Inevitably, if you go abroad, there will come a time about three months into your adventure where you realise that you never want to wear a single thing you brought with you ever again. There will come a time when even the sight of these most hated garments will drag up the moments you want to forget- the grey sweater you wore the time you wandered around Paris at the ass crack of dawn desperately trying to find the airport bus station, the flannel slippers you wore every single day for six weeks as you froze your ass off in your unheated apartment, the checkered scarf that permanently smells of old croissants from the time you used it to steal from the hostel's free breakfast spread because you couldn't afford to feed yourself and go to Rome at the same time.
In case you didn't notice, I'm not exactly talking about you anymore.
In addition to the above, there is one article of mine that I had extraordinary mixed feelings about: the once-attractive steve madden boots I brought with me.
The boots. Please ignore my I'm-squinting-because-I-forgot-my-sunglasses expression.
These boots have walked in America, Canada, Ireland, Italy, France, and Germany. The miles on these things rivals those acquired on my brooks sneakers the fall I did varsity cross country. But unlike my brookes, which were made for high mileage, these boots were not. They are in a sad sorry state now. When it rains, they leak the second I put my foot down on damp cobblestone. The five hour Cinqueterre hike ruined the zippers. The cracks running through the leather these days rival the San Andreas fault line.
It is a bad, bad situation my friends. I seriously doubt these boots will be making it into the States again.
But, even though I have forty plus pairs of shoes back home waiting for me, and I've spent more than I'm willing to admit to on shoes in Europe, a part of me is insistent on not throwing the boots out. Even though Kara, after seeing me wrap my feet in plastic bags to avoid the insta-flood that now happens every time I wear them in the rain, vowed to throw them out for me if I can't bring myself to do it. These boots have never failed me, and what have I done for them in return? I walked and walked and walked all over them until they were crippled.
As the saying goes, all good things must come to an end, but I always thought this applied to more monumental things in life. Not the death of my favourite pair of shoes. Take it from me- if you plan on globetrotting, make sure you're trotting in something that'll last you, because even if the thought of putting on that stretched out and mangled black cardigan one more time makes you want to cry, you're not getting anywhere fast in those zebra-print flats that seemed like a good idea three months ago.
For those of you who aren't fans, the title of this post is a reference is a Brazilian Girls song that was stuck in my head the entire time I was in Berlin, and really kind of goes to show how little I actually knew of Germany before heading over there.
Berlin was probably the most spontaneous random thing I ever booked. One day while Kara and I were browsing cheap flights at 2 in the morning in February, we found a flight headed to Berlin that was cheap (it is impossible to get to Berlin from Florence for under 200 euro) and we booked it immediately. It was the sort of trip you booked so far in advanced that, once the Easter/Birthday hysteria was over I suddenly remembered that I had to leave to the country.
So I did.
Now, even though I said that I didn't know a lot about Germany before I left, I was referring to the personality of Germany. I had an idea of what the people and culture of Italy would be like, and the same went for France, but Germany? Not so much. I am well acquainted with the history of Germany, especially of Berlin itself, but I can't say knowing that history was really that assuring. It also didn't help that the only things I could say in German was 'do you speak English' and 'thank you'.
As it turned out, I didn't need to worry at all. The Germans are, next to the Irish, the friendliest Europeans I've met. Though this might have something to do with the fact that living in a country where I'm essentially illiterate for the past three months is finally getting to me.
Anyway, upon arriving in Berlin, Kara and I soon realized that we weren't in Kansas anymore. Unlike Florence, where 400+ year old buildings are the norm, few things in Berlin looked older than 20, and those that were older had the mark of the city's hardships. Like, I'm talking bullet holes in the side of museum walls. It was insane.
Kara and I were staying in east Berlin (ie, former communist Berlin) in the shadow of this communist landmark. It's the tv tower, but the locals had dubbed it the death star. Also, in the sunlight, a cross shines on the metal of the death star which the people have called 'the pope's revenge' since the communists also took down all the crosses from the churches at around the same time. Karma's a bitch, isn't it?
See how the stone below the copper dome is sort of blackened? That's smoke damage from when the original dome was bombed during WWII. They couldn't clean the smoke from the stone because it would damage the building.
A re-creation of Check Point Charlie.
The Berlin Wall, or part of it at least. There were actually two walls, with mines and barbed wire and snipers in the 'death strip' between them.
This is a parking lot, but not just any parking lot. This is the location of Hitler's Bunker, where he lived the last few months of his life and where he killed himself. There's no marker of the site except for a little board near the side of the road- the German government didn't want neo-nazis making pilgrimages to the area. But they do anyway. Creepy.
The Brandenburg Gate. It used to be a war monument, but now they saw it's a monument of peace. It's also on the back of the German minted five cent pieces!
Part of the East Side Gallery- a free standing art gallery painted on the Berlin wall. The murals started as a spontaneous art movement in 1989 and a kilometre portion of the wall has been preserved of them.
The second day we were in Berlin, we went to the zoo because Berlin is supposed to have one of the best zoos in Europe, and because those of you who know me well know I will not pass up the zoo, ever. Luckily, Kara was a good sport about it, and we both had way too much fun there!
Tiger!! My favourite.
This is an Arabian sand cat, and is the cutest kitty I have ever seen. Except for mine obviously.
Wolves, my other favourite.
I dropped at least 25 euro in this chocolate store. This is a chocolate re-creation of a bombed church in the city.
The church in non-chocolate form.
The third day, we went on a tour of the Sachsenhausen concentration camp. I have pictures of the camp uploaded to facebook, but I didn't feel like explaining them here. If you're curious, message me about them or ask me when I'm back in New York. I felt like this quote said enough on the topic.
The fourth day (coincidentally, the coldest day, meaning the day that I refused to romp around outdoors) we went to a few of the Germans musuems. We were only going to go to one, but the 5 euro entrance fee at all of them was jaw-droppingly amazing, and it kept us out of the cold. These are the gates of Babylon in the architecture museum.
Berlin's mascot is the bear, because Albert the Bear was the man who founded the city 800 years ago. For the record, you know you've been in Florence too long when someone tells you a city was founded 800 years ago and you don't think that's old at all.
Soviet War Memorial.
And that was our epic trip in Berlin! In addition to the above, there was much Kindl drinking, annoying boys snoring in our eight person hostel room, and guilty oh-so-good french fries eaten at McDonald's. Let me tell you, if you ever get a chance to get to Berlin, go for it. You won't regret it.
As usual, more pictures if you care to stalk my adventures more fully. http://www.http://www.facebook.com/#!/album.php?aid=171015&id=561287236&page=6
For some reason, things in Firenze lately seem to be snowballing. Maybe it's because it's getting warm out, maybe it's because we only have something like forty days left here, but whatever it is, it's making everything seem a little more off the wall than usual.
Barely back from France, this Thursday my lovely friend Megan and her equally lovely friend Hannah joined me in Florence. However, they were not the only guests who would be joining me and Kara and Arielle. Two days later, I woke up in the morning and found Kara already dressed. No one in our apartment is dressed until 12 on the weekends.
"Why dressed so early?" I asked, barely lifting my head from the pillow.
She turned and explained, "the Australians are coming!"
Less than five minutes later, two of the tallest men I've even seen with two of the biggest backpacks I've ever seen were suddenly in the living room of my apartment, and suddenly our three person apartment was now hosting seven people.
By now you're probably wondering, how the hell did you end up with Australians in your Italian apartment?! Kara and Arielle found them in their hostel in Barcelona on spring break and convinced them to visit them in Florence- just in time for Easter!
After a busy Friday and Saturday spent showing our guests around the city, Easter Sunday arrived. I wasn't really sure how Easter would turn out. I've never missed an Easter with my family, and the large part of my heart that loves Cadbury cream eggs and all things chocolate was feeling rather empty. But I didn't have much time to mourn my missing basket of goodies that morning. We had to leave to watch the Explosion of the Fire Cart, a true Florentine tradition.
The fire cart, pre-explosion.
From what I've gathered, the fire cart ritual was imported from the east during the crusades, and for hundreds of years the Florentines have heralded the resurrection of Jesus with a bang in front of their famous duomo cathedral. I feel as though having a pyrotechnic show thirty feet away from a priceless building might be a bad idea, but apparently the Florentines don't share my sentiments. Here are some pictures of the explosion. I stole them all from Kara, because I was behind this man who was at least a foot and a half taller than me who REFUSED TO MOVE even though he could've seen everything fine like, ten feet behind me still. I hate crowds and being short. This is why I stopped paying money to 'see' shows. Anyway, the pictures!
Once the festivities were over, I escorted Megan and Hannah to the train station for their daytrip into Pisa while I headed back to the apartment to cook dinner for nine. I didn't think there would be enough food at first, but I quickly realized that was not going to be the case at all. I don't think we have to cook anything in this apartment for a week now. Easter ended up being really fun with everyone there, the Aussie boys even bought mini Easter eggs so us girls could have an Easter egg hunt around the apartment so I finally got my chocolate fix! There was also another bigger chocolate egg which was not only delicious, but wrapped in red foil that we played with the rest of the night. I don't think they thought we would have as much fun with that foil as we did. Don't ask for pictures, I refuse to show them to you.
The Easter Crew minus Megan and Hannah, who kindly took the picture.
And now it is Easter Monday, which is apparently a holiday in Florence. Except not really, because even though classes were cancelled today, they are rescheduled for Friday. Not that that matters for me anyway, because I'm going for Berlin this Thursday, which is why I'm trying to write my papers on my birthday (but obviously failing since I'm writing this blog post). Like I said, everything's been crazy here. Three days after I get back from Berlin, my parents and brother and coming. Then three weeks after they're gone, I'm back in Buffalo. Where is the semester going?
I've actually decided to stay in Italy forever with my Italian lover Giovanni.
APRIL FOOLS!!! Not that any of you who know me well were fooled in the first place.
But seriously, one of the first things people would say in Buffalo once they learned I was going to Italy was always something along the lines of "Italy, eh? Better watch out for those Italian men!" with various degrees of smirking, winking, or actual concern.
This left me with rather mixed feelings. Mixed, firstly because if there's one thing I've always resented it's undesired male advances, and secondly I was not going to Italy to scope out its male population. But on the other side of that, it's hard to avoid an entire half of a country's population when you move to said country. So unavoidably, I have run into "those Italian men" and after two months in the field I think I'm qualified to report.
The most striking difference between the Italian and American men is the Italian- would boldness be the right word? Maybe sheer audacity is better. No rejection is cowing for an Italian men. Even if his "ciao bella" gets him a single fingered salute in return, the Italian is utterly undaunted. If an Italian checks you out, you know. And so does everyone around you in a fifty foot radius. Sometimes it's funny. Sometimes it's just downright creepy.
For example, once I was walking past the street vendors and one of them called out to me "you dropped something!" I turned around, looking for the object in question and the seller met my gaze and said "my heart" in all seriousness. This was acceptable.
However, the time a pair of guys followed me and my friend all the way to my apartment demanding our phone numbers? This was not acceptable. Though in all fairness, these men were not Italian, but Albanian. The one detail they failed to mention at orientation was to avoid Albanian men at all costs, because no one does creepy quite like them.
The other thing I've noticed about Italian men is that they are persistent. Like, before you give an Italian your number make sure you have enough money for the phone bill. Because you WILL be hearing from him 24/7. But the nice thing about Italian men is that, once you make your disinterest clear, they will leave you alone. Even if you have to issue this disinterest explicitly.
But not everyone here shares my strict "leave me alone" policy. Between my roommates Kara (who is seeing one and a half Italians) and Arielle (who has witnessed not one, but two semesters of romance in Italy) I have heard love stories, horror stories, and everything in between.
In true girl fashion, I asked Kara one day if she liked the guy she was seeing. She turned to me with a half smile and offered, "I like him enough for the semester".
Kara is so smart.
See, what what I've gathered from Arielle, rumours running abroad before I actually went abroad, and people I've met here is that there is this grand fantasy of European Romance invested in the minds of Americans who study abroad. I don't know where it began. All it took was one story about one girl meeting someone while abroad and being swept off her feet, and suddenly the fantasy is everywhere. And I am saying that it's not possible? No. I just believe in a little something called logic. And logic says, is it a good idea to pursue a relationship while living 3000+ miles away from home for three months? No, it is not.
This is not to say that I discredit any of the dreamers who dream their dreams. It's just romance has never been my favourite genre of fiction, and when it gets down to it, American and Italian assholes are essentially the same. But on that same note, the keepers are always worth keeping.
Like everything else in this country, romance is never predictable. But as for me, the only delicious Italian thing lurking in my luggage on the way home will be oil olive. Any maybe some truffle oil, and Spanish cocoa as well.
These past day two days, I have been oui-ing when I should have been si-ing, and I have "merci-ed" at least three Italians already on accident, and I even forgot the word for "one" yesterday at the market. It was bad. It was the result of eight days in France.
A small part of me, one that has become a large part, has always regretted dropping French in the eleventh grade. At the time, it seemed like a good idea. I was too busy being a member of the Cult Of Crew (ie, the rowing team), being in the operetta, and epically failing Chemistry to continue with language. However, the next year I left crew, ditched the operetta, the vowed to never take Chemistry again. So needless to say, there would have been plenty of time to take French, and I realized this as soon as it was too late to change my mind.
The opportunity arose for me to return to French in the months before I went to UB (English majours at the school need two years of foreign language), but my adviser (who I quickly learned was a idiot, but not before it was too late) told me Latin would be more "useful". If useful means composing sentences like "rex urbem vincet" and reading the rubble at the Roman forum. And the most terrible irony of all? My favourite writer is French.
So I knew, even before I was accepted into my study abroad program, that I would head to France on spring break. Maybe it was a way to atone for dropping French.
"If you love French so much, why didn't you go to France then?" you ask.
Well, basically, everyone else I knew who had gone abroad had gone to France, and I wanted something different. Different pictures, different stories. And after having been to France and back, I can say that I don't regret studying in Italy. France and Italy are both beautiful, but in different ways. I can't help but compare Florence and Paris to people. Florence is everyone's friend, but Paris is more reserved, and if you approach her the wrong way... watch yourself.
Strangely enough, I escaped all the of snobbish French attitude I had expected to find. I would like to think this was due to my amazingly well preserved French skills, but I probably just got lucky.
I went to two cities on my trip. Paris, and lovely French/German city of Strasbourg. I set off for Paris with, with my favourite travel companion.
Oh yes, this was a solo trip. Considering less than six months ago I could barely even spend an hour alone, I wasn't quite sure how this would work out for me. But it was beyond amazing. If you ever get the chance, not only travel to, but try to experience a place by yourself. You'll notice things you never knew were there.
Once I arrived at France, I spent a night in a crappy hostel with unpleasant American roommates before heading to Marie-Jeanne's. Marie-Jeanne (and her two tiny dogs and roommate) was my couch surfing host. For those of you who have never heard of couch surfing, it's a global grassroots movement where people agree to let travelers crash on their couches free of charge. It lets people go to places they normally wouldn't be able to afford to go, and offers them an insight into the culture that they wouldn't have gained at a hotel or hostel. In a nuthsell, couch surfing was an awesome experience. Marie-Jeanne let me stay three more nights than I had intended to, and us and her roommate were able to discuss feminism and international politics over our morning caffeine fix. Plus, her two tiny dogs almost filled the medium sized dog shape missing from my heart (Maggie is afraid of Skype, and Skype doesn't have a petting application yet anyway).
The couch.
Once I was situated at Marie-Jeanne's, I was set to take France by storm. Which I did. the beauty of traveling alone is that I got to do what I wanted, exactly when I wanted to do it. I saw an inordinate among of things, including every single garden the city had to offer within range of the metro system.
This seems to speak for itself, really.
Sacre Coeur, the church on the hill. I actually went here after Notre Dame, and after the touristy madness that was Notre Dame, I had braced myself for the worst. I went into the church during mass. Nuns were singing, their voices echoing off the vaulted ceilings, and it was absolutely enchanting.
Fountain near the Tulleries.
My transportation mode of choice.
The Arc de Triomph, built by Napoleon (happy now George? :P) to celebrate his military prowness. Except he stole the entire idea from the ancient Romans, but Napoleon does what he wants.
Notre Dame. pretty on the outside, a touristy hell on the inside.
At least I was able to eat lunch with a view of the cathedral.
I spent WAY too much time near the tower, but it's so pretty! I like pretty things. Like the caramel leather over the knee boots I bought in Primtemps earlier that day. Europe is the worst/best place ever for a shoe person.
As I was walking along the Seine, I saw a real live action dress up day in progress! But ours are better.
A few days in, I met up with with friends from LDM to go to Versailles and we found a Buffalo Grill. Absolute destiny.
Halls of Mirrors, in Versailles.
After spending about four days in Paris, I took the train to Strasbourg to see Megan, a friend from high school. It broke my heart to leave Paris (it rained the day I left, I took that as an omen) but Strasbourg did not disappoint. The city sounds German, because it is. It's in the Alsace region of France, which had been passed back and forth between France and Germany for a few centuries at least. Half the buildings were built by the Germans, half by France. They even have their own special French/German dialect: Strasbourgeoise.
I stayed with Megan and her host parents while I was there, and her host parents were the most awesome people ever. Breakfast was left for us on a cart outside our door each morning, and dinner was delicious (considering the food prices were so outrageously high in Pairs that I pretty much hadn't eaten for four days, this was a godsend). She even did my laundry for me, which by this point was turning into a rather desperate situation. Here are some pictures for you.
The church only has one spire. I had fun inventing stories for why that was.
The clock inside the church.
The only dark spot of my adventure was the part where I ended up missing my flight back to Italy because the line I needed to take on the metro was closed. This led to a whole bunch of fun shennaigins. I had to backtrack on the metro to take the line that dropped me next closest to the airport bus (next closest was a half mile away, mind you) where I got to walk with my luggage and new over the knee boots said distance to the bus in the dark at 6am. I got the airport just as my flight was leaving, paid an astronomical sum to change my ticket to the next flight going anywhere in Italy. I ended up in Rome, where I took the four hour train ride back to Florence.
Oh yes, it was fun.
France was amazing, but I still think in the end I made the right choice in deciding to stay in Italy. This may be entirely due to the fact food is cheap and the weather is warmer here, but I can say with absolute certainty that I will be back to France, especially Paris. When I am rich and famous and aged, I will pay eighty euro to eat in that five star restaurant on the second level of the Eiffel Tower.
And even if I'm sixty, I'll still be taking the stairs.
As usual, here are the additional pictures: http://www.facebook.com/#!/album.php?aid=165169&id=561287236 http://www.facebook.com/#!/album.php?aid=165232&id=561287236
I'm a fabulous, almost unemployed, newly minted English grad. The "almost unemployed" and "newly minted English grad" are objective, while the "fabulous" is fairly subjective. I blog because I am underqualified for most jobs, and overqualified for the rest.
