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.