paris and Milan once a month… she also has a French boyfriend who lives in Paris and travels to Milan once a month for his own job. How perfect is that? Anyway, I arrived from Torino on Monday afternoon and dropped off my bags with her doorman (she lives in a beautiful apt in the city center) before starting my tour of the city at the Duomo. As I was exiting the station, I saw a sign for a ticket office for La Scala so I went over to see if there was anything available for that evening's performance. The woman I spoke to, Lucy, was an ex-New Yorker—she got her Masters from the photography school there and actually lived 2 blocks away from me downtown. She was dying to go back so we reminisced about the city for a while. And she offered me great seats in one of the middle boxes for a ridiculous price (5 Euros), “because I'm a New Yorker too”. Sweet.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNO6W-qiCn0Fz-ZUx1D3k9moCmxv2eWaiZG2KG7yk-g38Usehjc9CYQeWHzR28qmufv1yb3J2zAkJ_sYMFHx1gpXc2DdBGS79knJYS42_D4HJXEgGHKSUk67gfv-5aBd9gY2eB_EBZ1iw/s1600-h/100_4498.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNO6W-qiCn0Fz-ZUx1D3k9moCmxv2eWaiZG2KG7yk-g38Usehjc9CYQeWHzR28qmufv1yb3J2zAkJ_sYMFHx1gpXc2DdBGS79knJYS42_D4HJXEgGHKSUk67gfv-5aBd9gY2eB_EBZ1iw/s320/100_4498.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5402433603033172338" /></a><br /><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span>After getting the tickets, I spent the afternoon shopping on via Torino in search of some warm clothes and a coat. It was cold and rainy in Milan and I wasn’t at all prepared. At one point, I went to H&M and left my umbrella by the front door with the pile of other umbrellas. Five minutes later I went back to get it and, of course, it was gone. I’m still kicking myself about it. Why on earth did I think I could leave my favorite, beautiful <i>Samsonite</i> umbrella unattended, even for a moment, in this country of thieves? Ugh. So I ended up buying a cheapo 5 Euro umbrella from H&M. Ok, I don’t want to think about it too much, it still makes me angry. </span></span><div><br /></div><div><span><span>Anyway, that evening I went to a little bar near Sonia’s apt to get out of the freezing rain and wait for her to come home from work. Milano does the best aperitivo; I ordered a 4 euro glass of wine and ate a feast of food—caprese, prosciutto sandwiches on croissants, rice, salad, garlic bread… it was madness. Sonia joined me at 6:30pm for another glass of wine, then we went home to change for La Scala. On our way to the theatre, we stopped at Galleria Vittorio Emanuele so I could “spin on the bull’s balls for good luck” (lol Italians).<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoEWnnh0faNJBE2lRFSNALj81E8hV5LZ0dg3ZZ7Zn7sqy8brhwy0JuQzsO1PQuPVMvrx1w6Lyf905kSntcc61nHnLXPHQhxREKHMhq4DZux-uoJhqQu7xQzqyw4HU76JNvTsgPl7Zb2AQ/s1600-h/100_4499.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoEWnnh0faNJBE2lRFSNALj81E8hV5LZ0dg3ZZ7Zn7sqy8brhwy0JuQzsO1PQuPVMvrx1w6Lyf905kSntcc61nHnLXPHQhxREKHMhq4DZux-uoJhqQu7xQzqyw4HU76JNvTsgPl7Zb2AQ/s320/100_4499.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5402433607630083458" /></a><br />The performance was by Emanuele Arciuli, an Italian classical pianist. He was really very good but after the first hour or so, I was just struggling to keep my eyes open. Sorry. I do love piano but there’s only so much of it I can take. I was more interested in scoping out the audience and taking in the grandeur of the theatre, pretending I was Madame Bovary, back in the 19th century off to the theatre (don't ask, I just happen to be reading that book at the moment).<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-iTu0xbMq4WYJBEYqYRRBrgSpe7q0J24VaaLXY8qaDHRlvp4Zs63wY6ovhqNY96UGzDTj0VduLBxHE-8-bGrPQjujFf2sR5ciAuGXnybn7yuKH9BtI9JdJzCr6-s_nVV4znhVQcVqngs/s1600-h/100_4514.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-iTu0xbMq4WYJBEYqYRRBrgSpe7q0J24VaaLXY8qaDHRlvp4Zs63wY6ovhqNY96UGzDTj0VduLBxHE-8-bGrPQjujFf2sR5ciAuGXnybn7yuKH9BtI9JdJzCr6-s_nVV4znhVQcVqngs/s320/100_4514.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5402434557203365874" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlontrkp6bt3G9Us2RZxzaUFZRHFKRWaUJgxsh-S8iCN47cP2GsBboQ460_P_oH2VCU6ajn7aPgqx4P-fKM0b3lg1WsMJ5sHU8gYHbc9gHVGqUD4xEzJheXf5UfIC-q7XgX1xaK5IzmjU/s1600-h/100_4511.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlontrkp6bt3G9Us2RZxzaUFZRHFKRWaUJgxsh-S8iCN47cP2GsBboQ460_P_oH2VCU6ajn7aPgqx4P-fKM0b3lg1WsMJ5sHU8gYHbc9gHVGqUD4xEzJheXf5UfIC-q7XgX1xaK5IzmjU/s320/100_4511.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5402433623304364034" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdjVibNl7wqws4y2Ko8KU6Uu4yQC6NFDerlaVVwutfpOjy5BBNEMEWKuz01gt6zGgA_GA4r_rtYD5aYvfSjFa3Z-vAQf78ySTiH2cuIZtEmYW65ZBsNzGUPwfcvheKzsZbahDVjqrdkQo/s1600-h/100_4509.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdjVibNl7wqws4y2Ko8KU6Uu4yQC6NFDerlaVVwutfpOjy5BBNEMEWKuz01gt6zGgA_GA4r_rtYD5aYvfSjFa3Z-vAQf78ySTiH2cuIZtEmYW65ZBsNzGUPwfcvheKzsZbahDVjqrdkQo/s320/100_4509.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5402433616236503826" /></a><br /><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span>On Tuesday I spent the day sightseeing. I went to the Duomo, walked around the fashion district, that sort of thing. Then I decided to try to see if I could get tickets for the opening night of <i>Giselle</i>. I asked my friend Lucy from the ticket office about it the day before and she said that it would be next to impossible but I could head over to the theatre at 1pm and give it a shot. So around noon I went to La Scala and there was already a crowd of people waiting. At 1:30pm (after blocking a few latecomers from trying to get in front of me... what is </span><i>wrong</i><span> with people not understanding the concept of a line?? The French are the same way) I finally put my name down on the list, then I went off to see The Last Supper at the church of Santa Maria delle Grazie, which I managed to get reservations for last minute. They only give you 15 minutes in the room but it was very cool to see this famous painting I've seen millions of times in art books and reproductions.</span></span></div><div><span><span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglM7n0Krpl71fsx6m50V0Z4KPWJJE4axCA0qeGOFjx5RVHO18wQocPFAdGUt9AvU70DXTQYgfInhrLAifXunBfb_xHAELQt5Ua-95bITwdFRCyfb2j1k945BcglG176lWVo10xdr113aY/s1600-h/100_4524.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglM7n0Krpl71fsx6m50V0Z4KPWJJE4axCA0qeGOFjx5RVHO18wQocPFAdGUt9AvU70DXTQYgfInhrLAifXunBfb_xHAELQt5Ua-95bITwdFRCyfb2j1k945BcglG176lWVo10xdr113aY/s320/100_4524.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5402435684617526578" /></a><br /><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span>At 5pm I went back to the theatre and I was number 68 out of 120 people who received a ticket!! I was thrilled. But by the time I finally got my ticket (lots more waiting) I had about 1.5 hours to go home, change, go to Sonia’s office to hand over the house key and make it back to the theatre. As I was leaving Sonia’s office, all the buses going toward La Scala decided to be delayed so I jumped into the first cab I found. Of course my driver was a complete nut job (I knew it as soon as I got in, he looked crazy) and drove slow as molasses the entire time. And you know when you’re late you’re even more anxious and impatient. At one point, he even stopped the taxi so he could take out his glasses, inspect them for 2 minutes, wipe them clean, then put them on his face. That was the last straw. I told him to stop, it would be faster for me to run to the theatre instead of riding with him taking his sweet old time. He had the nerve to catch an attitude about it but I just threw my money at him, jumped out and ran down the street to the theatre in my dress and heels. It was a funny sight. I was out of breath and a bit sweaty but I literally made it there with 5 minutes to spare.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-BQPzrIC63sb56mSP97OYcYFewkzhioJB52LDpu-9oU5WFRMyALVvJkGISMf1s2PJMUgS3wSDHiFXtduLC7jjZZ03tI0bbPzTpI0ZEQqugldmv_V_Ia-HSLzgjNyasUta77lCAJfGENw/s1600-h/100_4522.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-BQPzrIC63sb56mSP97OYcYFewkzhioJB52LDpu-9oU5WFRMyALVvJkGISMf1s2PJMUgS3wSDHiFXtduLC7jjZZ03tI0bbPzTpI0ZEQqugldmv_V_Ia-HSLzgjNyasUta77lCAJfGENw/s320/100_4522.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5402434564691301890" /></a><br />My seat was in the absolute furthest corner of the theatre, at the very top where you couldn’t see the stage at all. So I just kicked off my heels, propped myself up against a column and stood the entire time (for 10 Euros what can you expect). But the performance… OMG. My cousin has a membership at The Met in New York so I’ve been to the opera with her a bunch of times, but I’ve never seen a ballet. And to see <i>Giselle</i>, one of the most beautiful love stories/dances ever created, in one of the most important theaters in the world, with some of the most famous, most talented dancers in the world… I cannot even describe how incredible it was. For the first 20 minutes my mouth was literally hanging open. I was completely blown away, shocked by how beautiful it was and the sheer power of the dancers. I don’t think I’ve ever experienced anything like it. At the end of the first act I had to go to the bathroom to pull myself together, it was so emotional. During the intermission I spoke to an old man sitting next to me in broken English/Italian. He drove 2 hours to come see the show, it was his favorite ballet. He gave me his program, pointed out the royal family sitting in the center box, told me about each of the principal dancers and the history of the theatre, which he had been coming to almost all his life.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqjy5Xk6oJ4nuCfJuQMkn_E1xE-8ZN73JxHWLCoziDzGuNoyzVwAFdddc7Skv0_s1RilL8R2OiqMldHqZjV5PH-ggpffPx27gGH5IdreVfZVisPgVH4N_TrYX1BcYLEbjDzN27LdpuCqo/s1600-h/100_4531.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqjy5Xk6oJ4nuCfJuQMkn_E1xE-8ZN73JxHWLCoziDzGuNoyzVwAFdddc7Skv0_s1RilL8R2OiqMldHqZjV5PH-ggpffPx27gGH5IdreVfZVisPgVH4N_TrYX1BcYLEbjDzN27LdpuCqo/s320/100_4531.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5402434567561559826" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk25yk0ATzzK6IQPKAwjsdGt9DVvAOj-5gBZaIc3m-lFOs7kB1gTrNCrXGcjEKIDVazGDYHsFBBAsvO1gI3ATLUTU33AUG-S6Wmtu97D9u01Y05Zt8G73eo77GmbkYdReFzGZFYfieaJU/s1600-h/100_4525.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk25yk0ATzzK6IQPKAwjsdGt9DVvAOj-5gBZaIc3m-lFOs7kB1gTrNCrXGcjEKIDVazGDYHsFBBAsvO1gI3ATLUTU33AUG-S6Wmtu97D9u01Y05Zt8G73eo77GmbkYdReFzGZFYfieaJU/s320/100_4525.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5402434567482593826" /></a><br />When I got home Sonia was waiting up to hear all about it. She was a ballerina until an accident at 20 years old forced her to quit dancing. But she spent the evening indulging my new found love of ballet and showing me videos of her favorite old dancers and a trailer for the new documentary on the ballet company at Palais Garnier in Paris that she insists I go see. It was a fantastic night, I'm still dreaming about it.</span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span><span> On Monday I met Sonia for lunch at a traditional old restaurant near her office, took a final tour around the city (visiting the castle and a couple more shopping areas) before settling into one last happy hour (aka getting a free dinner) before my flight back to Rome.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXKdyVy5tIH-fWf9uorYi2FtCmehR0NO_-Ca3Qm_HHRY1mlIpaO9xvX8PG-4RJhkHBF5MakFgRE5lxm4dfb6xqv-9AEuAevuHexycmpFGHd8x51WTxCHekZF1Zicb_o3dOuJoPSBWNf0k/s1600-h/100_4537.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXKdyVy5tIH-fWf9uorYi2FtCmehR0NO_-Ca3Qm_HHRY1mlIpaO9xvX8PG-4RJhkHBF5MakFgRE5lxm4dfb6xqv-9AEuAevuHexycmpFGHd8x51WTxCHekZF1Zicb_o3dOuJoPSBWNf0k/s320/100_4537.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5402435688490764754" /></a><br /><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span>I enjoyed Milan. Its true what they say, that for every church in Rome there’s a bank in Milan—I’ve never seen so many in my life. But I didn’t find the people rude or anything. They’re city people focused on their careers, naturally they aren’t as warm and cuddly as folks in other parts of Italy. But I thought it was a pretty decent city to hang out in for a few days. Though I do think La Scala alone may have raised Milan up a couple of notches for me :)</span></span><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"></p> <!--EndFragment--> </div><div>So that was the end of my birthday trip. A nice way to celebrate turning a year older in a beautiful, foreign country. Tomorrow I'm off to Amsterdam and The Hague for a friend's 30th birthday bash so I'll write about it when I get back! Have a great week!</div></div>Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03816075916092263788noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676245294486544338.post-81135043341165994852009-11-08T14:24:00.011+01:002009-11-08T21:07:27.910+01:00Last night I met a man<span>It's the first time since I’ve been here that I met someone who made my heart beat a little faster. At the recommendation of a </span><a href="http://sistergirltales.blogspot.com/">fellow blogger</a> (thanks for that fabulous list!)<span>, I went to Etabli for drinks with a couple friends. We arrived around 10pm and the place was practically empty but the décor was supercute so we decided to stay anyway. By the time we ordered our 2nd bottle of prosecco, the place was packed and we had the perfect table to watch all the action at the bar.</span><br /><div><br /></div><div><span><span>There was a guy I noticed standing at the bar with 2 friends—we called him The Scarf Guy and were gossiping about him, trying to figure out if he was cute or not. Then his friend (who we called The Short Guy) caught us looking, nodded in our direction and the group turned around, looked at us and smiled. For the rest of the evening, every time I looked up The Short Guy was looking my way and when our eyes met, he would smile or give a little wave.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWoGku0xhSNiofJlDPvCmuUgcXsBBYWMLGhvkGjFIBJY550pvp3Y9KTkZO3SVzZoWGzs2cf7F3Tq-cvYFikx-v6UNyh7z90wR6is9mrayuVuTe86GwUM0h05L0J2A0rQU7V1pbS8ih3mk/s1600-h/100_4539.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWoGku0xhSNiofJlDPvCmuUgcXsBBYWMLGhvkGjFIBJY550pvp3Y9KTkZO3SVzZoWGzs2cf7F3Tq-cvYFikx-v6UNyh7z90wR6is9mrayuVuTe86GwUM0h05L0J2A0rQU7V1pbS8ih3mk/s320/100_4539.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401727857987893490" /></a><br /><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span>Around 1am we asked the waiter for glasses of water and he said we had to get it at the bar. So Ana and I went up to the bar which, of course, happened to be right next to where these guys were sitting. The Short Guy waved again and then got up and came over to introduce himself. We all started chatting and then Ana tactfully excused herself and left us alone. I learned that he’s from a small town in Abruzzo but has been working as a derivatives trader in London for the past 15 years and was just in town for the weekend, meeting with a client.</span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span><span>Later, he and Scarf Guy invited us to join them at a club nearby. It was a great place, I wish I could remember the name (cute cave-like space and SO many cute men, my head was spinning)—we danced until 4am when we finally decided to call it a night and said goodbye to the guys. Randomly, as we were leaving, I bumped into a friend of Wendy’s that I met the night of <a href="http://bacifromrome.blogspot.com/2009/11/happy-27th.html">my birthday party</a>… unfortunately the Suit Guy wasn’t with him :o/ </span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span><span>Its funny b/c I wasn’t at all interested in Short Guy at first, I thought Scarf Guy was more attractive. He isn’t bad looking but short guys just don’t do it for me (I’m short myself, I need to marry someone with a little height to give my kids a fighting chance! lol). But he ended up being really interesting and said all the right words. Not in that smooth-talking Casanova way, just sweet. Like at one point he said, “You have a beautiful smile, it lights up your whole face. Scarf Guy and I were talking about it earlier. When I saw you across the bar and I couldn’t stop looking at you. It just… I don’t know… made my heart happy”. I know that sounds totally cheesy but he said it in this shy, quiet way that totally won me over. He was really fascinated by my life, my travels, everything; New York and Paris are his favorite cities; We had a lot to talk about.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyCTds9DAAKtSEPVZcwEqXx1fiqiOGp2Fcg8qgDOYnWGwKCGOuYFr1tFbZbFwLKL90bjICUdBL0cNXwfvS1tQfmibZmyBtxIJhKOUwia-VWJxTdPkzWD5q9hePPp9H3mq2VSIuKJETRXA/s1600-h/100_4540.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyCTds9DAAKtSEPVZcwEqXx1fiqiOGp2Fcg8qgDOYnWGwKCGOuYFr1tFbZbFwLKL90bjICUdBL0cNXwfvS1tQfmibZmyBtxIJhKOUwia-VWJxTdPkzWD5q9hePPp9H3mq2VSIuKJETRXA/s320/100_4540.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401727865851517778" /></a><br /><br />Anyway, as I was heading out he asked if he could see me again. He had a 1pm flight later that day and said he knew it was early but would I possibly consider meeting him for coffee around 9am. That was just way too early for me (it was after 4am by that point and I could already feel the hangover setting in) plus I didn't want to ruin the magic of that evening with a less than perfect reality, but I gave him my number and email address anyway and he said he hoped I would consider coming to visit him in London.</span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span><span>We spent all of 4 hours together, the night was so short. And I’ll probably never see him again but that’s ok. I think it was exactly what I needed. I’ve been feeling a little lonely these past couple of weeks. I don’t know if its b/c the weather’s turned cold and grey and the days are shorter and everyone’s coupling up, getting ready to hibernate for the winter... but I’ve been missing love lately—and all those deliciously warm feelings that come along with it. A fleeting encounter was probably all this was meant to be, but meeting him “made my heart happy” :)</span></span></div><div><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"></p> <!--EndFragment--> </div>Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03816075916092263788noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676245294486544338.post-27582068718981013212009-11-07T19:24:00.011+01:002009-11-08T16:06:17.620+01:00Day 3-5: Torino<span><span>Last 4th of July I went to my old college roommate’s apt in Union Square (NYC) for a party on her rooftop. While I was there I heard a couple girls speaking in Italian so I started talking to them about my dream of living in Italy. Dani (from Rome) and Val (from Torino) were both working for an Italian company in New York. We ended up hitting it off and hanging out a few times before I left for Paris and Val invited me to come visit her in Italy. So when I was planning my trip to Cinque Terre I decided it would be the perfect opportunity to check out Torino, a 3 hour train ride away. </span></span><div><br /></div><div><span><span> The walk from the station down via Roma was my first taste of the city and I liked it immediately. The best word I can use to describe Torino is elegant. It has this very regal, almost aristocratic feel. It reminded me a lot of Vienna. The wide boulevards and piazzas, the grand, historic cafes, the twinkling lights strung up everywhere...<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPcnuwgNx7NG9SCBm6YOsDuiMksiSMlmL5pvxBIvbieQduX1IzJlhDebGVSaG-KM0LD8bvVn-jtF8BAwVg7o1vhPKeUsLIz3iTePvrG3Ze_WxA1QxMbGO9VV3ePkXOrtwWvHyDgz598KQ/s1600-h/100_4467.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPcnuwgNx7NG9SCBm6YOsDuiMksiSMlmL5pvxBIvbieQduX1IzJlhDebGVSaG-KM0LD8bvVn-jtF8BAwVg7o1vhPKeUsLIz3iTePvrG3Ze_WxA1QxMbGO9VV3ePkXOrtwWvHyDgz598KQ/s320/100_4467.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401434675509179026" /></a><br /><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span>I stopped at Mood Café for a cup of coffee and little snack, and read my book and people watched while I waited for Val who was picking me up around 6pm to go to her friend’s place where we would be staying for the night. Her friend and her boyfriend live in an apartment in a villa in “The Hills” of Torino, where all the noble families and celebs live. Apparently, a lot of these families are now broke so they’ve turned part of their homes into condos—you have to have an “in” to get one of these coveted apts. This particular villa was on a large, gated property, just gorgeous. I wish I could have taken pictures of the house itself but the owners are super strict so I didn't think it would be the best idea. They don’t even let their tenants walk on the grounds… not even to sit quietly under a tree with a book. There’s even a big dog roaming around just in case anyone gets any funny ideas (ok, the dog isn’t to keep the tenants away but I’m sure it doesn’t help that he’s there).<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKZboZJYMUIq8_tUtaCUmG_aksKPUH4id5qaPpiQ4WTgXBC7F48zx1Fj5x_gT4Z6yuKlxzakFd38zV-0Sx2tdi6nCwMot3RS134iQNXQkem3jmMXEc14Evv_t_hPpbOAy5jFzqpn7GvQA/s1600-h/100_4466.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKZboZJYMUIq8_tUtaCUmG_aksKPUH4id5qaPpiQ4WTgXBC7F48zx1Fj5x_gT4Z6yuKlxzakFd38zV-0Sx2tdi6nCwMot3RS134iQNXQkem3jmMXEc14Evv_t_hPpbOAy5jFzqpn7GvQA/s320/100_4466.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401433595732347682" /></a><br /></span></span></div><div>(my bedroom at the villa apt)</div><div><br /></div><div><span><span>That night we met up with Val’s friends for dinner. She was sweet and specifically collected her friends who spoke English so I could converse with everyone. We went to a typical Piedmont restaurant and the food was delicious. We had about 3 bottles of wine, starters, entrees, dessert and coffee... the meal was quite an event.</span></span></div><div><span><span><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiua4xycgm1d-mzhNd1S6egQyMHSFyTi94s6C1KfBGlgq3oZtus7wKKecQRq1yiA_F8_kRYHR1DFB_LhxrdjZ-2X5Q6VSCmgubQSF72qNJdtyC2XBpdScwL9eyCiy4f54r9KqPclcPJ_qw/s320/100_4458.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401433579371288338" /></span></span></div><div>(mixed appetizers: polenta, asparagus, artichoke, etc)</div><div><span><span><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0ASUeCBkJKjpS4yC8k41tv5j-jfF_pWlYEwoWGHO38_GQ4wo8XaeYVOQifAk_s2-zZ7r1j6km9OJ_v7mdmgCrZKoWWlCTu8OIbkEmE-l1WQp99ptG8aeEjBFpjRFOV9vDm05pqen_8LA/s320/100_4459.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401433580119041506" /></span></span></div><div>(Risotto w/ sausage, zucchini and truffles)</div><div><span><span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwrETHfN2TYlBvqKnsfix5K2YQ6B6745SKbIz7kvh-pQ35OvQufcrVlDu0eq_03BITMfw4N8X6187rlePMhxfGz1hdw3S4BpRnmBSqBeQ67Q2Q666_nSLr4NtHNHKuEXMmHoUGOBVnR5E/s1600-h/100_4460.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwrETHfN2TYlBvqKnsfix5K2YQ6B6745SKbIz7kvh-pQ35OvQufcrVlDu0eq_03BITMfw4N8X6187rlePMhxfGz1hdw3S4BpRnmBSqBeQ67Q2Q666_nSLr4NtHNHKuEXMmHoUGOBVnR5E/s320/100_4460.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401434672750337266" /></a></span></span></div><div><span><span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwrETHfN2TYlBvqKnsfix5K2YQ6B6745SKbIz7kvh-pQ35OvQufcrVlDu0eq_03BITMfw4N8X6187rlePMhxfGz1hdw3S4BpRnmBSqBeQ67Q2Q666_nSLr4NtHNHKuEXMmHoUGOBVnR5E/s1600-h/100_4460.jpg"></a>(Torino's famous chocolate)<br /><br />After, we went to this bar called Pastis in the trendy nightlife area for drinks.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh33wgYR5hXV-nORuKTZYhbHAM9QX9hXWAk1bGXLwCgqzoZlT0J1VS5YiQ5epxyZ87xOB6ZMGav8D8OlMjqgB-02G63Y_1VRfIwIRJUtItPpqhTb0SMEKVhRgrNJVEfPNF8DhaJnDwsN_4/s1600-h/100_4463.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh33wgYR5hXV-nORuKTZYhbHAM9QX9hXWAk1bGXLwCgqzoZlT0J1VS5YiQ5epxyZ87xOB6ZMGav8D8OlMjqgB-02G63Y_1VRfIwIRJUtItPpqhTb0SMEKVhRgrNJVEfPNF8DhaJnDwsN_4/s320/100_4463.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401433586352238962" /></a></span></span></div><div><span><span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh33wgYR5hXV-nORuKTZYhbHAM9QX9hXWAk1bGXLwCgqzoZlT0J1VS5YiQ5epxyZ87xOB6ZMGav8D8OlMjqgB-02G63Y_1VRfIwIRJUtItPpqhTb0SMEKVhRgrNJVEfPNF8DhaJnDwsN_4/s1600-h/100_4463.jpg"></a>(It was Halloween, obviously)<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjslhJ_6pojW-YM_ZH5Wmis9x64DAjjHaB0Zsa7guRrB43LGkgvmxA_UF-H_nZEYotf4G57n1ji-m2aIptyBlIi3Y-Q1VEWTTMNoqiXeIz0TFuiWA59motGBFHreWvSiyy-6n5RustwrD8/s1600-h/100_4465.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjslhJ_6pojW-YM_ZH5Wmis9x64DAjjHaB0Zsa7guRrB43LGkgvmxA_UF-H_nZEYotf4G57n1ji-m2aIptyBlIi3Y-Q1VEWTTMNoqiXeIz0TFuiWA59motGBFHreWvSiyy-6n5RustwrD8/s320/100_4465.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401433591189694434" /></a><br /><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span>On Sunday, Val and I took a tour of the city. She brought me to a historic café in Piazza Castello (the biggest in Italy) for breakfast and then to the National Cinema Museum at the Mole Antonelliana building, the symbol of Torino.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsvhs8L6q-TQYSTu9KaE4RQptxo8UtViOMxfcK4581-89AIhkjO6IabkdzUvA_Vdys3IlIgjswv7jSelCPQR-EjcWhNbie3ecjBYmiVHWpGobPWTQiIdQ-RhGhYzBE95fs_Ci3Q-Al0UY/s1600-h/100_4471.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsvhs8L6q-TQYSTu9KaE4RQptxo8UtViOMxfcK4581-89AIhkjO6IabkdzUvA_Vdys3IlIgjswv7jSelCPQR-EjcWhNbie3ecjBYmiVHWpGobPWTQiIdQ-RhGhYzBE95fs_Ci3Q-Al0UY/s320/100_4471.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401434685695613682" /></a><br />While we waited in line I was thinking “Ugh, I like film but this is going to be incredibly boring.” Nope, it was fantastic! One of the best museums I’ve ever been to. It’s such a thorough, concise collection of cinema. Starting from the very beginnings of the industry (the cameras they used, peep show boxes, etc) to present day stuff (the current exhibition was on Manga). And it covered everything from lighting, to studios, to directors, to advertising. It was so interesting and really cool to see all the props, costumes, photos and things from famous movies.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbyd4wI04yem_Azxkr5ieBNG1oqnMHmzOkLWepO9N36_TFD0q7FEi61D3AQiermWnoEliNSnNQpv7wyXH5zh2ZhcVKHMzF2hD-lCeDb5FW_k8PMj_wyzoulLBH5zfvvw2caOG-DcwOuow/s1600-h/100_4483.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbyd4wI04yem_Azxkr5ieBNG1oqnMHmzOkLWepO9N36_TFD0q7FEi61D3AQiermWnoEliNSnNQpv7wyXH5zh2ZhcVKHMzF2hD-lCeDb5FW_k8PMj_wyzoulLBH5zfvvw2caOG-DcwOuow/s320/100_4483.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401435918304702370" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvFlKez2O3GQbkIDhyphenhyphenFKG2D7xed-bd6uFAseNsj-YHkuVXrwWS2CHTdNiVw9SQWDLxxhgdWfHTn8wBHNqw-AUNjdoCxjoFi2KkLYRAkiYXO7YnHrE4o9PPMj8_rsVCfETlTmO-wMOEy0s/s1600-h/100_4474.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvFlKez2O3GQbkIDhyphenhyphenFKG2D7xed-bd6uFAseNsj-YHkuVXrwWS2CHTdNiVw9SQWDLxxhgdWfHTn8wBHNqw-AUNjdoCxjoFi2KkLYRAkiYXO7YnHrE4o9PPMj8_rsVCfETlTmO-wMOEy0s/s320/100_4474.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401434684796190802" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh38_mQskjW4Bh8KGhisJ19mMvxDHo42S1MI6pxxJi4iIcBJCoAY2F_rvziHEFJRhm92rQdyanxa4Hwo5GdhftwBo82ppyYuhhXp6hr8SgA_VcPZXLByWSciiGpH1CD2jEZ-GdS6O1qkN4/s1600-h/100_4477.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh38_mQskjW4Bh8KGhisJ19mMvxDHo42S1MI6pxxJi4iIcBJCoAY2F_rvziHEFJRhm92rQdyanxa4Hwo5GdhftwBo82ppyYuhhXp6hr8SgA_VcPZXLByWSciiGpH1CD2jEZ-GdS6O1qkN4/s320/100_4477.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401435913791222082" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGWlBLR2Dzw8kW-yd528C_8IgfvX0_m5PQaBf31xLvwQ_t2JMHHjy1Fbz3VEVrm1cINQ5-46WtWA7ly0sAyVVe7e8qMwQl_X8ZtST0s-dWpPV7hKWEDpJb5xNMiP-ygvQpawaaV5s1t9c/s1600-h/100_4482.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGWlBLR2Dzw8kW-yd528C_8IgfvX0_m5PQaBf31xLvwQ_t2JMHHjy1Fbz3VEVrm1cINQ5-46WtWA7ly0sAyVVe7e8qMwQl_X8ZtST0s-dWpPV7hKWEDpJb5xNMiP-ygvQpawaaV5s1t9c/s320/100_4482.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401435912829055490" /></a><br /><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span>Later we went to the church that holds the <a href="http://www.shroudofturin4journalists.com/described.htm">Shroud of Jesus</a>, the cloth He was reportedly wrapped in after the Crucifixion. They only bring it out on rare occasions but a photographic copy is on display all the time. Its incredible b/c there are blood stains in the places He was wounded (His head, His side, His wrists) and the faint outline of a man’s form imprinted on the fabric. Of course no one knows for sure if this is the real deal but its incredible to imagine that you may possibly be looking at the actual cloth that wrapped Jesus’ body. </span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span><span>That evening Val had to leave and I was invited to link up with Fede, one of Val’s girlfriends, for a pizza & beer night at her apt with a couple of her friends. We hung out chatting about life in the States (she spent nearly a year in San Diego learning English), dating in Italy, all sorts of stuff. It was a really fun, chill night. </span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span><span>The next day I had a long, lazy breakfast at a popular café in The Hills, just reading my book, watching the rain fall outside and ogling the hot bar guy. </span></span></div><div><span><span><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_DCArlsYqOZoGgvEGcx-69sLr8Bno23yWtSInBSvVbB9MlD8JLDKFFxIE_zkiaofa1K8NQeEkNZQxV8SCqoaL4o8xVTWOhUHAU_2NHSU4z41Ml-0LiC4NeaGGfZueUuAHqUvdpSvCykA/s320/100_4469.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401434683298004834" /></span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span><span>Then I did a little shopping before heading to the station to catch my 12:30pm train to Milan. I really like Torino. Its a beautiful, clean, sophisticated city.</span></span></div><div><span><span><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTYNcjLXEcs6cImrWfjBefljYIEfSwjQuCvgWkv8qviRsftqLAbOPkCHarrFtwANpLpbTttKG1YpvmbcvhVwi3EbQDFKAp5Mk9mcN_3DW1dhV0HuGFTUrCoqcfRwO8H94fRRcXLJFBYtw/s320/100_4485.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401435917234251954" /></span></span></div><div><span><span><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p> </o:p></p> <!--EndFragment--> </span></span></div>Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03816075916092263788noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676245294486544338.post-20435193216315256392009-11-05T17:12:00.017+01:002009-11-06T03:03:04.965+01:00Day 1-3: Cinque TerreThis year, my birthday gift to myself was a weeklong train trip around Italy. I decided to go to Cinque Terre, followed by a few days in Torino and Milano. I invited my friend Ana to come with me for the first leg of the trip and we were blessed with 3 days of beautifully crisp, sunny autumn weather (which turned cold and cloudy the day we left).<div><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpi6AohN1aFgARkRRLoJORKhEeGtoWeEYYyvpsExJB3biJUidYfrODjhfboFY4_Jz1k7_z56rf7c3r3zh85gTDpBghS9VtREfMxI0fR3Oji-oMLVW2NmU2g_tM4nk5i4f5J6BorSpC-Kg/s320/100_4400.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400670222360353394" /></div><div><br />On Thursday we took a 9:30am train from Termini and arrived in Vernazza around 3pm. I found this cute little hotel right in the main piazza (being the last week of the season, we managed to book a room at a great rate the night before we arrived. In the summer you have to reserve a hotel months in advance). I read that Vernazza was the most dramatic of the 5 villages and as soon as we stepped off the train I could see why. You walk through the town, down this narrow, almost cramped street lined with shops and restaurants, and then suddenly you’re there: the road opens up into a big piazza overlooking the harbor with an unbroken view of the sea, colorful boats tied up at the dock, a huge bell tower, a peek of the next village in the background, locals milling around shooting the sh*t all day long.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYihcGOzJqIcrM3iAlyZodqiFlyyuFUABjMAr-v8cLxUbL48L7WKJogXQqlfePUQMsoI-PFTyVPDFopKzj2UCG3M62wLtd4AJjBUnn4HAwx5UEsuRcEWBom3eJ0_WeS_d4t6_eeP0gRfc/s1600-h/100_4264.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYihcGOzJqIcrM3iAlyZodqiFlyyuFUABjMAr-v8cLxUbL48L7WKJogXQqlfePUQMsoI-PFTyVPDFopKzj2UCG3M62wLtd4AJjBUnn4HAwx5UEsuRcEWBom3eJ0_WeS_d4t6_eeP0gRfc/s320/100_4264.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400659461391160258" /></a></div><div><br /><div><span><span>We checked into the hotel then decided to do the 2 hour hike to Monterosso (the 5th village) that evening before the sun set. It’s the most difficult hike and considering I haven’t so much as climbed a set of stairs in the past 6 months, I was convinced they would have to send in the rescue squad to pick me up. Its nearly all stairs, mostly uphill and in some places, there’s barely a path to walk on—just a crumbling ledge on a cliff, leaving you clinging to the side of the mountain to inch your way across. But even with all that, the views were exceptional and so worth it.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMmbMRyBP8J-FcLFADm4QKeTKR__LDtRBBuPOt56fYS4AAhp5O8kyne0hLXthAHFba_3leJpWKpdCxPfIOZhTKKQUZMSYnV4cZyjjeZwe_mm6wJ3geOkqnt_OhLhglGPPBSnEJq4FifVM/s1600-h/100_4257.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMmbMRyBP8J-FcLFADm4QKeTKR__LDtRBBuPOt56fYS4AAhp5O8kyne0hLXthAHFba_3leJpWKpdCxPfIOZhTKKQUZMSYnV4cZyjjeZwe_mm6wJ3geOkqnt_OhLhglGPPBSnEJq4FifVM/s320/100_4257.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400659453083721026" /></a></span></span></div><div><span><span><br />We stopped every 5 minutes to catch our breath and take pictures… my first glimpse at Cinque Terre and I couldn’t believe how stunning it was. By the time we could see Monterosso in the distance, it was nearly dark so we picked up the pace. Imagine being stuck on a mountain with no handrails, no lights and just faint red& white markers to guide us in the pitch black night... yikes.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlbHGSnuKfzRhyphenhyphent3wp7DwoKDu-Wa2q16mEDJ6gD8SrYRyAvyiOozAyzTuKLBuGgfLJ-o8BtOr4vcVp1kREl-dauiN-W5SSZZCAJRAHA9y4nUpYWOlOBpIiZoLh8Eo-RzTecNTp3iUvO9Q/s1600-h/100_4283.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlbHGSnuKfzRhyphenhyphent3wp7DwoKDu-Wa2q16mEDJ6gD8SrYRyAvyiOozAyzTuKLBuGgfLJ-o8BtOr4vcVp1kREl-dauiN-W5SSZZCAJRAHA9y4nUpYWOlOBpIiZoLh8Eo-RzTecNTp3iUvO9Q/s320/100_4283.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400659461250533346" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">(Monterosso from the hiking trail)</span></span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span><span>When finally reached Monterosso, took a tour of the village then treated ourselves to some local wine at an outdoor café. We met a sweet, middle aged couple from North Carolina who were on a two week vacation around Italy and would continue to bump into them the entire trip (part of the charm of the area is how tiny it is. By the end you've seen everyone at least once and you're saying hello to everyone as if you've known them a lifetime). Back in Vernazza we went to a restaurant recommended by our hotel for the local specialty, <i>trofie with pesto</i> (my favorite dish) and of course, another bottle of wine. Afterwards we went looking for a bar and bumped into a really cute guy in the street. Ana stopped him to ask where we could grab a drink and he told us that we came at a bad time. Sadly, an 18-year-old girl had just died in a car accident and her funeral was held a couple days before so the village had pretty much shut down. But he was heading down to the harbor and could show us the one place that was still open. We ended up spending the rest of the night with him sitting on big wooden barrels outside of a little Enoteca, drinking wine and listening to his hilarious crazy travel stories (which included sleeping with a woman he thought was a prostitute in Vegas but who turned out to be a friend of his Los Angeles girlfriend… she found out and dumped him. And the time that he got high on LSD in Bangkok… lol, well he was a gorgeous, 23 year old bartender from a tiny resort town, I wasn't too surprised/shocked by any of this).</span></span></div><div><span><span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4u-NbMvnH91FTtrHRi-ZZMnmehrWaOO-mIK6PDBIAJFcRfupE7RK6nSRcZrQRffxlsMYMRNpPTVu8LZ6UtTjN9FUAl7K6RxdSmesF5fg8vYZU5-wfTCSSAvrDTVdwTWW2J9BmEld5rC4/s1600-h/100_4448.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4u-NbMvnH91FTtrHRi-ZZMnmehrWaOO-mIK6PDBIAJFcRfupE7RK6nSRcZrQRffxlsMYMRNpPTVu8LZ6UtTjN9FUAl7K6RxdSmesF5fg8vYZU5-wfTCSSAvrDTVdwTWW2J9BmEld5rC4/s320/100_4448.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400664849023604706" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">(Vernazza at night)</span></span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span><span>Towards midnight, his Norwegian girlfriend showed up and started acting all possessive and bitchy, ruining the vibe. And Ana had gotten into a strange conversation with a weird man who admitted that he’d been secretly watching her all afternoon. At that point we decided to call it a night—conversing with stalkers was not on the agenda. </span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span><span> The next day we had breakfast at a bar near our hotel before taking the train to Riomaggiore to hike in the opposite direction—the 3 villages that would lead us back to Vernazza. We toured Riomaggiore and stopped at a little café near the church for another cup of coffee (and to stretch!) before doing the nearly 3.5 hour hike.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPCkfcT4r0oj48466HB4m7H6ms5RrxX_4-P5KI-eSNPTbDJOUmbVPSBGnNq7_6SidNHGaLFJYBJbQ9tsXaGuVXvGjHDBKP2cogyjA2nPncU9uHyQXNfuQBWQpxTJb0hdgheGSAV-j3AhM/s1600-h/100_4331.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPCkfcT4r0oj48466HB4m7H6ms5RrxX_4-P5KI-eSNPTbDJOUmbVPSBGnNq7_6SidNHGaLFJYBJbQ9tsXaGuVXvGjHDBKP2cogyjA2nPncU9uHyQXNfuQBWQpxTJb0hdgheGSAV-j3AhM/s320/100_4331.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400659466689928722" /></a></span></span></div><div><span><span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPCkfcT4r0oj48466HB4m7H6ms5RrxX_4-P5KI-eSNPTbDJOUmbVPSBGnNq7_6SidNHGaLFJYBJbQ9tsXaGuVXvGjHDBKP2cogyjA2nPncU9uHyQXNfuQBWQpxTJb0hdgheGSAV-j3AhM/s1600-h/100_4331.jpg"></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">(Coffee in front of the church in Riomaggiore. And<i> y</i><i>es</i>, I hiked in a dress, sue me.)</span></span></span></div><div><span><span><br />The start of the hike is along Via dell’Amore (Lovers Lane), the easiest and most beautiful trail.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDxQVPiDJuGd97qNaVMuZ2vLLktzmggvl1k0-0dJOT7qNuSpyd8thdM6tuw_nP3Dz5nJmRw9Fs94HkEZbTReyx_vOJo11uk4fu3LbQyxRuYsCCjmmHn1DizaFKSGkrIUEL8Oqq9yPxuug/s1600-h/100_4313.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDxQVPiDJuGd97qNaVMuZ2vLLktzmggvl1k0-0dJOT7qNuSpyd8thdM6tuw_nP3Dz5nJmRw9Fs94HkEZbTReyx_vOJo11uk4fu3LbQyxRuYsCCjmmHn1DizaFKSGkrIUEL8Oqq9yPxuug/s320/100_4313.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400659464167440274" /></a><br /><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span>In Manarola, the fishing village, we stopped to fill up our water bottles and taste a few of the local specialties (mainly pesto, SOO good).<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjUowyR7ax4RkZ-G2A8KIkWBQOreykrLSCQHO1DEED4Sczzd-Ug1770Fk_s0uhMKBiRLOGZP_RAvomnrsFtRvBjiOiUNo3Tvhmem-Ie7NMa06hDj5Y7WD0gSQHmJm0nCVfSY5_j_BlE9U/s1600-h/100_4352.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjUowyR7ax4RkZ-G2A8KIkWBQOreykrLSCQHO1DEED4Sczzd-Ug1770Fk_s0uhMKBiRLOGZP_RAvomnrsFtRvBjiOiUNo3Tvhmem-Ie7NMa06hDj5Y7WD0gSQHmJm0nCVfSY5_j_BlE9U/s320/100_4352.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400662554567929762" /></a><br /><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span>The hike to Corniglia was one of my favorites (also the wildest). We were inching along (mainly b/c I'm such a scaredy cat and kept thinking I was going to plunge to my death) and kept laughing at the fact that we had to step aside to let elderly people and little 5 year old babies walk ahead of us b/c we were too slow for them. A damn shame :)<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWinnIgBA2rJl3cWzCBuTomd8f8ESh8U4X2Z9wP7zUBeSA2Qn3qku2uIqSSb0kWqTsHb9b7LiySo7C0oH1G9AbBdtT5f9vbPE9OlUgneymjzHwv0HfngI9yDBZU0Ns5DnmjdkjZLHoNIM/s1600-h/100_4399.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWinnIgBA2rJl3cWzCBuTomd8f8ESh8U4X2Z9wP7zUBeSA2Qn3qku2uIqSSb0kWqTsHb9b7LiySo7C0oH1G9AbBdtT5f9vbPE9OlUgneymjzHwv0HfngI9yDBZU0Ns5DnmjdkjZLHoNIM/s320/100_4399.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400662560092561474" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIDB7RsMQIxBmc90VPl2eUVQqbmKfyV0fNYy-gZ6MUt-yplMOki7fEdDm_Qu0UbiV6dluMAnBChJfaKTRXRx8_jOhQjk9k48r6qm_7aa5h15fkjMLk3Ru2WhsYQmMqbzwB55q0vFSXY1o/s1600-h/100_4422.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIDB7RsMQIxBmc90VPl2eUVQqbmKfyV0fNYy-gZ6MUt-yplMOki7fEdDm_Qu0UbiV6dluMAnBChJfaKTRXRx8_jOhQjk9k48r6qm_7aa5h15fkjMLk3Ru2WhsYQmMqbzwB55q0vFSXY1o/s320/100_4422.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400664835330815730" /></a><br />When we got to the town we stopped for lunch and then explored the village with the North Carolina couple we met the night before.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhathktxHhAj9PQaQ_qynCEgPvWMf-dRLQuiHy0lz2jml230rpVjdiYZMkXMXvFJOZtZUNpiHybHOkB7B0rM5pPxwq41-mYWJxVoMacCaLHyny-OyrhpVG0UkBUDqdz6C59touzoLsn2y8/s1600-h/100_4383.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhathktxHhAj9PQaQ_qynCEgPvWMf-dRLQuiHy0lz2jml230rpVjdiYZMkXMXvFJOZtZUNpiHybHOkB7B0rM5pPxwq41-mYWJxVoMacCaLHyny-OyrhpVG0UkBUDqdz6C59touzoLsn2y8/s320/100_4383.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400662559660012306" /></a><br />There’s a panoramic view from the center of the village and we hung out there for a while, just soaking it all in.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUTDHhHcBZfVJPhcrjk_ZOcS9TWwiVyAImDzi6rid2_OdSd_jm1CZk2NZteDOR59lqF20VzKpRLZVbcVAy3Kiuj1IXBRQhHhpgtaj4Sm8Mi3OOA2g_cmFRqyTxYmmDMSnf-fBZwG2t02U/s1600-h/100_4388.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUTDHhHcBZfVJPhcrjk_ZOcS9TWwiVyAImDzi6rid2_OdSd_jm1CZk2NZteDOR59lqF20VzKpRLZVbcVAy3Kiuj1IXBRQhHhpgtaj4Sm8Mi3OOA2g_cmFRqyTxYmmDMSnf-fBZwG2t02U/s320/100_4388.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400662559033893282" /></a></span></span></div><div><span><span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUTDHhHcBZfVJPhcrjk_ZOcS9TWwiVyAImDzi6rid2_OdSd_jm1CZk2NZteDOR59lqF20VzKpRLZVbcVAy3Kiuj1IXBRQhHhpgtaj4Sm8Mi3OOA2g_cmFRqyTxYmmDMSnf-fBZwG2t02U/s1600-h/100_4388.jpg"></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">(this guy napping on the ledge scared the sh*t out of me! If he falls its a straight drop onto jagged rocks. Who </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">does</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> that?!)</span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><br /></span>We finished with the 1:45 hour hike to Varnazza and stopped for a quick snack (</span><i>Focaccia di Recco</i><span>, delicious!) before rushing down to the harbor to watch the sunset.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBB6emeKGHdhZgwyIxTx1OH5C7b6-N7aCISc3Buul_vjnb7xSPCOwxWbGtbv7MdOOG2mLctqZluhLy0CcV4KLEzAGCQBw1f6XKQndZiirYiv0SShtYrdmHCHh5nUt2OnXuyCdWxO0SpPM/s1600-h/100_4435.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBB6emeKGHdhZgwyIxTx1OH5C7b6-N7aCISc3Buul_vjnb7xSPCOwxWbGtbv7MdOOG2mLctqZluhLy0CcV4KLEzAGCQBw1f6XKQndZiirYiv0SShtYrdmHCHh5nUt2OnXuyCdWxO0SpPM/s320/100_4435.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400664837550505714" /></a><br /><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span>We sat on the jetty and watched the sun as it sunk into the Mediterranean right in front of us. It was so close, it seemed as if you could swim out and touch it if you wanted to. Everyone was quiet, some had brought bottles of wine and we were huddled together against the cold. We all cheered when it was over. After Santorini, its the best sunset I have ever seen. I couldn't help but think of B and how much he would love a trip like this.</span></span></div><div><span><span><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjMVkjTAoWmgqShlZj5lGfq-_piBpbTXbfRzBuHhqFnmbZzFwqIjTMeP8fL8kn63Y6BfN3myAXc1U4Au-3hX7pXzB_ndCXcz8QiBOCYvWEw_BaEbfhMOomtYGx0TBXBky1ktpgdYQ9Kek/s320/100_4441.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400664840474476178" /></span></span></div><div><span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Lucida Grande';font-size:11px;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7VZIFNukjsHa6tP2tYAWBuxzqdKQgsTzHPljB-cDWIqLSpe35tgRMmez8R-PiIX9deOF3Bx0POcxC0vm0frFiEQfKCEvvWV98bZfmv4Uq7qIp6iGGd5wFTVqFErq7sW4bZ6ejnQJXpt8/s1600-h/100_4444.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 253px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7VZIFNukjsHa6tP2tYAWBuxzqdKQgsTzHPljB-cDWIqLSpe35tgRMmez8R-PiIX9deOF3Bx0POcxC0vm0frFiEQfKCEvvWV98bZfmv4Uq7qIp6iGGd5wFTVqFErq7sW4bZ6ejnQJXpt8/s320/100_4444.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400805104078651986" /></a></span><br /><br />That night we had dinner at a fantastic seafood restaurant in Monterosso (I had the trofie again, followed by mussels) and chatted with a really nice couple from Philly sitting next to us. Then went to a free <i>sciachetra</i> tasting (a dessert wine) before walking around the village, looking for a bar. Some random gross guy stopped us in the street and asked us to join him and his friends for drinks but we declined and walked around the village in order to lose him before ducking into “America Bar” (full of graffiti, dollar bills taped to the walls, music & movie posters and Britney on the stereo... naturally).</span></span></div><div><span><span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioRPjBUpgZPbP_VP8pUlR2prsXHr5C7tI4W062wijelJ6plxIcSYrsjzMmkGEhm5bg_2xsbZogcc3I2gghPHC49Ik3M2ni7_4ImiB8Fhk1T5THGTjnNmfUJ_6l71A-JqPsqifug04HzYA/s1600-h/100_4456.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioRPjBUpgZPbP_VP8pUlR2prsXHr5C7tI4W062wijelJ6plxIcSYrsjzMmkGEhm5bg_2xsbZogcc3I2gghPHC49Ik3M2ni7_4ImiB8Fhk1T5THGTjnNmfUJ_6l71A-JqPsqifug04HzYA/s320/100_4456.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400664840947009058" /></a><br />We were relaxing with our glass of wine when some older, balding man came over, sat down at our table and said, “Can you read this for me? I just received this report from my doctor but I don’t know what it says”. We looked at him blankly until he started laughing and said he thought we were doctors… apparently we “look like doctors”. Um, right. At one point he asked me where I was from and when I told him New York, he kept asking which country in Africa my family came from—I was not even going to start </span><a href="http://bisousfromparis.blogspot.com/2009/09/unexpected-chivalry.html">this time</a><span> so I just ignored him. So he continued talk to Ana in Italian until she suddenly gave him a dirty look, abruptly pushed back her chair, stood up and said, “Stacy, lets go”. At the same time, the gross guy who approached us in the street earlier had come into the bar (there’s only 3 bars in the village, he was bound to find us sooner or later) and came over to our table with two glasses of wine for us, thinking he could weasel his way in. He thought he was being slick by sending his friend in first with that stupid Doctor line. Ana said, “No thank you, we were just leaving” and the guy just stood there looking stupid with the wine in his hands. We went over to the bar to pay and the bartender asked, “How come you’re leaving so early?” And I said, “Um, its just time for us to go” and he laughed and shook his head, understanding that we were escaping those crazy men. </span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span><span>As we were walking back to the station to catch the train to Vernazza Ana gave me a quick translation: apparently the guy was asking her about her background and she told him she was Brazilian but that her great-grandparents were from Italy. He asked where in Italy and when she told him the name of her family’s city, he said, “Ahh, good. You’re from the North, the real Italy. Not like in the South. That’s not really Italy, that’s Africa. Its terrible.” Ana was horrified. Its a good thing I couldn’t understand him or we would have had some problems. He had some nerve to actually say that ignorant, racist sh*t as if Ana was supposed to agree with him, especially considering that 1) she’s from Brazil which is such a mixed country, and 2) she was with me. Well, what can you do? Small town mentality. </span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span><span>So we went back to Vernazza to hang out in the piazza in front of our hotel, just watching the boats bobbing in the dark and the light reflecting on the water (the town is very romantic by the way, we were saying that it was too bad we didn't have boyfriends with us!). Then we started chatting with two American girls who were drinking wine on the bench next to us. We decided to get another bottle for the 4 of us to share (meanwhile, the piazza was full of young locals) and ended up talking with them till nearly 2am. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Lucida Grande';font-size:11px;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuIqSqbHCxlmn68v4bHjwpGZaiMiYWrjRgZ7IbViB2oi4hxlKILlOZCJifianORCaZn1MeXiXtUJkUP_IBevE_8LIZxu0jMfErUHD0-BZWJH5rf94YqTUZKpIlO1Wr4BUKt-Zt4soUl4o/s1600-h/100_4245.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuIqSqbHCxlmn68v4bHjwpGZaiMiYWrjRgZ7IbViB2oi4hxlKILlOZCJifianORCaZn1MeXiXtUJkUP_IBevE_8LIZxu0jMfErUHD0-BZWJH5rf94YqTUZKpIlO1Wr4BUKt-Zt4soUl4o/s320/100_4245.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400666455571231442" /></a></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span><span>The next day, our last in Cinque Terre, we had breakfast standing at our little bar (by this time, we were friendly with the barman) before picking up last minute souvenirs, then sitting out on the jetty in the sunshine to read and eat lunch until noon, when we had to leave Vernazza for our next (separate) destinations. </span></span></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-smkW1KhSBuJr1o5hqQaEhTNqkY8J36KCCMl_FFAwDXa9vQDQTmJfMzNPwQ54jJ9Yk3l4c434OiHpnuaYA3zZMDVfzcYCDVFY_b0fdjofPTjd1EJwqCT7D9R4LhO3HK5Nj6DHalMGPsw/s1600-h/100_4380.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-smkW1KhSBuJr1o5hqQaEhTNqkY8J36KCCMl_FFAwDXa9vQDQTmJfMzNPwQ54jJ9Yk3l4c434OiHpnuaYA3zZMDVfzcYCDVFY_b0fdjofPTjd1EJwqCT7D9R4LhO3HK5Nj6DHalMGPsw/s320/100_4380.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400670227561211442" /></a></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">(Vineyards in Corniglia)</span></div><br />I was afraid it wouldn’t live up to the hype but Cinque Terre is incredible. Its been such a tourist hotspot for the past 10 years, I wasn’t sure how it would be now. I don’t know if its because we came in October instead of August but it was absolutely perfect. It didn’t feel too contrived or commercial or like the town had sold out. It just had that idyllic small town feel, beautiful views and a deliciously slow pace… it was like something out of a postcard. I’m still trying to wrap my mind around how its possible that I’m able to witness all these incredibly breathtaking places. I just don't understand <i>why</i>. I feel so blessed, so undeserving of this life. But I love the feeling of traveling to beautiful places and having these experiences... seeing things that take your breath away, that startle you. It makes you feel so alive, like the world isn't so bad after all, like anything is possible, like the sky is the limit...<div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgUrf3JN3cI1bDFtk0uHHaKg0Ii_trXlJM3a_J-OqdlDFytPT6IrSzeIumB5sH73uyED-hVE3jLGNowyKtATVOjOK5y8ot4ce6W7XBm-KId8O9uBngS-pizumxDJEStXJKUBRHGXCo0yE/s1600-h/100_4343.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgUrf3JN3cI1bDFtk0uHHaKg0Ii_trXlJM3a_J-OqdlDFytPT6IrSzeIumB5sH73uyED-hVE3jLGNowyKtATVOjOK5y8ot4ce6W7XBm-KId8O9uBngS-pizumxDJEStXJKUBRHGXCo0yE/s320/100_4343.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400662547312480082" things="" i="" remember="" most="" about="" cinque="" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Things I remember most about Cinque Terre:</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgUrf3JN3cI1bDFtk0uHHaKg0Ii_trXlJM3a_J-OqdlDFytPT6IrSzeIumB5sH73uyED-hVE3jLGNowyKtATVOjOK5y8ot4ce6W7XBm-KId8O9uBngS-pizumxDJEStXJKUBRHGXCo0yE/s1600-h/100_4343.jpg"><div><span><span></span></span></div></a><span><span>*The intense smell of flowers along the hiking trails, particularly between Corniglia and Monterosso. It reminded me of my childhood days picking honeysuckles in the woods with my friends.</span></span></div><div><span><span>*The sound of the waves breaking against the rocks. </span></span></div><div><span><span>*The peaceful silence that you could always “hear” in the midst of all the sounds of nature and the gravel crunching under our shoes. </span></span></div><div><span><span>*The color of the sky as the sun set over the Mediterranean.</span></span><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgUrf3JN3cI1bDFtk0uHHaKg0Ii_trXlJM3a_J-OqdlDFytPT6IrSzeIumB5sH73uyED-hVE3jLGNowyKtATVOjOK5y8ot4ce6W7XBm-KId8O9uBngS-pizumxDJEStXJKUBRHGXCo0yE/s1600-h/100_4343.jpg"><span><span><br /></span></span></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEbd8F8kkwHxnV19cn5e9US1VyRVOHiBiUhZTQGqOB0wMY_pAg7DurA6hqB0HU5Al0OIghG_gqL5yavelLbO1jPqHjTHoQT9g6FmX8yvWbboBq5V03wk615KH7kWbA2LVoyHeUtvzedC4/s1600-h/100_4270.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEbd8F8kkwHxnV19cn5e9US1VyRVOHiBiUhZTQGqOB0wMY_pAg7DurA6hqB0HU5Al0OIghG_gqL5yavelLbO1jPqHjTHoQT9g6FmX8yvWbboBq5V03wk615KH7kWbA2LVoyHeUtvzedC4/s320/100_4270.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400670224209833314" /></a><br /></div></div>Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03816075916092263788noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676245294486544338.post-77580154331747950802009-11-05T14:08:00.006+01:002009-11-05T15:03:21.271+01:00Happy 27th!My birthday was fantastic! I had an absolute blast and considering I didn’t have my “real friends” around to share it with, that’s saying something. I started the night off at the Expat Happy hour near Campo de Fiori at 8pm. I met a couple friends there for a quick aperitivo but the party itself was boring and way too crowded, kind of a bust.<div><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOIcLavHO5v3brhkDwBwQn7TvxDLKyWv1m8PpWDawLePgHJFV93VKHWppjWY7bXv-erDOFLdNjPDx2JLcGF_fcOzNh_PTpDuauQ7FFvxgCmGADZNrzPjzkNm1BholySU2BDQMPN6fAowQ/s320/100_4213.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400608589113264802" /><p></p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">At 9pm we left to walk uptown to ‘Gusto. We arrived at 9:30pm (after stopping to say hello to "my buddy" Colin who we bumped into along the way. He organizes those Rome Party/Drinking Tours and I've been running into him every couple of weeks since I first arrived in the city, its pretty funny) and got a table close to the stage where Wendy would be performing later. We ordered a couple bottles of prosecco (naturally, it was my Champagne birthday after all!) and various dishes, all yummy (I had pasta with roasted duck and zucchini).<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcua1f8Ca3V8gHPWd599Dv1TrK7HFOWbUUiz0CuE_LUKyl67qCoG7QVXOjl-nZYcMX99J3H5G5KCx21d2wuvPOMQpLzT_WCF7ou8IUCdpq1AfdMMHjz30kaERRaHsArxU37cvAYRrPIcw/s1600-h/100_4214.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcua1f8Ca3V8gHPWd599Dv1TrK7HFOWbUUiz0CuE_LUKyl67qCoG7QVXOjl-nZYcMX99J3H5G5KCx21d2wuvPOMQpLzT_WCF7ou8IUCdpq1AfdMMHjz30kaERRaHsArxU37cvAYRrPIcw/s320/100_4214.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400608595051341842" /></a><br />The group was a mix of people I’d met over the past month—Ben, my NYC filmmaker friend; Ana from my language course with her friend from Brazil and her Italian boyfriend; Frances, a pharmacist from San Diego that I met 2 nights before at a bar who was taking a month-long vacation in Rome; Kristen, a girl I met on the Orvieto trip and a couple of her Italian guy friends.</p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Wendy’s show was phenomenal… the woman can really sing and it was great b/c she played all my old favorites (Robin Thicke, Jill Scott, Prince, Sting) but with a little jazzy/bluesy twist. It was a really fun atmosphere. I was surrounded new friends, delicious food, never-ending glasses of prosecco and good music... what could be better?</p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwKeUlN0w13wHyMNNMJcJu--3GplgYxLj8Lw55Af6rkt9kJNuzoQK5XMpj3j5ZNT0DmPybI6ny-oUMghvdS0w' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></p>After dinner, Ben and I joined Wendy’s friends at a club called Bloom near Piazza Navona. Aside from the fact that we paid 15 Euros for a glass of wine and the crowd was kind of corny, it was a fun way to cap the evening. We sat around alternately bashing the B&T-esque crowd and dancing to some serious house music. At one point, some cheesy guy kept coming over to try to talk/dance with me. I was dancing near a bouncer who ended up stepping in and telling the guy to get lost. Aw, my own personal bodyguard. When Ben and I left (around 3:30am), the cheesy guy was outside and said, “When you leave, make sure you walk with your nose in the air.” I just gave him a look like, boy, please.<p></p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Oh, there was one cute guy, a friend of Wendy’s. I didn’t really notice him till we got to Bloom (he was part of the group from 'Gusto, they all came over to wish me happy birthday) but throughout the night he would pass by and grab my waist or my arm, or make little comments. The whole time I was like, “Who <i>is</i> this random guy in the suit?” I couldn’t see his face b/c he would sneak up behind me then walk off before I had a chance to get a look at him. At the end of the night he came over to say goodbye and I asked, “Oh are you going home now?” And he said, “Yes, do you want to come with me?” with this look that was so… Italian. I don’t know how else to describe it. He just gave me this intense look then walked off. I guess he was sort of joking, sort of not. lol, I thought it was hilarious… and the man very sexy. But to tell you the truth, by that time it was 3am and I had been drinking since 8pm so you can't really trust my judgement on that one. In any case I told Wendy about him (for the life of me I can’t remember his name) and she said we’d all do dinner soon… hmm.</p></div>Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03816075916092263788noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676245294486544338.post-44731253150167903672009-10-27T10:04:00.002+01:002009-10-27T10:12:10.631+01:00Buon Compleanno!!<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">Today is my birthday—and to top it all off, my Champagne Birthday (when you turn the same age as the day you were born) so it feels extra special and sparkly. </p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Tonight I celebrate by doing a few things: First, I’m going to a Rome Expats Happy Hour near Campo de Fiori which could be a nice chance to meet some interesting, like-minded people. Or at the very least enjoy an <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">aperitivo</i> with a couple girlfriends. </p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Then I head to ‘Gusto Wine Bar for dinner with a random mix of people I’ve befriended over the past month, some as recently as last weekend. One of these new friends is a singer named Wendy Lewis from Gary, Indiana (RIP MJ) who’s been living in Rome for the past 15 years. She tours all over the continent (she’s just getting back from a gig in Zurich as a matter of fact) and tonight is her first local show in a long while—it happens to be at 'Gusto, on my birthday. A bunch of her Italian friends are coming out for the show and she invited me to join the table and celebrate with them. </p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">And this weekend I’m taking a week long trip to Cinque Terre, Turino and Milano—I forfeited a day at the spa (which is ridiculously expensive here by the way) in favor of a train trip up North to visit a few cool cities and see some friends I haven’t seen in a while. </p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">So that’s my birthday! I’m off to give myself a manicure/pedicure and a relaxer (yes, I’m doing it myself… and yes, I know its bad but you can’t afford luxuries when you’re living the gypsy life!), a little beautification for the occasion.</p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Take a look at the lovely note I received from The Universe this morning:</p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">A few years back, not so long ago, heaven and earth erupted into a major celebration with the news of your impending adventure into this very time and space. You see, someone like Stacy [last name] doesn't come along all that often. In fact, there's never been a single one like you, nor is there ever ANY possibility that another will come again. You're an Angel among us. Someone, whose eyes see what no others will EVER see, whose ears hear what no others will EVER hear, and whose perspective and feelings will NEVER, ever be duplicated. Without YOU, the Universe, and ALL THAT IS, would be sadly less than it is. <o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><o:p>Quite simply:</o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"></i></p><span><span>You're the kind of person, Stacy, </span></span><div><span><span>Who's hard to forget, </span></span></div><div><span><span>A one-in-a-million </span></span></div><div><span><span>To the people you've met. </span></span></div><div><span><span>Your friends are as varied </span></span></div><div><span><span>As the places you go, </span></span></div><div><span><span>And they all want to tell you </span></span></div><div><span><span>In case you don't know: </span></span></div><div><span><span>That you make a big difference </span></span></div><div><span><span>In the lives that you touch, </span></span></div><div><span><span>By taking so little </span></span></div><div><span><span>And giving so much!</span></span><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><o:p> Stacy, you are so AWESOME! For your birthday, friends and angels from every corner of the Universe, including buddies you didn't know you had, will be with you to wish you the HAPPIEST of days and an exciting new year in time and space. You won't be alone!</o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">HAPPY BIRTHDAY, Stacy!</i></p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">How beautiful is that?? I realize everyone probably gets the same message but it brought tears to my eyes! How special am I! THANK YOU, Universe!</p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">27 is going to be a fantastic, incredible year, I can feel it!</p> <!--EndFragment--> </div>Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13493637078660630466noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676245294486544338.post-90252392714189554042009-10-26T10:59:00.008+01:002009-10-26T11:58:27.724+01:00Day trip to Umbria/LazioOn Sunday I went on a day trip to Umbria & Lazio with a new friend I made here in Rome (a French Au Pair from Paris). Her language school planned the trip and she invited me to come along.<br /><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">I barely made it though, and all b/c of daylight savings time. On Saturday night before I went to bed, I set the clock on my iPhone back one hour. I set my alarm for 6:30am since I had to meet the bus at Termini station at 7:45am. I woke up around 6:20am and decided to get out of bed and check the time online to make sure my iPhone didn’t do something funny during the night… sure enough, it was 7:20am NOT 6:20am! My phone automatically adjusted the time at 3am so my clock went back two hours instead of one. I had just enough time to brush my teeth, throw on some clothes and sprint down the street to the bus (thankfully I live only 15 minutes away, add one reason why its good to live in SanLo). I arrived at 7:50am but I wasn’t the last one… a lot of people seemed to have clock issues that morning. We actually left one poor girl behind who arrived at Termini at 8:02am and couldn’t find the bus.<br /><br />Our first stop was Orvieto. There were about 20 of us on the trip, lead by Marina’s language teacher who was an excellent tour guide and gave us a full explanation of all the sights. Sadly my Italian is still really shaky (aka nonexistent) so Marina had to translate for me. And as English is her second language it was easier for her to do the translation in French. So I got an Italian lesson AND got to practice my French, not bad. We saw the Duomo (where I learned about those ever popular <a href="http://bacifromrome.blogspot.com/2009/10/just-names.html">Italian names</a>),<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVewj7X1OK_4iXDcyPLYAItveEWH0H4bdwDTkjK8CHHFiW1m9vP62JKcNviFhVdD-3GLWXasDvPw5MnOXC1Z0RHcL8suUNK0iPQP_LSuVSadnADiLnwVA21L43LNjdAEtFNFVDTdwpUVwc/s1600-h/100_4139.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVewj7X1OK_4iXDcyPLYAItveEWH0H4bdwDTkjK8CHHFiW1m9vP62JKcNviFhVdD-3GLWXasDvPw5MnOXC1Z0RHcL8suUNK0iPQP_LSuVSadnADiLnwVA21L43LNjdAEtFNFVDTdwpUVwc/s320/100_4139.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396850456169459762" /></a><br />wandered around the tiny streets (I love Europe and their little cobblestone streets, barely big enough for two people to walk through), saw the first home of the Popes before they built Vatican City (who knew!),<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjQrCBdllufFcNN-U2Nc8qnDXHusHOislxRxnx8BfpG6L-2dv127Vq3iXF-NC3L9T8MGF9NCtUIcqzugYN7RsWo2MvMvE6M0a7rzJnw8Hgbd8VXTEmB0ZQ-w1xaofugdej6fNN88lZpQKm/s1600-h/100_4147.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjQrCBdllufFcNN-U2Nc8qnDXHusHOislxRxnx8BfpG6L-2dv127Vq3iXF-NC3L9T8MGF9NCtUIcqzugYN7RsWo2MvMvE6M0a7rzJnw8Hgbd8VXTEmB0ZQ-w1xaofugdej6fNN88lZpQKm/s320/100_4147.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396850460347744258" /></a><br />and took in the incredible view from the walled edge of Orvieto.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiso0-9bo6nxfTg3EfNdu8sIbUv0gWH8lsLUPlXMc2Nka0ZqN8jnDRFchMRP5RpsiVSvYExOEjqRUeVTy4hfqf6irKaiPuxr8I7lsJiuTKGIeHeoKXKr5dPbVX_E8tw0_9PQP2WNNy-CMlE/s1600-h/100_4159.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiso0-9bo6nxfTg3EfNdu8sIbUv0gWH8lsLUPlXMc2Nka0ZqN8jnDRFchMRP5RpsiVSvYExOEjqRUeVTy4hfqf6irKaiPuxr8I7lsJiuTKGIeHeoKXKr5dPbVX_E8tw0_9PQP2WNNy-CMlE/s320/100_4159.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396850464474840866" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRwEdkNOZk2NndBgYX3MbIvrWNCfmODBwcUZVsqz0JdTuBNcWLp8bBWxGQsfoOcX3qCol1woafEMugYnE1aqQGS5P93hbNfcc2Q4ONqRuRmcNcnqCGKOMMmCxGEDyE2RmQHqxX63Mal-Sz/s1600-h/100_4171.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRwEdkNOZk2NndBgYX3MbIvrWNCfmODBwcUZVsqz0JdTuBNcWLp8bBWxGQsfoOcX3qCol1woafEMugYnE1aqQGS5P93hbNfcc2Q4ONqRuRmcNcnqCGKOMMmCxGEDyE2RmQHqxX63Mal-Sz/s320/100_4171.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396850464258171858" /></a><br />Afterwards, we had 2 free hours for lunch. A group of us branched off in search of a <a href="http://www.slowfood.com/">Slow Food</a> restaurant recommended by my new friend Elyssa (an expat who’s been living in Rome with her Italian husband for about 8 years). It was completely booked so we went back out into the street to try to figure out where to eat. An old Italian couple were leaning out of their window watching the street (why do old folks love to do that?) and called out to us, asking us where we were from (we made quite a colorful group). We rattled off the list of countries (England, America, Holland, France…) and chatted with them for a bit. We asked for their recommendation for lunch and they pointed us to Ristorante Cocco, a tiny place just across the street. We got there just before a huge crowd of Italians showed up, filling the rest of the tables. And it was one of the best meals I had in a long time… the 9 of us shared 3 bottles of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">vino rosso della casa</i>, 2 bottles of water, a starter and main dish/pasta each (I had caprise to start followed by tagliatelle with black truffles… SOO good) and paid only 11 Euros per person! Comparably, the other group when to a place near the Duomo (tourist central) and paid 17 Euros for "5 pieces of ravioli and a soda".<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRn9CzuPeA9UwvBAzbVFwrgz_YNe0ROjfL1SBnuPi8-Ecbi3kulnI3Y4P7iUjJxZ-aFJzzuqXpT9d-buZLsmrAUCiKYRyA-oqgRVWjYiowqNnPu8tP5eWdjI4yr6riZQfNmh3_ZQB0q899/s1600-h/100_4176.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRn9CzuPeA9UwvBAzbVFwrgz_YNe0ROjfL1SBnuPi8-Ecbi3kulnI3Y4P7iUjJxZ-aFJzzuqXpT9d-buZLsmrAUCiKYRyA-oqgRVWjYiowqNnPu8tP5eWdjI4yr6riZQfNmh3_ZQB0q899/s320/100_4176.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396856397339583762" /></a><br />We rolled out of the restaurant completely stuffed and sleepy from all the wine to meet up with the rest of the group for a tour of the Duomo (it was closed in the morning for mass) before moving on to the next village.<br /><br />Civita di Bagnoregio is nicknamed The City of the Dead b/c in its 2,500 years it has survived 24 earthquakes, Nazi occupation and bombings and is still standing... for now. It's literally this tiny medieval village perched on the very top of a mountain.</p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"> <img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirtDet3JD-8WPpkVncxO7F520M7q9ey_w3DHx2qE4y0H8KSOTmSSEQncY9EPYQpOtNunxcPT939-rRYpXDeyqHv_SCiBC-WXWHlWXMEfe7JjY9D1gXPSNse6cAHhNxQ-QoNoUh-3D9fB2k/s320/100_4184.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396850470406183586" /></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">The eerie thing is that mountain beaneath it is finally starting to crumble so they don’t know how long the village will survive (parts of it have already fallen off!). Its connected to mainland Italy by a long, narrow bridge that snakes its way up the mountain to the city gates. It took us about 20 minutes to walk there (mainly uphill, my legs are so sore today!) but once you get inside its the most incredible sight.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRQWSv082LbP_84fO1I8Yqz5bQLRKPdG4sf03CciqHc_OBeT_JOXKN9l4cBK8uDOe3W5WbXY50CnVw6va6AxKrvJzXEtw5vwlEM5te0X3iirMStkuKoSdFdJjUI-hhBgiWUX2IBQoj5Xjl/s1600-h/100_4188.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRQWSv082LbP_84fO1I8Yqz5bQLRKPdG4sf03CciqHc_OBeT_JOXKN9l4cBK8uDOe3W5WbXY50CnVw6va6AxKrvJzXEtw5vwlEM5te0X3iirMStkuKoSdFdJjUI-hhBgiWUX2IBQoj5Xjl/s320/100_4188.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396856397590952866" /></a><br />The village looks frozen in time—you can walk the entire place in about 10 minutes, everything is rustic and ancient, including the people who live there.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2yGy896KgmXdGTJTYeXNWxs7-Ol3qNj-3DKcmjnutYtFVW9EJWfcDyw_aRv9igCf24D3aiw8NDGecfIesJX0sE-oRXTFbRumbSR-xmKeCsvBISfuEtGNf1lWNhWnvbBT5_lM2_tUhr1Vp/s1600-h/100_4197.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2yGy896KgmXdGTJTYeXNWxs7-Ol3qNj-3DKcmjnutYtFVW9EJWfcDyw_aRv9igCf24D3aiw8NDGecfIesJX0sE-oRXTFbRumbSR-xmKeCsvBISfuEtGNf1lWNhWnvbBT5_lM2_tUhr1Vp/s320/100_4197.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396856387565673938" /></a><br />There are one or two B&Bs, a couple of trattorias and a church in the center of the piazza, naturally the social hub of the village. There are about 14 residents now (bless their brave souls!) but crowds of people from the village down below swarm the piazza in the evenings; eating roasted chestnuts, listening to music and hanging around chatting with each other.</p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaGOfzzd5fczVT7sskd8X3cK40TyVzByWs0HIdprW9T0G39kIdu3jvdc12_CQ8rH1GE_y7FmpioOnparcFAoHc6L14iccbq0-NuykjbAVha9TBMB5gSo6yxqmWTEIhjT-qdvwZra74xBtq/s1600-h/100_4193.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaGOfzzd5fczVT7sskd8X3cK40TyVzByWs0HIdprW9T0G39kIdu3jvdc12_CQ8rH1GE_y7FmpioOnparcFAoHc6L14iccbq0-NuykjbAVha9TBMB5gSo6yxqmWTEIhjT-qdvwZra74xBtq/s320/100_4193.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396851909102128738" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3KiuDQP-O-4aXKHVnAgGFXRunxKCLjhcra9kWVBJs4gKom-Shep4Rs4zBfL7wOWZYv2OO8WBB-41YoasgIqsFJHpHnongtXkXNlNAzyppjCkJguvEL_x3TzBACKzJvDfuQ-wv9YxqVMTw/s1600-h/100_4202.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3KiuDQP-O-4aXKHVnAgGFXRunxKCLjhcra9kWVBJs4gKom-Shep4Rs4zBfL7wOWZYv2OO8WBB-41YoasgIqsFJHpHnongtXkXNlNAzyppjCkJguvEL_x3TzBACKzJvDfuQ-wv9YxqVMTw/s320/100_4202.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396851913391883714" /></a><br />It was incredible… and to know that the village won’t be around forever makes it even cooler that I actually got to see it.</p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxslK0fp7OC2ZIYdi8tj05Dt7jbaDEN85G82Fj0vO4jfZp7JkY-LOoqHwv8Wb21T8MWT4NUNE5aznhNRHByDA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br />So the trip was fantastic—even the 2 hour drive was pleasant, just watching the beautiful Italian countryside. We made it back to Rome around 7:30pm. An exhausting but wonderful day.</p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"></p><span><span>Total spent for the day:</span></span><div><span><span>Bus ticket— 12 Euro </span></span></div><div><div><span><span>R/T cable car to Orvieto— 2 Euro </span></span></div><div><span><span>Lunch at Cocco— 11 Euro</span></span></div></div>Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13493637078660630466noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676245294486544338.post-26396175794564301762009-10-25T21:26:00.002+01:002009-10-25T21:56:26.933+01:00Just namesCan I just share a “blond moment” with you for a sec? <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"></p><div><span><span>4 Italian names: Matteo, Marco, Luca, Giovanni</span></span></div><div><span><span></span></span>4 Gospels: Matthew, Mark, Luke, John<br /><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"></p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">I only just TODAY (during a tour of the Duomo in Orvieto, more on that later) realized what the English equivalent to these ubiquitous Italian names are! LOL… lordy :)</p><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqj_hiEc8lnYC4gKth9WNKfsRP__D6P7m9879Q0KutyTIGNNzpoU04Mo8DtJJuVrwY5f4xPDHYPPxRbQe34Ljay2otM2voadMhEJxB9m926o8vU2I62lH7ulgwh2yvxJHTa2b6WInqpwCQ/s320/100_4142.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396643713727953922" /><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br /></p> <!--EndFragment--> </div>Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13493637078660630466noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676245294486544338.post-90816190778917068302009-10-25T20:57:00.004+01:002009-10-25T21:04:37.476+01:00The Cheater<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">So my roommate Bridge has this girlfriend. I don’t know her name so I’ll just call her Gisele since she looks a little like Ms. Bundchen. Apparently (this is the gossip I got from Tommy, the guy I’m renting the room from) they had been dating for a couple years until Bridge dumped her, saying he just wanted to enjoy being single—mind you, the man is 35 years old. And then sometime within the last month they reconciled and I’ve pretty much never seen him without her. </p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Last week I made myself some pasta for dinner. It was around 11pm when they got home and I was working on my computer when Gisele popped her head in my door and said, “Excuse me, is it your pasta? (I’m doing her accent)” And when I said yes she said, “Can I have some?” Kind of random considering the girl doesn’t even know me but she is the kind of person who would do that kind of thing. Later she came by to thank me, saying the food was delicious (aw!). And to top it all off, she has this tiny little crippled Chihuahua that is just the cutest. The first time I tried to pet the thing she nearly bit my hand off. But these days she always comes in my room and hangs out—she just hops around on her 3 good legs, its really cute. </p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">So the girlfriend is always here but she’s kind of grown on me. You know those girls who are sort of airheads but don’t really realize it? That’s her. Or maybe she’s just high, who knows. Anyway she’s super cute and really sweet. By this point I’ve probably spoken more to her than I’ve spoken to Bridge.</p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Anyway, last night I get home around 12:30am and what do I find? Some random black haired, tattooed chick laying all up in Bridge’s bed (his door was open)! She gave me a little half smile and said “Ciao”. And Bridge was walking out of his room and just gave me a quick “Ciao” over his shoulder. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">No this two-timing, no good, son-of-a…</i> </p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">And today, guess who’s back: yep, Gisele. Not even 24 hours between the two. She was laying in the bed when I walked in the front door, in the same spot tattoo chick was the night before—I just wanted to tell her, “Some skank was lying there this morning, get out now!” </p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">But of course, I don’t know her like that so it’s not my place to tell her that her man’s a dog. So we just chatted a bit, me feeling sorry for her. On the other hand, I can only wonder if it isn’t her fault she's in this mess. From what I hear, Italian women put up with a lot of bullsh*t. Maybe she feels like she just needs to suck it up and take what she can get. Who knows?</p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Anyway, I’ll just focus on not giving Bridge dirty looks when he comes around. Hopefully I don’t run into any more of his mystery women while I’m here. Homeboy isn’t even all that. Where does he get off thinking he can play Mr. Casanova? </p> <!--EndFragment-->Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13493637078660630466noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676245294486544338.post-3558109929518983672009-10-19T14:14:00.007+02:002009-10-19T14:57:04.182+02:00An apartment at the 11th hour<p class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">Last Monday I realized I should probably double check with the owner of my pensione to make sure I could stay for another week while I continued my apt search. Seeing as how we discussed this and that the place had been empty for the past week I assumed there would be a room available for me. Nope. She was booked solid from Friday-Monday so I needed to find another place to go ASAP. She offered for me to come back Tuesday, paying 25 Euros/night for my room which is awesome, but would add up really quick. Plus without the benefit of internet or a kitchen, it just didn’t seem worth it. So I called up a guy who’s apt I’d gone to see a week prior (I had already told him I wouldn’t take it, sure I would find something halfway decent instead) and asked him if the room was still available. The apt was decent but the neighborhood was rundown and dirty and way further out of the center than I wanted to live. But by that point I was desperate with few options. Thankfully the room was still free and he was nice enough to let me move in on Friday.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-am06rW6n_1nmQ61k2o2Hk_9VJpN3qiS6IWKstCGFNi6xtYinH093IBWbkK9EyhEUwdtTcCtVsYayIDs6diNooi9uFw3tE7QowKmA2SDZb0lVdE3rNPFM50mLJwHn3BZYSqOaeVZRrGpi/s1600-h/100_4120.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-am06rW6n_1nmQ61k2o2Hk_9VJpN3qiS6IWKstCGFNi6xtYinH093IBWbkK9EyhEUwdtTcCtVsYayIDs6diNooi9uFw3tE7QowKmA2SDZb0lVdE3rNPFM50mLJwHn3BZYSqOaeVZRrGpi/s320/100_4120.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394288787677394050" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnz_7WEpB9wCsWjB5PRR0d0DU8QB1GAdPvuSOXPD0GNiqQHkrqDF5Cm5lxIu0UUZoPl8xzffQPUNtT20-VZOFZ7GstemNfELh6FbrtxlKFwwa_twTLar1H_baM8ZK5WnZxFmV7fgfiJ7Vj/s1600-h/100_4119.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnz_7WEpB9wCsWjB5PRR0d0DU8QB1GAdPvuSOXPD0GNiqQHkrqDF5Cm5lxIu0UUZoPl8xzffQPUNtT20-VZOFZ7GstemNfELh6FbrtxlKFwwa_twTLar1H_baM8ZK5WnZxFmV7fgfiJ7Vj/s320/100_4119.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394294255016124386" /></a><br />On my first night in the new apt I decided to check out the so-called amazing San Lorenzo nightlife. I invited my new friend Ben (who lives just up the street but on the other side of the “Wall”, within the center of Rome) to come with me. We started out with dinner at Formula Uno, the popular pizzeria down the street from my apt, around 9pm (it was really good but no Da Michele!).</p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKx1MCe2_zas7_Q1vapXdrejIXXe8ppd1ebftcI5yGpb7qoig00fZN0KU9xcX_Lv8iOGd1zJYzR1VBUKioEOXpdF9XTu5_FdqS3OB9orLMkIWdB1VQmZXYBvo1P12NmCKpybPmi5DPi73S/s1600-h/100_4115.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKx1MCe2_zas7_Q1vapXdrejIXXe8ppd1ebftcI5yGpb7qoig00fZN0KU9xcX_Lv8iOGd1zJYzR1VBUKioEOXpdF9XTu5_FdqS3OB9orLMkIWdB1VQmZXYBvo1P12NmCKpybPmi5DPi73S/s320/100_4115.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394288757345803858" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn5x-zXiIJgfXvjZLGfwNilrdR1bMTyTJlga1hvCIMUiDVNbkbBhzkCPvK-IgFtCzoPTLhaMWFrOj4DcLHS7dwNuKfzkCbwM8WWiONH5ysoLdL48NAn02VqijH_Oz4hOKdVpJDc9UQoFyV/s1600-h/100_4114.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn5x-zXiIJgfXvjZLGfwNilrdR1bMTyTJlga1hvCIMUiDVNbkbBhzkCPvK-IgFtCzoPTLhaMWFrOj4DcLHS7dwNuKfzkCbwM8WWiONH5ysoLdL48NAn02VqijH_Oz4hOKdVpJDc9UQoFyV/s320/100_4114.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394288751046281890" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn5x-zXiIJgfXvjZLGfwNilrdR1bMTyTJlga1hvCIMUiDVNbkbBhzkCPvK-IgFtCzoPTLhaMWFrOj4DcLHS7dwNuKfzkCbwM8WWiONH5ysoLdL48NAn02VqijH_Oz4hOKdVpJDc9UQoFyV/s1600-h/100_4114.jpg"></a><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKiELwhC-Xbxa8hNIXf2pMNTI3pcDmj-VqwK8CMAszSw5euC1pvkqpL5CBmwMocsZ6YVMZCZHVF-gEalDbDs9b96OB5t0g0gKFrLsf3eZvIln9mRA7Ve86PIuv6rHjwsb3Cmoi8kYAVuIJ/s320/100_4118.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394288770517102306" /><br />We finished dinner around 11pm and wandered the streets in search of a cool bar to hang out at. After walking around for 10 minutes without finding a decent place to go, Ben started cracking jokes about the neighborhood being full of zombies—he was only half joking. Literally everyone looked like they were strung out and just a little bit off. The streets were pretty empty but considering it was Friday night we figured we were just too early for the party kids. Finally we found this place called Rive Gauche. Its a big bar set up to look like a Parisian café with dim lighting, iconic French posters and a sea of small tables. And the crowd was (thankfully) a little older. It was packed by the time we arrived (around 11:30pm) but we were able to snatch the last table. We hung out there until about 12:30am and Ben offered to walk me home, saying he wouldn’t recommend my walking alone. By that time the streets were packed with people (guess a night out starts at 1am round here). We passed two prostitutes who propositioned Ben (no joke), beggars, homeless people and drunken minors. Lovely.</p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"></span></p><span><span>San Lorenzo is home to La Sapienza University (the biggest in Rome) so the median age is about 23 and the kids all have this punk rock/grunge thing going on. Everyone stays in the neighborhood for everything—lunch, dinner, nightlife, everything... but for those of us who want to be amongst humans, you have to cross into the “city center” which involves walking through a long scary underpass and walking 10 minutes around the train station. And everyone knows the train station is the last place you want to be in a European city, especially at night (the other day my Italian friend cautioned me against rapists who apparently hang out there. Great). </span></span><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Now I don’t know if I’m hating on San Lorenzo simply because I’m being stubborn and am determined not to like this neighborhood but I’ve come to the conclusion that it sucks—as does the hyped-up nightlife. The only plus side is that since this area is full of students, all the bars, restaurants and even the supermarkets are pretty cheap (there, a little positivity).</p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSFi_IsMMjSFixoORqz8UNDX1J6qW191dhuu5mHhRBr9d9fPrNi7Kow-FmSWU4C_nLy5oB6h6j6UNRI_f7nQdDSTKNfQ0GIVhBOZ98TsTbjwnqG4JR4K5UI58qojI9k8YmrOYbzilg7F8o/s320/100_4124.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394288777376161506" /></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">I came to Rome for the beauty of the city. I wanted to walk out of my front door and discover neighborhood <i>tratorrias</i> tucked into cute little side streets around the corner from my apt. I wanted to open my window to the sound of church bells and cars driving along cobblestone streets. I wanted to know the freedom of living in a city where you're actually able to walk everywhere. I didn’t want to have to check my watch every 5 minutes when I’m out with friends, making sure I leave early enough to catch the last bus back home (or forgo that last drink or two so I can afford the 15 Euro taxi ride back home). I didn’t want to worry about my safety walking down the street. Unfortunately this apt situation puts a damper on my experience here. But what I try to remember is that when I moved to Paris in 2007 I ended up in a pretty <a href="http://bisousfromparis.blogspot.com/2007/10/my-new-abode.html">sh*tty neighborhood</a> too. And if I recall how that story went, I'm destined to find a great apt in a fabulous neighborhood really soon. So the hunt is on again. At least this time I don’t have the threat of looming homelessness to make things even more desperate.</p>Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13493637078660630466noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676245294486544338.post-76482785159455905422009-10-14T13:16:00.004+02:002009-10-17T12:48:10.191+02:00Sigh...<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">Now that my guests are gone the homesickness has finally hit me. I have a “glass half full” kind of disposition so it’s hard for me to feel really down but I’m just lonely. And the other day I spoke to the Signora (at my pensione) who told me that both of her B&Bs are full from Friday-Sunday so I have to find a place to stay for those three nights—the added stress of looming homelessness in a foreign city is not helping matters. She offered for me to come back on Monday at a substantial discount on the nightly rate but the room would still be out of my budget. Plus the fact that there’s no internet, TV or kitchen kind of sours me on the whole place. </p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">So in a nutshell I have no friends, I’ll be thrown out this Friday and I have yet to figure out what the heck I’m doing here in the first place. But the thing is I live for these kinds of life experiences so I can’t help but feel excited at the same time. I’m happy that the city is starting to make sense to me (I often find myself looking up to find that I know exactly where I am and how to make my way back home without consulting my map) and that each day I’m beginning to feel less like a tourist and more like a local. I’m grateful for the people who are making an effort to help me integrate and build a life here (one of my blog readers set me up with her Italian friend and we met for drinks last night. She was with her American boyfriend who lives in Barcelona and they were both really cool, interesting people. She invited me to dinner at her house and is even planning to introduce me to a couple of her single male friends… I won’t say no to that! lol). I’m glad that my classmates seem sort of interesting (specifically a woman named Anna from Brazil) and friendly. I’m grateful for my budding friendship with a cool guy from Brooklyn (a documentary filmmaker here on a 3 month assignment) who is game for just about anything involving alcohol and will accompany me to check out all the bars I don’t feel comfortable hanging out in alone.</p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">The thing about life abroad is that you make these fast and fleeting relationships, which can be really significant and intense and exciting. But on the other hand it makes you realize how far from your old life you really are. Not to make it seem like things are all bad though. I get these little bouts of self-pity that I like to dip my toe into once in a while but 90% of the time I’m pinching myself that I actually get to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">live</i> here in this incredible city. And my social schedule is filling up nicely. Tonight I’m meeting a new Italian friend for drinks in a neighborhood outside of the center that I’ve never visited before. Tomorrow I have an invite to a dinner party hosted by woman (a black singer from New York) I recently got in touch with through a long chain of email introductions. Saturday night I’m partying with a Roman guy I met through my friend Temi in London… ok, pause. I’m being absolutely ridiculous. (Writing is cathartic) Pity party officially over :) </p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Two years ago I moved to Paris to find my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">joie de vivre</i> and now I get to experience <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">la dolce vita </i>in Rome. I'm owed some injections of harsh reality every now and again. Didn’t someone once say that too much of a good thing is bad?</p> <!--EndFragment-->Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03816075916092263788noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676245294486544338.post-90873262640956045212009-10-12T13:01:00.004+02:002009-11-05T13:35:16.530+01:00Napoli & Positano<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqsZC8gQHtKXXn_6DnMcKbyIBqb89wNbNpekx7OAWRC9K0fjlYoLyFp7h_TMbxUe4WHnebUS-Hi8Wv8NMW7gAXTJXkF1GK3ojpmNZ_krUf12EZ9jEYI4gp-UoFsTEzXu_7bLA72J_pgZs/s1600-h/100_4105.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqsZC8gQHtKXXn_6DnMcKbyIBqb89wNbNpekx7OAWRC9K0fjlYoLyFp7h_TMbxUe4WHnebUS-Hi8Wv8NMW7gAXTJXkF1GK3ojpmNZ_krUf12EZ9jEYI4gp-UoFsTEzXu_7bLA72J_pgZs/s320/100_4105.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392410670658629938" /></a><br /><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">Simona and I spent 3 days in Positano, passing through Naples along the way. First of all, Naples is insane. I would never have believed that a city like that exists in picture-perfect Italy. Naples is raw and gritty and dirty… its not hard to imagine that you’ve dropped into a 3<sup>rd</sup> world country. But the Neapolitans are so damn proud of their city—you gotta love that. And the pizza! Only once in my life have I tasted pizza nearly as good and that was in a small hilltop town near Florence (I can’t remember the name of the place but my friend Shelby and her boyfriend brought me there when I went to visit her a couple years ago and the first bite literally brought tears to my eyes it was so yummy). On the way to Positano we had lunch at Trianon Pizzeria at the suggestion of one of The Expat’s friends. The pizza was good but didn’t blow my mind. On the way back home, we went to <a href="http://www.damichele.net/">Da Michele</a>. Simona and I were outside debating if we should share one pizza (they’re pretty big) but a guy standing near us leaned over and said that the pizza is too good to share and we each had to have our own—enough said. The crowd standing in front waiting for a table (some for nearly 2 hours!) was so thick we could barely make our way inside. We got pushed to the front of the line since we ordered our double mozzarella margarita pizzas to go. We sat on the curb around the corner from the pizzeria to eat and OMG… BEST PIZZA EVER!! No joke.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOcReXs8jsXaUfWq1xVtU5W2pVjOA0ldkaqsgDX2duuEMqsWBp42luYmuP05lY-B1cvhsi3iK0P9wV1UgtSrHVEiOG9wHraEpFWOp6b46YFPBeAxBryeY4ztuApqrUnHHoXJ8DFzEQUr4/s1600-h/blog.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 180px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOcReXs8jsXaUfWq1xVtU5W2pVjOA0ldkaqsgDX2duuEMqsWBp42luYmuP05lY-B1cvhsi3iK0P9wV1UgtSrHVEiOG9wHraEpFWOp6b46YFPBeAxBryeY4ztuApqrUnHHoXJ8DFzEQUr4/s320/blog.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400594016226849714" /></a><br />The dough was perfectly baked, thick and spongy with a slight smoky taste from the wood burning oven, the tomato sauce was so light and simple, the cheese was unbelievably fresh and the basil seemed to take on the flavor of the olive oil they dribbled on top. Excellent. I’m plotting when I can go back to Naples— if only for the pizza. It’s totally worth the 20 Euro, 6 hour R/T train ride—its that good.</p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixnHQM_PA4E-h4FUwqfFEkD5LqXPeZbSuXI43_f2tdqyQk-i73hPB_ZsxTEvACpiIoaY85UUgHHKRH_zq94U78_HIoCtW_KeJAcK7OdomWkL1vPNdfJ_OkIiN4vfbAe35V-lEGYNL1o2Q/s1600-h/100_4110.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixnHQM_PA4E-h4FUwqfFEkD5LqXPeZbSuXI43_f2tdqyQk-i73hPB_ZsxTEvACpiIoaY85UUgHHKRH_zq94U78_HIoCtW_KeJAcK7OdomWkL1vPNdfJ_OkIiN4vfbAe35V-lEGYNL1o2Q/s320/100_4110.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392410697244164930" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoAv3x-Z0HKlDw_uPr2NYGpOwxy_yZAO1XBNdAAyJMju3NGwpuFRxLKRkHqPoZ6YLRc-usN5oTTvJ6eHVuEV505d1sMnpvWlaYmbzZAmvVnSqSK2XjYWU5txFaRsR4H2AbQT4zU7YUqNI/s1600-h/100_4111.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 271px; height: 264px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoAv3x-Z0HKlDw_uPr2NYGpOwxy_yZAO1XBNdAAyJMju3NGwpuFRxLKRkHqPoZ6YLRc-usN5oTTvJ6eHVuEV505d1sMnpvWlaYmbzZAmvVnSqSK2XjYWU5txFaRsR4H2AbQT4zU7YUqNI/s320/100_4111.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392412191878144066" /></a><br /></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">Anyway Positano: in a word, magical. It reminded me a lot of Santorini, just in a different color palatte (pretty pastel houses stacked on the side of the mountain instead of all white ones). And everyone was SO friendly and helpful. We kept saying, “Are we just deprived New Yorkers or is everyone extremely nice here?” We made friends with the owner of our pensione (the hotel has an amazing rooftop terrace with breathtaking views. One morning we woke up early to watch the sunrise),</p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKepIWzzOVi0P8TUPYEAdSc6QOf5GqGNONkfyWqz6XhbcrAZAMHKPaa5wmEPpKfsCpaAdx9lIQU2i2kUHZWK-kSLHZfWb_2XLnouNM8o_SO75e9R115CSZn_kAZHW08kPVb-kanh92-AE/s1600-h/blog2.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKepIWzzOVi0P8TUPYEAdSc6QOf5GqGNONkfyWqz6XhbcrAZAMHKPaa5wmEPpKfsCpaAdx9lIQU2i2kUHZWK-kSLHZfWb_2XLnouNM8o_SO75e9R115CSZn_kAZHW08kPVb-kanh92-AE/s320/blog2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400594016347534706" /></a><br />the waiters at the restaurants, the guy at the supermarket, the deli guy, everyone. And it didn’t hurt that everywhere we went there was a group hot guys saying ciao to us and telling us how beautiful we were :) We were told we should have come during the summer but I much prefer going someplace in the off season—you’re not fighting with crowds, you can find cheap hotel deals and you get to see a place for what it really is. Plus the weather was still in the 80s so it was perfect.</p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmwG8khOsxKh_nMhBE2IRD5hAW_ThfXYCdb-mokQolOq1ud1yNU9_4LZ-CoAWh5neGcDo3DeC84A8X8ymyZGi4CFI5B5YbvGaOXv1pMpCaeFzWcZ8CQS4G4qPSTD-GLpB_8tY80iqUJ5w/s320/100_4094.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392410694490251234" /></p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">We spent our days lounging around at the beachside cafes chatting with the owners, eating lemon ices on the beach and wandering around the tiny downtown area.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbrJHQluCYQxZJGqKj7tY5SH4gczWCVOUtrPqFCiZaFkY_kXX7M5No22KTxMbSiR0zodk2j68WrjkDqsQhEtThaLTRKzJqmIEVBB2fi7NPJzAJ0EG1Z9lp-R8Xwu71RcCvK4Qaumj-Kco/s1600-h/blog5.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 180px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbrJHQluCYQxZJGqKj7tY5SH4gczWCVOUtrPqFCiZaFkY_kXX7M5No22KTxMbSiR0zodk2j68WrjkDqsQhEtThaLTRKzJqmIEVBB2fi7NPJzAJ0EG1Z9lp-R8Xwu71RcCvK4Qaumj-Kco/s320/blog5.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400594846336250786" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimczquGttM1DvFZIGMUAecZaUXAok5wmS4CRjUkST_83FM7uCwWOihd4w_9HQ5Uk7B9_69VpB5oVZgnF3q61zwahH5ShxVmWEOrjOb1v6_8bqbTvyHilP7GgMz5FSgWHU6CB0zognvxCI/s1600-h/100_4089.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimczquGttM1DvFZIGMUAecZaUXAok5wmS4CRjUkST_83FM7uCwWOihd4w_9HQ5Uk7B9_69VpB5oVZgnF3q61zwahH5ShxVmWEOrjOb1v6_8bqbTvyHilP7GgMz5FSgWHU6CB0zognvxCI/s320/100_4089.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392410686384457074" /></a><br /><br />At night we went for long dinners at places either recommended by my Lonely Planet or by the locals. We struck out twice in the food dept—first thinking that just because we were at a beach town the seafood would be good. Second thinking it was ever a smart idea to try sushi in small town Italy… oh well.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi55JKnBAbXoMOqIO4Lu5ZhJVO5GA_jJt-Ng3Q8o95GpmpJnDsIYeXrgmNfiov_U7t9yUVXGQK-bx6ITt3VixOn-PUO1klrQ1LdcTyOaP8I6sdReuGf-Skkitf2XFuqrth6t87isDqSSDY/s1600-h/blog3.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi55JKnBAbXoMOqIO4Lu5ZhJVO5GA_jJt-Ng3Q8o95GpmpJnDsIYeXrgmNfiov_U7t9yUVXGQK-bx6ITt3VixOn-PUO1klrQ1LdcTyOaP8I6sdReuGf-Skkitf2XFuqrth6t87isDqSSDY/s320/blog3.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400594020118397282" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQlEt-WbW0A_m6OU-Vj7tF979tJBBqFioWir4iOnasikqGvpfgKOah6uwcHc6zVpKXLv4smnvQYOtBtR1OcYj12dHXD4maK6SqtiHuQk2rPTDmcuJzqdpd5JC0rpA91lmyMMKO1U7N-YU/s1600-h/100_4082.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQlEt-WbW0A_m6OU-Vj7tF979tJBBqFioWir4iOnasikqGvpfgKOah6uwcHc6zVpKXLv4smnvQYOtBtR1OcYj12dHXD4maK6SqtiHuQk2rPTDmcuJzqdpd5JC0rpA91lmyMMKO1U7N-YU/s320/100_4082.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392410675734851202" /></a><br />After dinner we tried to find a bar to have drinks but apparently that doesn’t really exist there. So we just hung out on the terrace of the restaurants drinking wine and free shots of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">lemoncello</i>. It was a fabulous weekend. Pos is every bit as beautiful as people say it is. We were daydreaming about leaving everything behind and moving there for good. People are happy, everyone knows each other, there’s like zero crime. And the best part is that they work for about 7 months out of the year until the winter when everything shuts down and then get to take a 5 month vacation—not a bad life.</p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA7jKoIVRV5OLUE0D73AcMN69AjQxYs7bpDgcLTWCUyqiNyYJiZ8I396iNoOwxjid_VYIepf1J2lKPQ81CIc8oQtnmvOLQ3zPEl1U7UXQEIeBSNaDCov19Wr5FIIyMyuQrynHZPqrQvIo/s1600-h/blog4.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA7jKoIVRV5OLUE0D73AcMN69AjQxYs7bpDgcLTWCUyqiNyYJiZ8I396iNoOwxjid_VYIepf1J2lKPQ81CIc8oQtnmvOLQ3zPEl1U7UXQEIeBSNaDCov19Wr5FIIyMyuQrynHZPqrQvIo/s320/blog4.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400594839789532994" /></a>Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03816075916092263788noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676245294486544338.post-42709079718677150212009-10-12T12:59:00.007+02:002009-11-05T13:32:14.818+01:00A bit of New York in Rome...My friend Simona arrived from New York the same day that Martine left so I’ve been pretty much nonstop all week. She’s a late sleeper so we didn’t start our day until about noon—grabbing lunch before hitting the first site. I started my month-long Italian lessons at Dante Alighieri last Monday so for 3 hours in the afternoon Simona went to check out the museums and churches while I sat in class learning how to conjugate verbs. Italian seems to be a little easier than French (with some of the same root words so I can sort of follow along) so hopefully I’ll pick up a bit before I leave here (notice I said “a bit”. I’m not as naive as when I first moved to France and thought I’d be fluent in 3 months, lol). In the evenings, Simona and I would meet up after my class, grab an aperitivo (did I mention how much I LOVE the fact that you can go to a bar, order a drink and help yourself to a free buffet spread? Genius!), go home and relax then change before our nights out.<p class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst"></p><span><span><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxpILcBPW1FEp-Xwcft1yT9HA_rF57aZGJ9Q55nYjkFs7Y6PORnRqH-wlG_Zo-hKnHQXGjHscSkKG1GGhERjQxUvb7Zsmjgm8j2B0z0OcFwBJLkX9NOqJXWgxtqpnUrl6aajUiLXubit0/s320/4.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397592310135665282" /></span></span><div><span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">(compliments of the chef, our new friend)</span></span></span><p class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">On her first night in town we met up with a new acquaintance of mine. My friend <a href="http://bisousfromparis.blogspot.com/2009/09/fairytale-wedding.html">M</a> met a lawyer from Rome (we’ll call him The Expat) at an International Meetup in Paris last year while he was working there for a few months. She put us in touch back in December when he was planning a trip to New York for New Year’s. We never met but I picked up the correspondence with him a couple weeks before I arrived in Rome. He called me on Friday night and invited Simona and I to join him and his friends for drinks at this cute bar called Salotto 42. It’s a tiny bar but when the weather’s nice, everyone stands outside in the piazza with their drinks, the crumbling façade of a huge, ancient temple as the backdrop. Finding myself in moments like that is when it really hits me: wow, I live in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Rome</i>.</p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9t-G1yunELaepm2bw7jsoqYqTSF044QcB2yONu3V3G0cdxiWVTYpu2dP4tlyqTbUcwRyQ0jSgbQtvzwAWgyr9XyLL9ex1Mj2__fWDJAth7RkHTX_5LJlo6GP6Ub4OGA_MA4_pv5fulBo/s1600-h/3.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9t-G1yunELaepm2bw7jsoqYqTSF044QcB2yONu3V3G0cdxiWVTYpu2dP4tlyqTbUcwRyQ0jSgbQtvzwAWgyr9XyLL9ex1Mj2__fWDJAth7RkHTX_5LJlo6GP6Ub4OGA_MA4_pv5fulBo/s320/3.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397590612091726306" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"> (she'll be back!)</span></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />Anyway, its funny b/c when I first saw pictures of The Expat on Facebook I was not impressed. Little did I know he just doesn’t photograph well—in person he was HOT. He was sort of flirty with Simona and asked to meet up with us before she went back to NYC. In the end, we played phone tag but didn’t manage to connect with him before she left so she told me, “Stace if he tries to talk to you, totally go for it. One of us should take advantage!” (lol, did I mention that I love that girl?). I’m all for persistence and reaching out to new friends but when a guy is potential dating material I guess you have to take it a little easy. So we’ll see if he calls again…</p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFtfmdDddD_pBpqEsKfjxzDgjyKl16hqQScIkyfzZmh76N7vO54cFG9uoLcGQYp8KYQpGE66Yh6tdzXapRLKsI0HZsItS5c2gkcRZTKPQrKHEIgW8CueZtUuH6mWfOEkTQ1SDRzi61wfI/s1600-h/1.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFtfmdDddD_pBpqEsKfjxzDgjyKl16hqQScIkyfzZmh76N7vO54cFG9uoLcGQYp8KYQpGE66Yh6tdzXapRLKsI0HZsItS5c2gkcRZTKPQrKHEIgW8CueZtUuH6mWfOEkTQ1SDRzi61wfI/s320/1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397590605916438978" /></a> </div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">(pizza in the Jewish Ghetto)</span><br /><br /><div>The next night we were at a bar in Monti, again taking our cheap carafe of house wine outside to drink when two guys approached us—one was another lawyer (aka The Lawyer) who was flirting with me and the other took a liking to Simona. Unfortunately The Lawyer doesn’t speak much English so I’m not really sure what to make of it. He also seemed a bit aloof, but one night when I asked his friend about him (he popped up at the bar for like an hour then disappeared), his friend was like, “Do you like The Lawyer?! He went home but said if you asked about him then I should call him and he would come back and join us”. Um ok. Apparently he didn’t think I was interested (hello, we can barely communicate) so he was waiting for a sign from me.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ9HnhIFE0jADjv201qcoyzyr-XHq7DRkd50ntv-yharvynkw_2VYRnvmKwVSEG_4ltQmBqEJcU4MAepuYryUXOv2Lw2Of11BDIP9TRFZjKPBclmPAwVA-1MHPe2V-HRsjV1nTzUf8mr0/s1600-h/5.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ9HnhIFE0jADjv201qcoyzyr-XHq7DRkd50ntv-yharvynkw_2VYRnvmKwVSEG_4ltQmBqEJcU4MAepuYryUXOv2Lw2Of11BDIP9TRFZjKPBclmPAwVA-1MHPe2V-HRsjV1nTzUf8mr0/s320/5.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397592914674088002" /></a> </div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">(our new friends... for the week anyway)</span><br /><br /></div><div>The following night Simona and I ran into The Lawyer randomly in the street and he invited us to join him and his friend for dinner, I declined b/c we had to be up early the next morning. And Sunday night he sent me a text asking to take me to Frascati (a small town an hour outside of Rome famous for its wine bars and restaurants) but I already had plans. I mean, he seems nice but what in the world are we supposed to do, stare at each other? He’s cute but not that cute. So again, leaving the ball in his court. We’ll see what his next move is.<p></p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">On Simona’s last night in town we went to this new place called Mater Matuta in Monti. We were walking home one evening and spotted a set of stairs leading to a really cute cave like bar/restaurant. The décor is all white with huge low hanging chandeliers over the tables. And they have a small room tucked in the back with a long table that seats about 10 and looks like its set up for a formal wedding (note to self: good place for a birthday dinner). Anyway we called to make a reservation for Saturday and it turned out they were having their opening party that night—10 Euros for a sampling of all the food on their menu and unlimited prosecco. So we got dressed up and enjoyed a delicious and cheap dinner before calling it a night around 1am. She left at 9am the next morning and now I am officially on my own in Italy.</p> <!--EndFragment--></div></div>Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03816075916092263788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676245294486544338.post-76414030341998255272009-10-11T13:14:00.001+02:002009-10-14T13:22:46.359+02:00Apt woes<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">I’ve been searching in vain for an apartment for the past 2 weeks. I honestly had no idea it would be this hard. I lived in Manhattan for many years and moved around more times than I can count. Then I moved to Paris (with their equally notorious housing market) with only a place secured for a week. I moved 3 times before finally settling into my apartment in Oberkampf. It was definitely difficult and draining and stressful but nothing like this. The big problem is that I can’t give anyone a definite time frame for my stay here and no one wants to rent a room or apt to someone who will only be leaving in a couple months. I don’t want to lie and say I’ll be here for 6 months or a year when I very well could be leaving in 2 months. Reason being that my friend BB is getting married in Mexico in December and I promised her I’d come to her wedding—and I really do want to be there. So I’ll either go home just for her wedding (an expense I can’t really afford right now) and come back to Rome in the new year, or I’ll leave Rome for good in mid-December. Its all up in the air right now, it just depends on how thing go for me here.</p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">I went to see a great apt near Argentina (a bus/tram hub in the center of the city). It’s a 3 bedroom and two black American women (one from LA, the other from Queens) live there now. They were really cool, women I would be friends with in real life. Both had come to Rome with the intent of staying a few months but have been here for about 2 years now, for various reasons. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>We spoke on the phone last night and they won’t be making a decision on their new roommate until they hold their second Open House next weekend—in they meantime they want to meet up for drinks this week. If I don’t get an apt out of it at least I’ll get some new friends :)</p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">In the meantime, the old lady who owns my pensione is the sweetest thing and said that I could stay there for the month (and she would only charge me my rental budget instead of the 50 Euros/night I bargained her down to for my week long stay) if I don’t find anything else. The location isn’t too bad (between the train station and the Colosseum and within a 2 minute walk of my new favorite neighborhood, Monti) but I’m dreading living there because it just isn’t a home. There’s no proper kitchen nor is there any internet access (right now in the McDonald's 15 minutes away from the pensione using their free wifi but its loud and busy and cold and there’s no way I could come here every day and expect to get anything done) and I would have to deal with a slew of strangers coming in and out all the time. The plus side is that there is daily maid service and a free breakfast every morning. I guess things could be worse.</p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Anyway we’ll see. I’m still hoping I find something else but will probably stay where I’m at for at least a month… unfortunately living in a little pensione doesn’t exactly motivate me to want to stay in Rome long term.</p> <!--EndFragment-->Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03816075916092263788noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676245294486544338.post-72693718810701267952009-10-08T13:19:00.001+02:002009-10-14T13:25:22.794+02:00Life in Italia<span><span><span><span>Last week my cousin Martine arrived in Paris from DC to spend a week in Europe with me. It was her first time in Italy and we were doing 4 cities in 7 days.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjllLGzVUmnIdM98j6JH5jMra0XIoqyG6xaW5lPhLaUNChm-CymxJ_qNJb7mXOJhllxlr8nyA1MS_sZqlE7JtJrXYaAeRK0y6YSTGHWp-vrkOMo3jObI1YWzDD0xGnHF0kchcbxlhoW-Pg/s1600-h/paris.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjllLGzVUmnIdM98j6JH5jMra0XIoqyG6xaW5lPhLaUNChm-CymxJ_qNJb7mXOJhllxlr8nyA1MS_sZqlE7JtJrXYaAeRK0y6YSTGHWp-vrkOMo3jObI1YWzDD0xGnHF0kchcbxlhoW-Pg/s320/paris.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5391315862219057234" /></a> </span></span></span></span><div><span><span><span><span>Thank GOD for her because I don’t know how I would have managed the move to Italy with all of my heavy suitcases (thankfully the guy at the Easyjet counter didn’t charge us for the overweight bags… sometimes flirting pays off!). We spent my final day in Paris hanging out around B’s neighborhood, Les Batignolles. On the weekends the streets are packed with people shopping at the outdoor market, reconnecting with friends and neighbors and playing with their kids. We got cotton candy in the park, had a couple beers and watched a random stage performance by some pseudo reggae band. That night we went to a party in Oberkampf before heading to B’s friend’s place to spend the night—he lives 10 mintues from Orly airport and offered (or I begged him, rather) to drive us to our 7am flight the next morning. </span></span></span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span><span><span><span>It’s always so hard for me to leave Paris. It has become my city: I understand how things work, I get the sourly Parisian people, I know where I’m going, I’m comfortable there. Paris is a part of me. But at the same time, I was really excited for the move to Italy. And I remember when I first arrived in Paris in 2007 I felt the same uncertainty and fear so I know that it will pass in time and that things will get easier here (sorry, getting a bit ahead of myself). </span></span></span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span><span><span><span>We flew into Pisa Sunday morning and took the Terravision bus to Florence where I managed to find this tiny little crap hotel near the train station. For 38 Euros/night, it was actually worth it—two people could barely stay in a hostel for that price, let alone have a private room. Florence of course was amazing, its such a beautiful city. We spent two days wandering around the little streets (finally exploring the “other” side of the Arno, much cuter than the touristy side in my opinion), eating a ridiculous amount of gelato and pasta and just lazing about watching the views.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2rcoRejcCWr0UBtFPeFCQUv13_lL-wZRhx_q4R837lRW9TCHOgYxexsPV9C0zzMF2D3nEM2XmMsvqB6k7NCilYaSr5BsykoWjERE-BFBj1RyRrzv_bAkadhHfOFlUAAFNM5jPGt5H_Is/s1600-h/italy3.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2rcoRejcCWr0UBtFPeFCQUv13_lL-wZRhx_q4R837lRW9TCHOgYxexsPV9C0zzMF2D3nEM2XmMsvqB6k7NCilYaSr5BsykoWjERE-BFBj1RyRrzv_bAkadhHfOFlUAAFNM5jPGt5H_Is/s320/italy3.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5391315856429784322" /></a><br /><br />My friend <a href="http://shelbyinitalia.blogspot.com/">Shelby</a> lived in Florence for about a year and spoke about the medieval town of Siena a couple times so we decided to go there for the day. Its well worth the 1 hour trip if you’re ever in Florence. We had lunch at a cute little place with just 3 picnic tables perched on the side of a hill (at one point I nearly fell off my chair and rolled down the hill) and a menu written by hand on a couple sheets of construction paper… we shared our table with a really interesting Israeli couple traveling through Italy on their honeymoon. For about 10 Euros each we had .50 liter of (delicious) house wine, an appetizer and pasta dish… I love Italy.</span></span></span></span><div><span><span><span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Lucida Grande';font-size:11px;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOm0fkdkyUvDrs7ms5Y42QGst3fDdZ-InSydUSQAycVSa5jPYNVYjT9T_MO6QEDJRylD5OHKJ2XhK8iLUazng4tpJtttMyEnkMdTiPl5kcYEAYVwEm0ylAy3JJQug_JP804WPu6jcc9H0/s1600-h/italy.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOm0fkdkyUvDrs7ms5Y42QGst3fDdZ-InSydUSQAycVSa5jPYNVYjT9T_MO6QEDJRylD5OHKJ2XhK8iLUazng4tpJtttMyEnkMdTiPl5kcYEAYVwEm0ylAy3JJQug_JP804WPu6jcc9H0/s320/italy.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5391315841288040498" /></a></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg84stzEt0RHf4bihyphenhyphengtG0O3J49JSbf-rtf8SejNrbL5bIaGaxd8Sp0yhd-PXtBWkgNmw97aos9GehLeEePRNbYIPct5GAv9gLl4bjan4G4ah0QviB7gDy5TOcDP83NZvn0gf08B3XqwM/s1600-h/italy2.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg84stzEt0RHf4bihyphenhyphengtG0O3J49JSbf-rtf8SejNrbL5bIaGaxd8Sp0yhd-PXtBWkgNmw97aos9GehLeEePRNbYIPct5GAv9gLl4bjan4G4ah0QviB7gDy5TOcDP83NZvn0gf08B3XqwM/s320/italy2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5391315845546721410" /></a><br /><br />On Tuesday we took the train to Rome. Martine was there for just 4 more days so we did another whirlwind tour of all the famous sites. Rome is incredible no matter what your beliefs but I think as a Christian (or specifically, a Catholic in Martine’s case), it holds a special significance. Everywhere you look is thousands of years of spritiual and biblical history, its very powerful. We went to the church just outside the Walls to stand at the foot of the Holy Stairs (the stairs Christ walked on during His trial in Jerusalem when he was condemned to die) and I just spoke to Him, asking for guidance and help and strength. I don’t know what I’m doing in Rome, why I was called here, but I know this is where I'm meant to be for a while. Its difficult, this period of uncertainty, so I'm asking for patience as well. I hope to make the most of it for as long as I'm able to stay here.</span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span><br />God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; </span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span>courage to change the things I can;</span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span>and wisdom to know the difference.</span></span></span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span><span><span><span>Living one day at a time;<br />Enjoying one moment at a time;<br />Accepting hardships as the pathway to peace;<br />Taking, as He did, this sinful world<br />as it is, not as I would have it;<br />Trusting that He will make all things right<br />if I surrender to His Will;<br />That I may be reasonably happy in this life<br />and supremely happy with Him<br />Forever in the next.<br />Amen. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">(Reinhold Niebuhr)</span></span></span></span></span><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family:Calibri;font-size:medium;"><p><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-style: italic; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"></span></span></span></span></p></span><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhme9opLV6_xyulgdl6kquE8dL7b8i41gKOoPK4x3i-QReXJKmfK48sSSlSdr0SgfaSahT3V0A9f450sxr3_NKpJ-ZvLgiPQSsU_TP5VMpOyNSxq0b5TfxrjdSKxDgJXGBFGOHcZDZXaME/s320/italy4.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5391301863627587922" /><p></p></div></div></div></div>Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03816075916092263788noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8676245294486544338.post-89665035261178520032009-10-07T00:43:00.001+02:002009-10-17T18:00:24.543+02:00Roma<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">I arrived in Rome from <a href="http://bisousfromparis.blogspot.com/">Paris</a> on Tuesday September 29<sup>th</sup>… I'm here for no other reason than that I love this city, I love the thrill of living in foreign countries and I had the time to do it. I don’t know how long I’ll stay but I’m trying to take advantage of this opportunity and see as much of this beautiful country as I can while I’m here. We'll see how it goes!</p> <!--EndFragment-->Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03816075916092263788noreply@blogger.com1