Thanks for the Inspiration, Fabio.

Let’s try this again, shall we? The first time that I tried writing I fell asleep. Sitting up. Like a narcoleptic old man. For all I know, my mouth was hanging open so wide that a young child could have crept into my room, set up a stool at the side of my bed, and played an epic game of pin drop right over my head.

Gosh! Remember pin drop? I always sucked at that game. I could never get the stupid clothes pins into the bottle hole. I guess then, since my freakishly poor depth perception denied my success in the only goal of the game, I was really just an idiot dropping clothes pins on the floor. I should have pinched kids with those babies while they were aiming instead. Maybe it would have leveled the playing field a bit. Very doubtful. My hand-eye coordination wasn’t what it is today. Who knows, maybe it took me longer to develop my gross motor skills than the average person. I wouldn’t doubt it. I have a lot of things wrong with me. For instance, after I typed “bottle hole” earlier in the paragraph, I laughed for a solid three minutes because I was wondering how many of you, if you are reading this out loud, accidentally said butt hole instead. What’s worse is that I realized my poor word choice, but still consciously kept it alive. I do, however, apologize for my crude sense of humor. I also send my condolences because I have not, in the last two paragraphs mentioned Italy once.

So what have I been doing with my life? Well, since I like to keep a little mystery in the relationship, I won’t divulge everything. Currently, though, I am sitting on a park bench—don’t ask me which park because I wandered here on a whim. And when I say whim, I mean I knew that if, while doing my homework, I read about one more Renaissance sculptor that I would carve out my own brain. Then some pour soul would be bored reading about me. I can see the headline now; front page in the newspaper: “Overzealous American Takes ‘Hands-on’ Learning Too Far.” Before I continue this story, I know what you’re thinking, “front page, Lauren? Really? You do live in your own little world, don’t you?” So, having anticipated such a mindset, I am going to sidestep the issue and carry on.

As I was saying, I was sick of doing homework, so I grabbed my journal, went outside, spotted the best Fabio look-alike that I’ve ever seen, followed him just incase he was the real Fabio, grudgingly determined that he was an imposter, and wound up in Plaza “Only-God-Knows-Where.” Seriously, I don’t know what I was thinking tailing this guy. As if the real Fabio would actually be by my apartment. I live across the street from a Middle-Eastern man’s “Internet Train” not a hair salon doling out long blonde weaves. Fabio would never fit in! I suppose, though, that since I’m safe and comfortable in the warm sun, not knowing exactly where I am is the least of my worries. Instead, I now have the misfortune of dodging derisive laughter coming from the Italians across the way. Although I wouldn’t be willing to bet a gelato on it, I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that they were eye witnesses to the near toe-breaking that I experienced at the hands of the uneven cobblestone! It’s just one more good impression after another for me, isn’t it?

Perhaps it’s kind of a give-take relationship, though. What do I mean by that? Well, the Italians perceive Americans (or at least the way that I represent us) as clutzy. I, on the other hand, I think that they (particularly the men) are forward—to say the least. Seriously, when I first landed here, and passed men on the street, I couldn’t go a block without hearing “ciao, bella!” On the outside, of course, I played it cool by flashing a nonchalant smile as if to say, “tell me something I don’t know.” On the inside, though, there was another me—the same me, by the way, that turns pink with barely controlled glee at the mere mention of Justin Timberlake (Seriously, sound more pre-teen, Lauren)—that thought, well, I don’t know what I thought. My head’s been clouded by Justin Timberlake. I knew that it was a mistake to drop his name!

No matter, but for those keeping count, I have been in Florence, Italy for a whopping (that was not an ethnic slur) twenty four days and the “Ciao, bella” novelty has already worn off. Well, actually it might still linger if it hadn’t been for my taxi driver who told me, and I quote, “‘Ciao, bella’ doesn’t mean anything. It’s actually only a cultural thing. We say it to all women, even the ugly ones.” ARE YOU KIDDING ME, MARIO? You tell me this now? It’s the second week and you’re going to take away my only regularly-scheduled compliment? Well guess what, you just cut your tip in half.

Clearly I’m still carrying a chip on my shoulder. In fact, I didn’t really think that I had such deep-seeded anger. I suppose it does make sense, though. For instance, the other night Christy, Emma, their friend Lindsey, Bianca, and I indulged in a little Florentine night life. In other words, they dragged me to a dance club called “Space Electronic.” I won’t even bother describing myself at that place. If you know me at all, you’ll be able to fill in the blanks. If you don’t and you’re just some creeper reading this story let, me tersely sum it up by saying that I don’t dance, especially not at clubs. Why? Because clubs are a good place to meet people and when I dance I look like a tazered chinchilla. Not flattering.

Anyway, where was I going with this? Oh yes, I finally felt the backlash of Mr. Taxi Driver’s comment, except this time I couldn’t simply scamper down the block to escape. I was trapped; trapped in a ring of “ciao, bella-s” dancing around me; “ciao, bella-s” tapping my shoulder; “ciao, bella-s flooding my ears. I’m sure that they murmured other “sweet nothings” but my Italian is so shaky that even Rosetta Stone is lost on me.

Before people think that I was stuck inside some Rocky Horror film, let me fast forward to the end. Contrary to what I’ve described so far, I had a good time with my roommates. I’ll admit it; the night had several redeeming qualities. We got to watch Bianca, for example, almost clock this one chick who got a little too bootylicious near her. We also got to dance with a thinner version of Warren Sapp. Most important though, I got to say the sentence “No, Liberaci, I do NOT want to dance with you!” more than once.

Tell me when you’d get to say that in America.

California Knows how to Party

It’s a compulsion sometimes—to write. It hits me at the most inconvenient times, and then at others I struggle to fill a page. So what am I? A writer or a wannabe? A lot of the time I feel as if I’m updating this journal out of guilt because I think to myself, “Lord knows I won’t take pictures, and then what will I have in my senile old age besides a trick hip and a bad case of the gout?” Don’t ask me why I’m already anticipating such ailments; it’s just a hunch. Plus, my foam flip flops have zero arch support: a quality that cannot be conducive to healthy bone development for the elderly. Regardless, please know that right now my muse has hit me at one of the most inconvenient times so far this trip.

I am currently lounging in the window seat (score) of a bus, blazing a path towards Siena. However, as I said, this drive is wasted on me. Instead of admiring the pruned vineyards, the rolling sun flower fields, and the brown brick buildings which I pretend to appreciate because they supposedly have a “history” behind them, I am left to battle off carsickness as I stare at the chicken scratch scrawling from my pen onto my passport photocopy.

Gina has the right idea. She is sitting at my side, indulging in a much needed REM cycle since she averages maybe four hours of sleep a night due to a nasty found-in-Florence cough and a grueling American-made forty-hour work week. Indeed, she is truly dead to the world. I should know. I have spent the past ten minutes accidentally jabbing her in the ribs with my constant fidgeting. I HAVE RESTLESS BODY SYNDROME!

Anyway, excuse me. You must think that I am so rude. I haven’t formally introduced the dare devils who risk their sanity everyday just so that they can live with me. After all, you’ll get bored if I only talk about myself—I’m not exactly a personality teetering on the brink of remarkable. My roommates, perhaps, are much more intriguing than I am. In fact, maybe by the end of this, some of you will actually prefer them to me.

Hailing from San Diego, California and measuring in at staggering 5’4”, Gina Baxter (or, as you may know her, the chick who got stuck in my room) is the epitome of what a Californian is supposed to be. And, to her embarrassment, not a day goes by that I don’t remind her of this. So what’s the profile of a stereotypical Californian? In terms of dress, two words: Bohemian Chic. No one else can glide out of a closet, repping the west coast like she can. Everything from her edgy, yet inspirational, shoulder, back, and wrist tattoos covered slightly by her layered tops, to her leggings, Chucks, and bangles screams a modern Haight-Ashbury hippie. This means that if the clothes, as they say “make the man” or in this case, “the woman,” then it goes without saying that Gina has a few more cool points than I do. Who knows, maybe I’m lacking in that area because I was lame enough to call it “cool points” or maybe it’s because I’m sitting here in conservative capris and a black shirt, meticulously recording this trip. Whatever the reason, I am hoping that by simply living with this girl, my street cred will skyrocket. No luck so far.

I should breathe a sigh of relief into all who are reading this. I promise that I won’t discuss every member of this trip in vast detail. That is not to suggest, however, that the unmentioned do not play a role in my “experience,” it just means that I’m too lazy to caricature seventeen people. Remember, I’m doing this work on my own Euro. Instead I’ll spare you and go two deep down the bus row.

I feel obligated to begin with Miss Maguire and Miss Engstrom, partially because they are directly behind me, are tall enough to peak over the seats, and have been glancing curious looks in my direction for the past couple minutes. Maybe I should start writing horribly incriminating hate messages just to scare the bejesus out of them! How could I, though? I’d lose the two best things to share a wall with me.

Yes, yes, very perceptive. They are my neighbors. The two blonde Bobbsey twins live in the room left of Gina and me, and are, besides us of course, the winner of the Dynamic Duo award. Of course you have no idea why I say this. In fact you are quite at my mercy. If I say that they are good friends, you have no choice but to blindly nod along and agree with me. However, to put their relationship in perspective, let me explain myself with another story.

At home in Burnsville, I live next door to an old couple named the Newinskys. Now, I am no expert, but it has always been my theory that Tom and Mary Ann were high school sweethearts who, one night, shared a close dance together at the senior prom, made a few bad decisions afterwards and, nine months later, were chained together for the rest of their lives, blaming the world for their mistake. Well, Christy and Emma are the exact opposite of the crotchety persona that the Newinskys exude. And no, for you morally provincial readers, these two are not a couple. Instead, they are just two girls who bond over jars (plural) of Nutella chocolate, finish each other’s sentences, and bicker as if they have been married for a strong sixty two years. Needless to say it’s an honor that they allow me to barge into their rooms on a daily basis.

Now, not to abruptly change the subject, but I am of the opinion that this is a sufficient description (for now) of my neighbors. Old Enid and Agnes (Emma and Christy, respectively), though, are resentful that I lumped them together in a single paragraph, as if they were only “one person.” However, I merely set out to stress their soul mate status, not to offend. For this, I apologize. I’d also like to briefly mention before go one, Miss Bianca Pisano (Mamma B) because she’d throw her Diskman at me if I didn’t include her. Mamma B doesn’t live with us, but she does burst through our apartment door much as Cosmo Kraemer would if he were in Italy with us.

Who knows? With characters like these maybe this blog thing will develop into my very own Sit Com.

Consider This my Cheap Substitute to Therepy

Before I begin this second installment, I’d like to apologize for the delay. Yes, I realize that you’re all dedicated readers and that your little eyes were probably brimming with tears of disappointment when you discovered that I have been a slacker. I assure you, however, that it will never happen again—well, maybe not never. I’m full of broken promises. For instance, I promised myself that I would learn a bit of Italian before I crossed the pond, but instead I filled my head with useless knowledge, instead. Good decision, Lauren, now it takes you twenty five minutes to pick out one jar of peanut butter. You’ll never meet any Suave Mediterranean man if they all think that you’re one fry short of a happy meal.

In all seriousness, though, I am going to warn you that this post may be unnecessarily long. After all, I’ve been starved of technological contact (that sounds weird) for days now! In fact, let me hit you with our internet situation and then I’ll back track to my first few days in Firenze.

As of now, we live in a quintessential Italian apartment. What do I mean by this? Well, Gina (my roommate) and I sleep in a room that can only be described as museum-esque. That is, when we walk through our white wooden door we enter into an absolutely cavernous bedroom complete with intricately tiled floors which lay opposite to a floral mural on our ceiling. Needless to say, the Italians know about more than just noodles; they can rock the feng shui, any day, too. Perhaps to live in such prime real estate, though, we need to pay the price. I say this not because we have some hooligans down our block selling drugs or because we have some vagabond gypsy roaming the halls: no, nothing that harmless. Instead, we walked into a situation with ZERO internet connection. In fact, if it hadn’t been for our friend Anthony (thank God for him), we would still be living in the stone ages. We did, however, rig up my three-foot long Ethernet cable to our router that is attached to the ceiling. Long story short, to receive internet access, which is undoubtedly illegal, we hold the laptop in one hand and type with the other while trying to stick to an elaborate balancing act so as not to damage the merchandise. I’ve almost dropped my computer four and a half times. Graceful. Back on track, though. Let’s chat about my first few days in a new country.

As any good story teller knows, to properly fill in an audience, one should start at the beginning. Then, when she reaches the end, she will stop. As will be the same with this little snippet, so let me take you to the morning of my departure first.

I was unceremoniously awoken to the bleating noise coming from my alarm clock at 8:30AM. Please pay attention to this time. Apparently the stupid thing did not realize that it was my last day for four months on American soil because if it had, I would like to think that the clock would have magically sprung to life into a butler named Jeeves—as all butlers are in my fantasies—and served me piping hot Belgian waffles to bid me a proper adieu.

Well, as you guessed it, nothing in my imagination ever works out the way that I planned, so I clomped out of bed and dusted off my culinary skills. What sat on my plate after said warm up, was an egg over easy with a broken yoke, a crispier-than-I’d-care-for piece of wheat toast, and a blob of ketchup (duh) to tie it all together. Regardless of what slop was staring back at me, I had no time to enjoy it because I was subjected to a solid last-minute interrogation courtesy of my mother. Again, sorry, mom. In short, it was the same old song called “Don’t Lose Your Passport” with a refrain of “Never Take an Eye off Your Bags (ah ha a ha).” Of course these songs were bumpin’ the first few times I heard them, but after they become overplayed, you’ve got to change the tune.

Perhaps I’m too harsh. Yes, ok, I’m too harsh, but a writer cannot lie. Sure, I embellish, but that’s what I do! Therefore, I will make no apologies, but instead get right back on track, fast forwarding through the boring parts, of course. For instance, I will not bore you with my seat mates because I’ll never see them again or the 75 year-old woman wearing a fluorescent pink feathered sailor’s hat (sorry that I couldn’t creep out a photog, Sas). I will however, inform you all, not only because this caused me a head ache and a half but because if I had to go down, I’m bringing Lufthansa (my airline) down with me! In fact, it’s eating me alive right now. I even deleted this long wind up to the story, but I’m going to come right out and say it: MY LUGGAGE WAS LEFT IN MUNICH! Oh Good God, that feels amazing. Now I know that these things actually are therapeutic. In fact, I may even have the confidence to stand up and shout it from the rooftops: MY LUGGAGE WAS LEFT IN MUNICH! MY LUGGAGE WAS LEFT IN MUNICH! Ok, enough. However, drink it all in, people. I rocked the same clothes—nay, the same underwear for more than 48 hours. Seriously, great first impression in front of my Californian roommates. At that point, I didn’t even care about the Europeans; they’re used to forgoing a shower for at least a week. These ladies, though, are pretty trendy. Needless to say, I did my very best at staying down wind from them.

I guess all of this was just my luck, though. Things we going too well! My first inkling that the whole voyage would unravel was when I boarded an aircraft in Florence that was no bigger than the paper airplane that I tossed at my brother’s head when I was a snot-nosed little kid. Right away I should have lost faith in the project. However, living with a step dad who is so trusting that he leaves the front door wide open, practically holding a “Welcome-to-our-home,-burglars-from-the-tri-state-area. Please-come-rob-our-home” sign stretched in his arms, I must have grown soft. In fact, I didn’t even question it, I just followed the crowd and boarded. In my defense, though, what was I supposed to do? Set up camp in Munich? I wasn’t diggin’ Saurkraut and Weinerschitzel for dinner perhaps.

No matter the reason, I arrived in Florence only to notice that I, and half my plane, was luggage-less. However, like an idiot I stood, mesmerized by the empty baggage carousal, longer than I care to admit, but let’s just say that 27 minutes feels like an eternity! So, finally after I, as my dad advised me, stopped and assessed the situation, I came to realization that I had no control and that my next step was to wait with the heard of other disgruntled, sleep-deprived, and starving passengers to file a missing bag claim.

I waited for nearly two hours in a line so slow it made me envious of the one-legged beetle that I watched scramble across the dirty floor. Damn that little cripple could move! In any normal situation, I would have been nothing short of irate. And yes, for the record, I still am a bit. However, my bags arrived from Germany two days later, no worse for the wear. Was it an inconvenience? Obviously. Did I reek of plane/cab—naturally, but I made it and I got a story out of it, which we all know is constantly my goal in life. I guess my biggest problem at the time of writing this piece in my notebook was that at the end of this epistle, it suddenly clicked that I had been resting my dirty, sweaty socks on my PILLOW! SICK! I had to put my face on that! As if the infrared studies weren’t horrifying enough...