via Governo Vecchio, a 2012 Vintage

When thinking about where I wanted to study abroad, the immediate answer was “The Netherlands.” My college has a castle there in the quaint town of Well, and each semester, about eighty students take classes there and travel through Europe. This is an incredible opportunity because literally every weekend is spent exploring country after country. Obviously, I put my name on the list and submitted my deposit immediately. But after following through with the impulse to study at The Castle, I wondered what I might be missing by going with the expected. I realized that this might be my only chance to actually live in another country. I have me whole life to travel. I gave my spot up to someone else in favor of an experience that immersed me in one culture rather than one that gives me a taste of many.

I chose Rome. I chose it for its food, wine, Vespas, and language. I wanted to live in a big city where I’d never be at a loss for something to do. But what I forgot to factor in was that Rome is one giant tourist trap. It’s a stop every traveler makes at one point or another, which doesn’t create ideal circumstances for truly living like the locals. A city filled with famous monuments and ancient art, there’s an abundance of photo-ops and group excursions. This is all well and good, but I know that there are places here that are off the beaten path. Places that aren’t plastered on the covers of travel guides.

Just the other day, I found an area just steps from the City Centre that isn’t overrun by tourists. I felt right at home when I stumbled upon via Governo Vecchio, a small side street that trickles off of the ruins of Julius Caesar’s palace (also a cat sanctuary). But what sets Governo apart is what’s in the stores themselves. Vintage store after vintage store line the street, each overflowing with clothes, bags, boots, and scarves from another era. Every one is packed tight with vintage goods, but each has a different feel. While some blast 80s pop-rock, others feature smooth jazz in a quiet ambiance.

If you’ve ever seen a genuine Sienna smile, you’d recognize the expression plastered across my face as I fingered through long pleated skirts and dusted off old fur coats. Vintage stores make shopping a museum experience. I love wondering who might have worn what I’m holding and what their story was. These stores are chock-full of undiscovered mysteries and lost memories.

I didn’t buy anything, but the experience was enough. I tried on a coat that’s now on the “Things I wish I could afford” list and was tempted to splurge on a “Club di Golf” vest, but alas, I left empty handed.

I’ve definitely discovered one of Rome’s little known gems. I’m excited to go back and scavenge through a new display of old clothes and I’m even more excited to keep exploring this city for places even Rick Steves keeps secret. 

Trattoramatized

All I wanted was good meal! Here's a restaurant review I wrote for my Opinion Writing class with more sass than the butter in my meal!

"Eating out in Italy is seldom an experience to be forgotten, but based on my recent experience at Trattoria Archeto 3, I think I need to revaluate. Located on via Ancona 33 near Porta Pia, this place seems to have just barely passed to tourist/local barrier that divides the City Centre from its surrounding areas. The countless framed photographs of Marilyn Monroe and snapshots of Audrey Hepburn from Roman Holiday that cluttered the walls were first indicator that I was setting foot on inauthentic territory.

The place was packed compared to its neighboring watering holes with a whopping total of three guests. Two chattering friends filled the room with noise while the other party of one sat alone behind a Nora Roberts book and an unappetizing plate of pasta.

I should have turned around after being greeted by a woman dawning an oversized, oil stained sweatshirt quite possibly imported from CVS, but instead chose to focus my attention on the relatively warm ambiance, the dim lighting, and the appetizing cornucopia of salami, Sicilian tangerines, fresh cheese, and prosciutto that sat adjacent to a welcoming wine refrigerator in the corner. “Aunt Pina” as she’s called, distributed the menus and then retreated to her stoop by the doorway until we were ready to order.

All things forgivable, I was willing to give the meal itself a fair shot. We ordered a bottle of 2010 Ruffino Chianti at a price double the industry standard. Aunt Pina sloppily grabbed it from the impromptu shelf: the top of the wine refrigerator, flipped my wine glass over – which, by the way, had measurement markings on it – and poured a small amount for me to taste. As Archeto’s website claims, Pina has “una gentilezza che vi farà sentire un po' a casa.” “I do feel at home,” I thought, beginning to swirl the wine around my trattoria-on-a-budget chalice. But before I’d even brought the glass to my lips, Aunt Pina had disappeared, leaving the bottle on the table for us to pour ourselves. Usually, I’m perfectly fine with pouring for the table, but Plotting Pina tricked me into thinking that the 200% price increase might have included a fee for good service. 

A while later, our Primi Piati were delivered: Cacio e Pepe, Amatricana, and Profumo de Mare. While the website claims that the courses embody “tradition and imagination,” imagination was all I saw, and it came in an undesirable helping and a half.

The Cacio e Pepe sat in a bowl made of baked Parmesan. Despite the dish’s immediate appeal, the casing quickly became a soggy mess that made one of Italy’s infamous meals look unappetizing. The flavor was there, but was only mediocre in comparison to authentic ristoranti throughout Rome.

The Profumo de Mare was a sorry excuse for what it claimed to be. The clearly pre-made spaghetti was overcooked and sat like deteriorating worms under a thick layer of melted butter. The seafood – mussels, clams, and shrimp – were decent and actually flavorful, but the pasta itself was unpalatable. The “sauce” comprised of butter and oil couldn’t hold to the un-lively cappelini and I don’t blame it. The result was a plate of empty shells and a dish filled to the brim with bright yellow butter.

But the Amatricana was the Piece de Resistance. We should have resisted. Genuine Amatricana is a vibrant red color with the full-bodied taste of rich tomatoes, smoky flavor, and a hint of chili served with al dente pasta. Trattoria Archeto’s rendition looked like the aftermath of a heavy Indian meal. Mixed in with lame spaghetti from the same batch as the Profumo was a dark brown sauce with hints of ground beef and maybe some onions(?) The flavors were difficult to decipher, but one thing was sure: this was not Amatricana.

After the let down of an ordinary bordering on inedible first course, we counted our losses and asked Aunt Pina for the check. With sixty euro less in our wallets, we couldn’t help but feel run for our money. The meal itself was unforgivable, especially for what was charged, and the 20-euro Chianti was a Sommelier’s nightmare. Archeto puts Italy’s deep roots in food and wine culture to shame with a misleading menu and nonexistent hospitality. If you’re in search of a bona fide Italian meal, you’ll have better luck at the sushi spot across the street." 

Vatican't

Okay, so waking up early to visit the Vatican wasn’t a total success, but it wasn’t a complete failure either. Last night, we compromised, and set our alarms for 10AM, which, for all intensive purposes is the crack of dawn when you’ve gone to bed at 5. Last night, Rome’s nightlife won my heart. We went to a club called Babel and danced alongside Go-Go Girls in the VIP section, which we somehow managed to gain access to. I made some friends and some enemies and eventually fought with an Italian man over a taxi. Don’t worry, I won. After some late night (early morning?) gourmet cooking, I headed to bed for what felt like five minutes.

After dragging myself to the shower, I chugged a four-shot cappuccino that filled in for the four hours of sleep I was missing. Since the Vatican is free on the last Sunday of the month, we expected it to be packed. In true paranoid tourist fashion, I slipped “the pouch” around my neck and under my shirt and filled it with a wad of money and lots of other things I’d rather not surrender to gypsies and pickpockets.

We met up with the boys and headed outta town. As the bus approached Vatican City, we saw a mob of protesters, visitors, and Asian tourist groups swarming the streets of The Holy See. I held my hand tightly over the pouch as we set foot in another county.

After a few too many minutes spent shivering in line outside of Saint Peter’s Basilica, we were let inside. My first words: “Holy Shit.” Apparently all those years in Catholic school taught me nothing, and the next thing I said was “Oh my god.” After a few moments of awe directed toward the ornate carvings and sparkling gold leaf, reality set in, and I realized that I wasn’t all to pleased to be there.

It felt strange that the money spent building the Basilica was acquired through Indulgences. People commissioned its creation to get into heaven, people who are long gone and forgotten. The entire place just screamed “organized religion” in a way that sort of made my stomach hurt. Here was a place filled with tourists, beggars, and clergy alike, most of them with a camera in front of their face. People rushed around on a wild goose chase to either cross the experience off their bucket list or achieve some sort of spiritual enlightenment. To me, the Basilica seemed farther from spiritual than anything. To me, it was a staunch display of the Catholic Church’s wealth and symbol for Christianity’s appeal. It’s difficult to walk into Saint Peter’s Basilica and not say some form of “Holy Shit.” I mean, that’s exactly what it is. Catholics visit the Vatican to feel close to God, but really they’re just getting close to a gorgeous room filled with breathtaking art. There felt nothing spiritual about the place to me, only furthered by the masses of people that wandered in search of whatever they were pursuing.

I left Vatican City without feeling the need to go back. It’s not just that I’m not a Catholic nor a Christian. In fact, I have sincere appreciation for many of the values Catholicism promotes. Rome is filled with beautiful art. Saint Peter’s Basilica just seemed like more of the same, with the added punch of hierarchy and a solid representation of how far one book can go.  

Fight on!

Today, after sleeping till noon and making a cappuccino (I can do that now!), I rounded up my roommates and headed for the Coliseum. We rode the Metro for the first time, which was literally covered in graffiti. Usually, tagging is a big turn off for me, but the outside of the subways were actually pretty incredible. Not a speck of the train’s original paint could be seen as it was entirely encrusted in giant bubble letters and colorful scribbles. A few minutes later, we hopped off the subway and found ourselves in front of the Coliseum.

It cost us twelve euro to enter, a small fee for what we were about to experience. The place was incredible, but we soon realized that we actually knew nothing about its history. Without our iPhones to fall back on, we had to eavesdrop on tours, translate Italian information posters, and recall movie trivia. I’m proud to say that I now have a fairly comprehensive understanding of the Coliseum’s history and significance, and I figured it out on my own!

We arrived at about 3PM and saw the most gorgeous change of scenery as the sun set. By 5PM, the sky was orange and we all thanked ourselves for bringing our jackets. As I wandered around the ruins, piecing together history, I was amazed at the precision of the whole structure. Each arch was identical and the angles of stairs and walkways were so precise. All of this was done without calculators, protractors, or cranes…and I had trouble with Algebra II!

With my fancy camera, I pranced around the home of the Trojans attempting fruitlessly to capture a photograph that had never been taken of the Coliseum before. Here’s my sorry attempt at originality:

Tomorrow, I’ll pretty much fulfill my tourism quota. We’re waking up early (let’s see how that goes) to visit the Vatican, which is free on the last Sunday of the month. As much as I hate being sucked into tourist traps, I feel so lucky that I was able to visit such an important piece of architecture.

Pretentious Pasta

Among many other things, I am a foodie. This characteristic is perhaps one of my most defining features. I have a food blog, I love to cook and bake, I aspire to become a food journalist, and so on. Naturally, when I was researching study abroad programs and found CEA’s class “The Culture of Food and Wine in Italy,” I applied immediately. Despite my immense passion for the subject, it interfered with a literature course I needed to take to graduate from Emerson College. This decision to forgo “Food and Wine” was eating away at me while my roommates recalled their first session in the class. I was at a standstill. Follow my passion or do what’s logical? I had just made up my mind to take summer school at Emerson when I stumbled upon another available lit class that fulfilled my requirement! I rejoiced and enrolled in both classes immediately.

Yesterday, I went to Food & Wine for the first time and am dead set that I couldn’tve made a better decision to switch into the class. The professor, an articulate man with small round glasses scribbled all over the board about the origins of pasta. We learned about the different kinds of wheat, where they’re grown, and how they’re preserved. While others texted on their Italian phones, I wrote down every word the professor said.

Did you know that al dente pasta has a an anima, or “soul?” If you cook it perfectly, a piece of spaghetti should be opaque on the outside, with a white center. In the north, Italians don’t eat pasta. If you were to order it there, your dish would appear mushy, while in the south the pasta looks like it’s jumping up at you! While Marco Polo announced that spaghetti was invented in China, it was actually an Arabic invention first created in Sicily!

We also learned about varietal wines and blends. I swear this guy is a sommelier. He taught us all about how to critique a wine, what terms to use in doing so, and what parts of the tongue to taste differing flavors. We learned about body, astringency, pseudo heat, and a million other pretentious words that I soaked right up.

After two hours of the most interesting lecture I’ve ever experienced, a short Italian woman of about 70 years appeared at the door. She wore glasses attached to her neck and had blue highlights in her salt and pepper hair. Meet Claudia. She is a prominent chef in Italy who speaks no English. During almost all of our class sessions, she will come in and cook for us. Each time, she teaches us about the dish’s origin and significance along with providing a recipe. As she sat at a desk, she babbled to the professor in Italian and he translated for us.

Yesterday, Claudia prepared two dishes native to Lazio. The first was called “Casarecce alla Carrettiera.” It is a medieval dish that used to be wildly popular, but is no longer served in any restaurants. For what reason, I have absolutely no idea. Homemade pasta, combined with sautéed mushrooms and peas, fresh sausage cooked in white wine, cream, butter and oil…it was too delicious. Her execution was flawless and she happily served each and every one of us a heaping plate of her creation. In our journals, we recorded the visual appeal, the aroma, taste, and overall balance and complexity.

But that wasn’t all! While Claudia left to prepare pasta numero due, we tried our newfound sommelier lingo on two delicious white wines. A couple sips of Frascati Superiore from Villa Simone in Lazio were enough to conjure two pages of notes. It was a clear wine in a Bordeaux bottle with faint legs and a straw yellow color. The flavors were fruity with a hint of banana and floral notes. This was followed by another Malvasia from Fontana Candida, a renowned vineyard in Italy. The flavor was also fruity, but this time tasted like apple. It was a luminous wine that attacked the palate, disappeared, and then returned with a long nutty finish. See? I told you I’d get pretentious.

Our class time had officially finished, but no one was packing their bags when Claudia came back with a bowl piled high with Rigatona alla’amatriciana. Though it looked like a traditional red sauce, the flavors were much more complex. She used a slightly smoked, sweet pancetta with tomatoes and chilies. The smoky flavors were strong, and we all stuck around after class to write down our notes.

I’ll probably never take another class where drinking wine is encouraged and I’m served a gourmet lunch by a famous chef. I’m so happy with my decision to take a chance on this class and I sincerely look forward to what next week brings. Get ready Pantry Raid, shit’s about to get real.

Tuskitty

This past weekend, all sixty-some study abroader’s from my program hopped on a giant double decker bus and headed to Tuscany. This was the first planned outting that CEA organized for us: a trip to San Gimignano and Firenze. About thirty minutes in, one of the girls (who shall remain nameless) decided that she needed to relieve her bladder of its Thirsty Thursday contents. The chaperone begged her to wait, but she stood firm that either the bus stop, or it become her public bathroom for all of our olfactory entertainment. We made our “halfway” stop, thirty minutes in.

The gas station was like the most sought after exotic food shop in Beverly Hills. Complete with a fresh orange juice machine, a packaged pasta shelf, fine wine selection, and cappuccino counter, this place took snack breaks seriously. After snagging a cornetto (croissant), I headed back to my second level nest on the coach. An hour or two later, I awoke to the breathtaking views of Tuscany’s infamous rolling hills. Even in their offseason, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Sheep grazed in the fields and the hills were illuminated with the vibrant color of my namesake.

These conditions, however quintessential they might be, are not so ideal for those of us who enjoyed fermented beverages the night prior. After fully grasping the reality of my surroundings, I heard a loud gagging noise behind me. Miss Pees-Her-Pants was holding a plastic bag over her face, fully ready to “ha fatto i gattini,” (Italian slang for throwing up, directly translated to “to have kittens”). I’m a big fan of kittens, but I’m also puke’s biggest enemy. I buried my face in Kelsi’s shoulder and made her tell me when it was over. Pees-A-Lot didn’t end up puking, but she was first to sprint off the bus when we arrived in San Gimignano.  

San Gimignano is a small medieval town near Siena. It’s known for it’s longstanding towers and white wine. Though it may be a tourist attraction, this place was completely deserted when we arrived. Our group was let loose to explore, and that we did! The views were remarkable and the ancient architecture was almost unbelievable. We ate lunch at an authentic Tuscan café and drank the best Chianti I’ve had in Italy thus far. When our time was up, everyone got back on the bus and headed to Florence!

After checking in at Hotel California (were they trying to make me feel at home?), my roommates and I ventured out into the city before dinner. We were taken aback by the architecture that showed stark differences from the Roman structures we’re accustomed to. After ogling at the churches and drooling over gelato, we headed back to the hotel for our program dinner. First course: Taglietelle alla Bolognese. We were already stuffed when the second course, a mystery meat kebab was served. We tasted politely, and then said “no thanks.” Kelsi, who is a vegetarian with an open mind to Italian cuisine, was set on eating the vegetables from the kebab after tasting the meat. “Eat the potato on the end!” she told Daniella, a strict vegetarian. We all looked down at our “potatoes,” poked them with our forks a few times, and decided that it was in fact beef fat. “It’s potato, I promise! Someone try it! PLEASE!” Kelsi grew more and more desperate for a companion, but eventually had to come to terms with her gastronomic faux pas.

After dinner, we watched an American movie in Italian on MTV for way too long and then suited up to go out. Our first stop was a bar. Whisky came first and then the blowjob shots. (I apologize in advance to my family members reading this) Bailey’s, Kaluah, and whipped cream were piled high in a shot glass. The goal was to drink the shot, whipped cream and all, hands free. With our male spectators egging us on, we threw the shots back. I’d like to say my execution was flawless, but I was a blowjob shot virgin. After my second try – on the house this time – I had made some serious improvements.

After dancing, taking pictures, and spending some quality time with the 50 year olds who joined our group (we called them Mom and Dad), we all left for Space, a club nearby. It was my first Italian club experience, and it was definitely memorable. I can’t say so much for someone else I know.

The night ended with a scuffle with the bartended that went a little something like this:

Me: Can I please have some water?

Bartender: Three euro.

Me: I don’t have three euro. I just want tap water.

Bartender. It’s three euro.

Me: Look, if you don’t give me some water right now, my friend is going to puke all over your club’s floor.

Bartender: Eh.

Me: FINE! Well it looks like you’re gonna be the one cleaning it up.

After which, I hijacked a trashcan that would soon have my friend’s face buried in it. A broken camera, a gnarly bruise, and an hour walk that should have taken fifteen minutes later, we got her back to the hotel and convinced her to get in bed.

The next morning, we were all expected to be ready for a tour of Florence at 9AM. The trip organizers should have known better than to release 60 20-somethings into a city with a bustling nightlife and maintain such an expectation. Our tour guide, who was extremely passionate about Florentine History, was met with hung over students and blank faces. As we sat before The David in the first art school in Europe, I couldn’t help but doze off while others tried to hold back their “kittens.” 

As we walked through the city, most of us gained our bearings and were able to appreciate the beauty of our surroundings.

Later, I ate a sandwich with prosciutto e melanzane and walked through the famous leather market, making sure not to make eye contact with any of the vendors. I wandered around Florence and ate the best gelato I’ve had since I’ve been here.

My now cameraless, bruised friend brought us to the pizzeria where the cast of Jersey Shore visited. As she was trying to find it, she asked locals “Dove Jersey Shore?” After a few “Vaffanculo”s, someone pointed us in the right direction. It smelled and looked like a New York Pizzeria!

A few hours of sightseeing later, it was time to go home. I got a front row seat on the bus and was lulled to sleep by the breathtaking view of sunset in Tuscany. 

Single White Female

As a female living in a big city, what’s the number one rule? Don’t walk alone at night. As a female living in a big city, what did I do? Naturally, I walked alone at night. A couple days ago, I decided it was time to stop repeatedly abusing my body by consuming copious amounts of pasta and pizza by hitting the gym. The John Cabot University gym is located in the dorms, which are approximately a fifteen-minute walk from the building where I have class. After leaving Opinion Writing, I sauntered on over to the gym. It was dusk. Students were frolicking through the tiny streets speaking in English and being merry.

After a sub par work out in John Cabot’s sorry excuse for an excursive facility, I packed up to head home. I asked a student where the nearest 62 bus was and then exited the campus onto a busy street. “Turn right on the first uphill road,” the student had told me. As I looked up at this menacing ally that lacked illumination and any trace of human life, I hesitated, and then continued. My pace quickened and I checked behind me every few moments.

As soon as I turned up the dark street, so did a man about three times my size. The itsy bitsy optimistic part of me thought “he’s probably looking for the 62 too!” while the rest of me thought “Oh shit oh shit oh shit.” Turns out that part of me was right. As I power walked, sandwiched between parked cars are vacant buildings, I heard him yelling. I turned my head, only to realize that he was simultaneously charging at me. My panic button turned on. In my running shoes, I sprinted up that hill like the track star I used to be. As I ran I thought, “Wait, did I drop something? No? SHIT!” My lapse of concentration combined with the uneven cobblestone caused my ankle to twist. It was like a nightmare. I sprinted for about fifteen minutes with a limp, a backpack, and a purse, all the way to the bus stop. Out of breathe and scared out of my mind, I decided I’d better eat less pasta or find a closer gym.

baBUShka

Somewhere around my Sophomore year of high school, I developed an intense craving for independence. I channeled this yearning by asking my parents if I could ride the bus. When they said no – for very logical reasons as they apply to a fourteen year old who is unusually short and has had little to no independent experience in any setting outside the mall – I used my strong moral code for good. I’d tell them “Adam’s aunt’s in town and is picking us up” (her short stay would prevent them from ever actually meeting) or “we’re just staying at Molly’s.” And promptly thereafter, I’d board the Los Angeles city bus, packed with plenty of people I’m sure my parents would have preferred me not to take company with. My friends with more lenient parents laughed at my rebellion. I’d opt for the bus even if a ride were offered to me. I had experienced oppression my whole life (no red nail polish, no bra, no PG-13 movies) and there was no way in hell I was going to let this injustice persevere.

Once I got my license and a car, my bus riding days were over…or so I thought. In Boston, I ride the T. It’s reliable, runs on a track, and I can usually find a seat. I love the subway and my parents know I’m riding it. But in Rome, subways are far and few between. Since I live in the “Eternal City,” history is layered deep into the ground. Digging gigantic tunnels through these ancient artifacts seems ridiculous, so the subway system here skirts around any and all important destinations. Hence, we have the bus system.

Here are a few ground rules:

1. Bus drivers are no different from anyone else on the road. The sheer size of the vehicle never prevents a driver from running a red light or pushing into a nonexistent lane.

2. Nobody pays for the bus. Ticket booths exist, and there is a 50-euro fine if you are found without a ticket, but Romans always take that risk.

3. There are two kinds of seats. On one side of the bus is a small row of 2 seats. On the other are a few “American seats” as I call them. A.K.A. they’re for fat people. One seat on this side is double the size of two regulars. Two people often sit in the American seat, further perpetuating the lack of personal space characteristic of most Italians.

4. You must always offer your seat to someone older than you.

4a. There are LOTS of old people.

4b. You never sit down.

If there’s one thing I’ve noticed about the buses, it’s that there is an abundance of Italian elderlies that ride it on the daily. Just yesterday, I stood next to a seated Italian man of many years. He held a handkerchief in his hand, which he used to rub fluid from is face every few moments. He mumbled something to me in Italian under his breath. I almost smiled back, until the woman sitting next to him looked displeased by his comment. My guess is “What, you’ve never ridden the bus before?” to which I should have replied, “Excuse me but I’m a veteran of the bus system and you should really wipe that stuff off your face now.” I stayed quiet. When he got up, I took his seat.

Promptly, two Italian women in their 50s, both wearing matching purple jackets boarded the bus. I gave them my American seat. They protested, but I insisted. One of the women, who looks like an exact Italian replica of my Aunt Laurie, asked me something in Italian. “Parle Inglese?” I asked. She did not, but through my broken Italian, her attempted English, and our expressive hand gestures, I realized that she was asking me for directions to Piazza Venetzia. “Doesn’t she realize I’m American?” I was flattered that Italian Aunt Laurie requested my assistance and hence did my best to assure her that she was in fact on the right bus. She said “thank you” and I said “prego.” She smiled, touched my hand, and chattered away to her purple-clad friend.

To my left, I looked down to find a small woman at about waist high. In her gigantic fur coat (she was too cute for me to get upset), she looked up at me with her big eyes and droopy nose. As the outer edges of her eyes angled down, her mouth formed a warm smile, pushing her deep wrinkles up her face. The scarf wrapped around her head sealed the deal. But before I could say “please take me home and teach me how to cook delicious Italian food,” she was gone.

I got off at my stop, and soon arrived at my University, filled with English speaking students who don’t have liquid-y faces, Laurie tendencies, or babushka scarves. You’d think I’d like it better there, but I much prefer the bus. Maybe it’s that when I’m there I feel like a local. Maybe I like old people. Or maybe I’m just a bus rider at heart. Just don’t tell Mom and Dad. 

Peanut Butter Jelly Time

One of the perks of my new lifestyle is the lack of corporate presence in Rome. Produce is purchased from stands on the corner and each Tabacchi (convenience store) is individually owned. Shopping seems like more of a human experience, but with that comes ever-present human suffering. Because businesses are small and family owned, it can be difficult to find what might seem to be a simple item. Exhibit A: Flash cards. I’m a visual learner, and the textile, interactive appeal of flash cards really helps me with memorization. Seeing as I currently lack the ability to communicate with anyone and everyone native to this place, flash cards would seem a worthwhile investment.

I asked my Italian professor how to say “flash cards” in Italian. No such word exists. And apparently for good reason. After scouring the shelves of every bookstore, stationary shop, Tabacchi, and China Store (more on that later), I’ve accepted that I’ll have to discover a new way of learning. Flash Cards aren’t a thing.

The China Store is one that my program’s staff pointed out to us in broken English. It literally is a store run by Chinese people. Political incorrectness aside, the China Store is great for most of the random items one might need in Rome.

But still, I was beginning to miss the simple luxury of having the ability to access any food items I wanted at any time I wanted to.

Today, my roommates and I decided to follow the advice of our advisors. They informed us of an IKEA, where we could buy bowls for the apartment (apparently they weren’t included in the “equipped” kitchen). It happened to be located in a shopping center, so we took the bus to the outskirts of Rome. The setting changed from cramped, vibrant buildings to large apartments scattered amongst a wasteland. At the end of the line, we hopped off, along with all of the other eager shoppers. Entering the mall, our eyes opened wide. I locked in on a Quicksilver, and then a food court, and next thing I knew I was standing in the doorway of a massive super store a la WalMart. None of these things usually excite me in the least, but I felt a strange sense of relief and comfort in my familiar surroundings. This gigantic oasis of consumer goods brought a smile to my face, and we immediately grabbed a cart. I took care of the essentials (minus the flash cards), but not without the expected confusion that comes with every activity here in Rome.

First on my list was fresh turkey, since the store near me sells three slices for 4 euro. At the deli counter, I said, “Vorre mezza chilo di turchia.” Proud of my bilingual accomplishment, I didn’t pay any attention as the woman sliced me nine euro’s worth of turkey. Looks like I’ll be opting for a quarter pound next time. Trouble is, I only know how to say half. I wonder if “un mezza di mezza” would translate appropriately! Looks like it’s turkey for lunch and turkey for dinner this week!

Peanut butter: a staple in my diet. I’ll eat it on toast, bananas, sandwiches, a spoon…the list goes on. As Matt advised before my departure, peanut butter is not something Europeans often eat. But Wallah Martey was sure to have it! I searched and searched and eventually asked “Vorre burro di arachidi,” which my roommate had conveniently written down on a postit note earlier. After correcting my pronunciation, the man proceeded to babble off directions at superspeed. Each time I ask for directions, I forget that the response will mean absolutely nothing to me. He passed me off to another clerk, who then turned me over to another. Eventually, I got my hands on the last jar of peanut butter. It was Skippy brand and it was refrigerated. Interesting choice, Wallah Martey, interesting choice.

Among the frozen peas and bulk raw chicken were some other great findings. Namely, Bonne Maman, a French jam that costs about seven bucks in the states. It’s my favorite, pretentious or not. Smuckers just isn’t my jive! In Italy though, Bonne Maman only costs two euro for double the portion in the states! I am a happy girl. Since the fruit types are in Italian, I had to reference the other jams with pictures on them to learn the word for blueberry. Lo and behold, my PB&Js will be fancy and cheap!

One euro wine was too good to be true. We drank our first twist off bottle tonight, and it was worse than three-buck chuck. Reguardless, it was accompanied by fresh gnocchi with pesto and sautéed mushrooms and garlic. I think I’m learning how to cook for myself on the daily, and have finally stocked up on the necessities I need to not repeat this morning’s breakfast of cherry tomatoes and a Baby Bell cheese.

Tomorrow’s my first day of classes! Until now, I’ve been living the good life, but it’s time to hit the books. Where am I supposed to buy those again?

This is Impastable!

A few differences in the dining out experience:

1. Nobody tips.
2. The bathrooms are coed
3. Water is far from free
4. Meals are 80 courses
5. Getting the check takes hours

Also, I can't understand anything on the menu.

Losing Rick, and Other Obstacles

After five days in Rome, it’s beginning to set in that I actually live here. Just yesterday, my roommates and I ventured to our local supermarket to stock up on food to balance our thus far carbohydrate rich diet. Not only are Italian supermarkets filled with the nauseating odor of dog food (caused by the myriad hanging cured pig thighs), but they also differ very little from the menus of restaurants, bars, cafes, and pizzerias. Bread, pasta, frozen pizza, crackers, and cookies were among the most affordable items in the aisles. Having never not had a meal plan before, combined with a complete inability to understand the Italian language, the adventure heeded scarce results.

In an attempt to recreate my favorite salad, I invested in rucola (arugz), lemons, and goat cheese. At the dairy counter, I asked for goat cheese. The man obviously spoke no English. Our conversation went a little something like this:

Me: Vorrei goat cheese?

Man: Che?

Me: Uh. Goatttt cheese? Formagio.

Man: (points to all cheeses) Formagio!

Me: (contemplates implementing a game of charades. Begins to bring fingers to forehead to create horns) Chevre?

Kelsi: That’s French.

I found goat cheese in the prepackaged aisle. It wasn’t cheap, but I figured it would last a while and I could eat in on toast for breakfast too. The next morning, I tried to spread it on toast made in the oven, only to find that it tastes like Feta Cheese. If there’s one cheese I hate, it’s feta. Cool.

Shopping for food is extremely difficult. Everything comes in miniscule portions and deli meat is hard to come by. The eggs aren’t refrigerated, which shouldn’t freak me out, but does. Sugar only comes in cubes and three slices of turkey costs 3 euro. Making three meals a day for myself is already a shock enough, but I’m in the food capital of the world, so I’ll figure it out.

For the past few days, tour guides and professors have escorted us around. They’ve shown us Rome on fast forward and my feet are paying the price. It’s amazing to me that life can proceed normally in the midst of ancient ruins. Bars are across the street from famous monuments and everything seems to have historical importance. Rick Steves’ son led us around Trastevere the other night. We saw the Pantheon and warded off pickpocketers attracted to our huge group of Americans, but we mostly drank way too much wine at the end-of-tour dinner. That night, we went to an American bar called the Drunken Ship. It was fine for the first night on the town, but I’m not here to drink pitchers and play flip cup. Needles to say, we hopped off board to catch the last bus home.

Last night was the first one on our own in the city. Some other friends from my program came over to drink wine and limoncello. Then we barhopped until each one closed down. 1 euro peach vodka shots came first. Then onto pineapple strawberry shots, cider, and a final coconut shot, all provided to our group by a student from John Cabot’s orientation staff. What a welcome! And I was the one drinking the least!

In Rome, most buses stop running at midnight. A few of them become “night buses,” but the one we usually take home from downtown is not one. After the last bar closed, we hopped on a night bus and got off at the central bus station. While trying to figure out which one to take next, our new friend Rick, who had arrived just yesterday due to passport confusion, decided to attempt theft in the form of the night bus N13. He sat in the driver’s seat and revved the engine until the very upset driver grabbed him by the scruff and threw him off. Right about then was when we realized that N13 was in fact the bus we needed to take home. Rick snuck back on and sat separate from us with his head down. Alcohol induced sleep followed. After some time, we saw our stop and got off. As we put our coats back on, we saw the doors closing and the bus drive away…with Rick still on it.

Because he arrived late, Rick missed the entire orientation. Consequently, he had no keys, international phone, identification, or general knowledge of his surroundings on his first night in Rome. We were pretty sure that he didn’t even know his address. Logically, we assumed that he’d get off at the next stop and walk toward us. But the next stop was about a mile away. We looked for him, and ended up getting lost ourselves. When we eventually made it back, we were still Rickless. Nervously laughing, we were practically hysterical and simultaneously miserable.

This morning, Rick returned home. I’ve yet to hear the details of his voyage, but we’re all relieved that he’s alive. We went to bed with only one thought: Roma has him now.

Everyone says that life slows down in Italy. So far, I’ve only experienced the opposite. It’s difficult to keep in mind that I’m not only here for a week. We’ve been trying to absorb everything as quickly as possible. Sightseeing and photo snapping are lovely, but I’m very much looking forward to becoming a real local here. Now that we’ve been oriented on high speed, I think we’ll be able to blend in a little more and appreciate the culture wholeheartedly.

Going about the daily motions of life seems peculiar when you’re constantly surrounded by intricate architecture constructed way too many years ago for anything to still be standing. It only seems appropriate that we be screaming with excitement the entire time. Errands aren’t so much a chore here, but a venture into the past. I’m amazed with my new home. I may not be a history buff, but this place is spectacular.

The Ciao-er

1. Shampoo & Conditioner bottles are tiny
2. Hot water is a luxury
3. The bath mat depicts cartoon mushrooms, perhaps idealizing what's actually infesting it?
4. Towels are particularly small
5. The spigot is out to get you

Getting aCUSTOM’d

Its night two in this ridiculous Roman apartment I live in, and I couldn’t be happier. I landed in Rome yesterday. I think it was yesterday…I’m too jet lagged for words. What day is it? My flight from London to Rome was short, but that didn’t stop me from taking advantage of the free wine! I think I might move to Europe, just for the free in-flight booze. HeineCAN, thank you very much. I sat next to a charming man from somewhere in the English countryside. He works for a plastic bottle manufacturing company (snore) and has lived all over the world for his job. Ralph told me all about the places he’s lived and when I mentioned my desire to visit Milan, he told me that he has an apartment there! Tour guide number one: check! The plane was filled with chattery Americans who were all going on the same study abroad program. Judgmental me hated them and their obnoxious “I just met you” pleas for social acceptance. Ralph and I however, discussed art, literature, and travel over wine. Suckers.

After we landed, I got in line for Passport Control. There were two lines; one of mostly annoying students, and mine. Theirs was moving quickly, so I said to the girl in front of me, “Looks like we chose the wrong line, huh?” Oh, small talk! We started chatting. “Are you studying abroad?” “Yeah, you?” “Yep. With what program?” “Uh…it’s called CEA.” “Wait me too! What’s your name? I’m Sienna.” “Wait, I think we’re roommates.” And just like that, Noel and I crossed over to the dark side and started babbling away all the way back to our apartment.

In an oversized van, seven girls were driven by one crazy Italian driver to our apartments. “He doesn’t speak English, and he doesn’t know who lives where, so pay attention,” advised the CEA representative who met us at the terminal. The roads were insane. In Rome, there are no lanes. It’s a complete free for all that somehow results in seamless movement and minimal honking. Is turning left on a red light legal here? I didn’t think so.

We made it to the flat with low expectations. The front door was the first indication that we were in for a treat. It’s about 10 feet tall. The key to our front door looks like this:

The apartment is one giant maze. With high, rounded ceilings and yellow walls, it feels truly European. It’s decorations are sparse, but include a glass coffee table filled with wine corks (we’re planning to fill it up), antique wooden armoires (goodbye dorm closets), and scientific drawings of plants and flowers interspersed throughout. 

Even without my posters and photos up yet, I already feel at home. Every morning, I’ll wake up to this view of a courtyard between four apartment buildings. This is the life.

Last night, my six roommates and I field tripped downstairs to the Tabacchi on our corner. It’s technically a “tobacco store,” but is also a bar, coffee shop, liquor store, and postage vendor. Looks like I won’t need to leave my block! We bought three bottles of what we thought was cheap wine. Four Euros seemed pretty affordable, until we found out later that wine goes for 1 euro some places! We added our corks to the table, made some unintentionally al dente pasta, and got to know each other until the jet lag took over.

I woke up at the crack of dawn today (7A.M.) and wandered around the maze that is my home in awe of my surroundings. Natural light flooded through the windows and onto our patio. I opened the window in the living room to the “pa-pa-pa-pa” of Vespas and a view of my neighborhood. I showered up under the violent spigot in our tiny tub, trying to make the most of the toiletries I brought from home. The towels provided are tiny, and for someone with a lot of hair to dry, this is no good. Needless to say, I looked like a truffula tree. 

Orientation began with nutella filled croissants and awkward mingling with 30-some students. Then we were sent to our first Italian course: SOS Italian where I learned enough to get by (as long as I have the vocab sheets in front of my face wherever I go). Let the flash card search begin! Mario, our instructor, says that there is no word in Italian for Flash Cards. Communication barrier, let the games begin.

During our two-hour lunch break, my roommates and a few other people from our program went for pizza and beer. It took all of 20 minutes for the woman behind the counter to understand what I wanted. The result was a cheesy mess, folded in half, and wrapped in paper.

Because my armoire only came equipped with seven hangers and I brought all 500 dresses I own, I needed to find some more. We wandered around Rome for about an hour before realizing we were perfectly lost and couldn’t remember how to say it in Italian. “Scusi, dove via Nomentana?” I asked time and time again. Each plea was answered either with a frown and no response or a lengthy description that no one understood. We finally made it back, hangerless and exhausted.

After wave two of jet lag hit hard with a 2-hour nap, we dragged ourselves out of bed and went out for dinner. We knew we made it to a good spot when there wasn’t a single American to be found in the restaurant. I’m a big fan of Spaghetti Carbonara, a dish made with eggs, cream, and pancetta. In the US, it’s usually made with cream sauce, but I knew I’d get the authentic treatment here. It was outrageous, and accompanied by red wine, obviously. I couldn’t finish the whole thing, and can’t imagine how Italians eat four course meals on the daily! Carbonara’s made with eggs, so I’ve decided that my leftovers will be a suitable breakfast tomorrow morning! Maybe a little Chianti too?

Things I Noticed During My Brief Stay in London

1. It's foggy

2. People walk on the wrong side of the path

     2a. I bump into everyone

3. Toilet paper comes out in individual squares

4. Avocados are inedible

5. Everything is indelible. 

6. People drink beer in the morning

Sleepless in Seat

It doesn’t quite have the same punch as Sleepless in Seattle, but I’m not in Seattle, so deal.

When I checked in for my flight, I was practically beaming. Eric, the lovely wannabe British man behind the British Airways counter ate it right up and somehow bumped my status up to “World Traveler Plus.” “You’ll get some extra legroom. And by the way, the foods better out here than past security.” Thanks Eric! I’m pretty sure Eric was quitting that day, because this seat is prime real estate that doesn’t come cheap. I’ve got noise cancelling headphones, an extensive repertoire of movies to choose from, free wine and beer, a seat with a foot rest and lumbar support, and a meal that economy flyers would beg to get their hands on. For dinner, I was served “Meax mustard marinated fillet of beef with Madeira wine jus, glazed root vegetables and potatoes fondant.” Um, excuse me? They ran out of the “Organic chicken tikka masala with basmati rice, dal and toasted Nan bread,” and I overheard a steward say, “Wey can getch yew the economy chikin, but reeaaaalllly, itsh shit.” These people are just so pleasant. An old woman sitting near me faintly asked, “Does the beef have nuts in it?” “Yehh awrayt miss thank yew.” “Are there nuts?” she asked a little louder. “Grayt, thank you,” he grinned. If these two English speakers can’t communicate, I can only guess what Rome will be like!

Dinner was pretty foul, but at least it wasn’t economy chicken! After my repast, I thought I’d knock out for the rest of the flight. Nope! After proudly letting the polite-to-a-fault attendant know that I didn’t want chicken and wasn’t allergic to nuts, I concocted the perfect cocktail to lull me to sleep: wine and Benadryl. The flight attendant asked me if I was old enough to drink. “In which country?” I asked, trying to stealthily hide my book entitled, “The Bedwetter.” When my neighbor didn’t followed suit, the stewardess replied, “Awrayt, sew it’ll just bey foh youh alcoholic friend then” and passed over the good stuff. My neighbor, for the record, is also studying abroad in Italy. So far I've learned that:

            1. She doesn’t like wine

            2. Her boyfriend is having a mid-life crisis

            3. She thinks Rome is disgusting

            4. Her family goes out to dinner for every meal

            5. And the Benadryl worked for her

She’s nice enough, but 10 hours of sitting next to someone doesn’t exactly provide the best habitat for wholehearted appreciation. I’ve learned that there’s no polite way to get someone to stop talking to you on a plane. Here’s my guide:

1. Pretend to fall asleep

2. Stop responding to questions

3. Speak in tongues

4. Tell them you don’t speak English anymore

I thought I’d be dozing in no time, but that would be too easy. The cocktail worked. I became woozy and my eyelids grew heavy. It hurt to look at light and I was tired. Perhaps if a more horizontal structure were presented to me, I might find myself sleeping instead not blogging. For the past hours, I’ve contorted my body in a number of ways, as any traveler has done with frustration time and time again. But with each position, something was poking my leg or my arm or I was invading the personal space of those around me. When I’ve tried sitting up, I just feel like an idiot. How do people do it? (Lumbar support or not) Maybe I’m just not hardwired like the rest, but vertical shut-eye isn’t a skill I’ll be adding to my resume. And hence, I am now delusional and tipsy and still exhausted.

“Maybe if I pee, I’ll be able to fall asleep,” I thought, and proceeded to stumble down the aisle like the drugged fool I am. Why is that no matter how smoothly a flight is going, violent turbulence hits the moment you flick the “Occupied” switch and get your pants down? I was thrashed side-to-side and lost all hope of a relatively sanitary lavatory experience. Now covered in germs and still awake, I irritatedly wonder why World Traveler Plus flyers aren’t provided with adult diapers. Like, have some decency!

It’s almost 7AM in Rome now, which means that if I’m gonna do this right, I won’t be sleeping until I get settled in my apartment. I’m hoping the Benadryl wears off soon and I can become a normal human being again. Oh, and it’d be nice if my hands stopped shaking too. 

Dear Diary,

All of my diaries have been short lived. No matter how b’dazzled or fuzzy my journals were, I just couldn’t wrap my head around the intro “Dear Diary.” “Who the heck is this enigmatic “diary” and are they really reading my heartfelt letters of childhood strife and playground woes?” I wondered, picking my nose. I decided not, and hence wasted pages upon pages of immaculate lined paper.

In an attempt to preserve a tree or two (who am I kidding? This is entirely self indulgent),  I’ve created this blog to chronicle the likely hilarious encounters I’ll experience in the next five months. Who is “diary?” Thanks to the Internet, it’s you!

It’s 2AM the day before my departure. I’ve spent the last twelve hours practicing geometry and working out my arm muscles. That is, I’ve been packing and re-packing clothes, photos, a strange plethora of socks, and other probably unnecessary tchotchkes into 2 suitcases that I probably couldn’t lift if I tried.

Here’s a list of things I probably don’t need but am bringing anyway:

            1. 3 bottles of perfume

            2. My Cheetah Coat

            3. Every single camera I own

            4. Stuffed animals (don’t judge)

            5. Like, 30 pairs of socks

            6. The Dez…I mean, what?

The Dez, for those of you who are unaware, is my labradoodle. She’s ridiculous and I’m actually convinced that she’s her own species of creature. I’ve successfully quarantined The Dez (Desi, if you’re not into the whole brevity thing) into my room. Whether she likes it or not, we’re snuggling tonight. And damnit, if I can’t sleep, neither should she!

Tomorrow, I say goodbye to Smart Phone capabilities, reliable Internet access, and the capability to understand anything anyone says, ever. Tomorrow at 4PM, I head to Rome. Ahead of me I have five months of legal drinking and way too much pizza. I know it’ll be a lot different from Boston, but I’ve said “Ciao” to my loved ones and am off on a ridiculously exciting journey. I promise I’ll keep you (diary) laughing (under your breath with jealousy) and smiling (with bitter disdain). But more importantly, I promise I won’t kill my roommate. And if I do, I won’t blog about it.