dispatches from a 20 year old drunk
2016
eat gray love
I will be the first to admit it: appropriating the title of a self-help memoir-turned-Julia Roberts film written by a late in life lesbian for my travel blog is kitschy at best, but bear with me. I never claimed to be tasteful. Alas, I'm now writing my first post at the behest of my mother, as well as my own delusions of grandeur which lead me to believe that anyone will actually read this blog.
This hot mess express arrived in Italy a week ago, and I've been in "GO" mode since the second I stepped off of the plane at Rome Fiumicino. My pilgrimage from Phoenix was relatively easy, thanks to my abuse of Z-Quil and an empty seat next to me. I was extremely excited to finally arrive in Europe. I've dreamt of studying here for years, and Italy seemed like the perfect location for me as it's known for everything I hold near and dear to my heart: cheese, wine, universal rudeness, and 2-hour naps after lunch.
Rome is absolutely spectacular. I REALLY mean it. My first week in the eternal city has been filled with awestruck wonder at its sheer beauty. The amount of history packed into literally every single inch of the cobblestone streets that run through Rome is astounding, and there's nothing quite like it. I've only explored a minuscule amount of Rome, but what I have seen has left me feeling like I'm living in a movie set. I've visited a few different historic monuments: The Colliseum, the Pantheon, and the Trevi Fountain, which were all indescribably beautiful.
I know that I'm coming off a little bit intense, but I'm serious--this city is unreal. I live in an area called Gianicolense, a residential neighborhood about 20 minutes outside of the historic center. The roads are filled with smart cars, vespas, and tons of dog shit. My apartment, Via Antonio Bennicelli 32, is shockingly spacious--which is necessary, as I have five other male roommates. Each room of my apartment is strangely decorated; my living room features a large poster of Buddha, while my bedroom wall is simply adorned with one random picture of a flower. We have three balconies, each large enough for a good 10 people to fit on. None of the bedroom or bathroom doors lock, the laundry machine is a disaster, and the water pressure rivals that of an African village, but I'm not complaining at all; it's a perfect place to live, and it already feels like home.
I've been having serious sexual relations with every loaf of bread, pizza, and wheel of cheese in sight, and I've consumed around 32 pounds of prosciutto. The food here is much different than that of America. Everything is fresher. It seems like meals are served 23 times a day, each containing multiple courses. On the first night, my roommate and I were berated by my program director for ordering a cappuccino directly after the second course, instead of waiting for the fourth course, which we both had no idea was even happening. "That's...disgusting...we don't drink coffee with pasta." He then made it his priority to go around to every table and point us out to make an example out of us as we awkwardly sipped the forbidden, horrifically offensive cappuccino. It was a truly inspiring moment.
At this point I am practically bleeding tomato sauce and wine, and I would have it no other way. Thank god outerwear is bulky because I've never been more in need of an elastic waistband. It's worth it, though. I view overindulging in vino as really just going balls deep into Italian ~culture~. I kid, when you're walking as much as I am, overindulgence is fine. At least that's what I'm going to keep telling myself. Wine is water in Italy. It's cheaper than water to order with a meal, and it miraculously doesn't give me hangovers (which, if you know me, you know that my hangovers feel equivalent to a 24-hour case of Ebola.)
It's around 4:00 P.M here, and I've just finished my first day of classes. My first week in Rome has been successful, and I'm really, really happy. I can only hope that the next few months go as well as this week has gone.
As for tonight, I have a bit of homework and then a dinner thing and then I'm busy trying to become who I am. Arrivederci.
Realizing Things
The all-knowing and mighty prophet Kylie Jenner once proclaimed that 2016 was "...really about, like, the year of just realizing stuff. And everyone around me, we're all just like, realizing things."
For me, 2016 was a rocky road, not unlike the cobblestones I travel over each day here in Rome. While most people prefer to wake up in the new year and give it 100%, I'm realizing that I seemingly chose to enter 2016 hovering at a solid 67%, Korbel bottle in hand. My motto, regrettably, was "set the bar low and see how far you can go!" This resulted in a series of upheavals and unknowns, many of which provided a "Bad Girls Club"-style bitch slap in the form of some difficult life lessons. I'm not proud of all of my actions in 2016--whether it was the 90's boy band bleached hair, or my unnatural affinity for light washed jorts. But what I won't do is apologize, and in return I don't expect forgiveness for the embarrassment of my parents.
Though writing this makes me feel like a 16 year old girl wearing a polyblend bandage dress scrolling through Pinterest for plagiarized inspirational quotes while listening to Taylor Swift, I'm making a deliberate choice to give into the basic-ness. Living in Rome--even though it's only been a week--has provided me with an energetic push into self-reflection... and tiramisu.
Throughout the past three years, I often felt as if my peers were somehow more prepared and ready for what was to come than I was. Looking back, the 18 year old me who moved to New York for college is unrecognizable. At that point, I was drunk on my wide-eyed and privileged view of the world, with expectations that my life would simply fall into place without any self-effort. And oh, how it didn't. What's happened instead has been a complete 180° from where my adolescent self envisioned my ~life journey~ would take me.
At some point in 2016--admittedly a few years late--I crossed over from adolescence into adulthood. I turned inwards. I strengthened my relationships, and I learned that "home" isn't a place--rather, it's family. (Seriously: when your life goes to shit, they will pick you up and help it become a little less shitty, a.k.a. livable.) I made friends and I lost friends. I spent most of my time alone with myself, and I realized that feeling lonely is not only powerful and valuable, but catalytic.
I'll be honest--I still think of time in terms of "school years." As I embrace 2017 with open arms and an abused liver, I'm deciding to begin a much needed process of reinvention. Hey, my blog isn't inspired by Eat Pray Love for nothing.
Bear with me: while 2016 was the year of realizing things, in 2017 I'm going to attempt to live like a well-aged cheese. The cheeses at the supermarkets in Rome and around the world incline in price the longer they've aged. There's a reason for this; the cheese has developed into the most intoxicating version of its best self. The cheese spent time alone and matured. It isn't embarrassed of flaunting its mold or pungent aroma, and its past only heightens its worth. After all, the cheese WORKED for those desirable imperfections.
I know what you're thinking: is he hungry? The answer is yes, which is why I'll wrap up this highly self-indulgent and delusional post.
2017: and so it begins.
Love you! (Mean it.)
Vatican and Venezia
Ciao to my fans and haters (to quote our president)! I apologize for the delay in blog updates. I'm obviously busy doing extremely important things here. I do know that I need to find a better structure for my writing and reflections, but sometimes it's just so hard to be so inspirational.
I'm writing this post from a late night Venetian water taxi. It's 10:05 P.M., and I've just departed the overwhelmingly charming and romantic island of Venice (or "Venezia," if I was trying to sound pretentious and ~worldly~.) The water taxi is shockingly packed for a late Sunday night, and I'm seated at the front of the boat. The icy sea breeze is stinging my eyes, my fingers are beginning their transition into icicles, and the air reeks of airport sushi and sewage, but it's definitely worth it. The Grand Canal is truly astounding. However poetic the moment feels, reality is about to shit on my face in the form of a 12:10 A.M. night train back to Rome. I'll arrive at Roma Termini around 7:00 A.M.--just in time for class at 10:00! I bet I'll feel amazing tomorrow.
Since I haven't shared the goings-on of my life recently, I'll begin with last weekend. On Friday morning, I made the trek from my apartment into the historic district, where I picked up one of my best friends from home--Christina--who's studying in Milan for the semester. As we walked out of the train station, me struggling to carry her fugly Vera Bradley weekend bag, (sorry Xtina but you know it's true) we happened to stumble across The Colosseum. The sheer amazement exhibited in Christina's eyes upon her first glance at il Colosseo is something I still share when witnessing many of the awe-inspiring Roman monuments.
Later that night, after pregaming with the Italian equivalent of Purell hand sanitizer and Fanta, Christina and I accompanied a sizable group of students to Piper Club, which is one of the oldest discos in Rome. Louis The Child--one of my favorite DJ groups--was playing a late night show targeted for American abroad students. They were amazing for the 5 minutes we got to see, until Christina unfortunately "misplaced" her phone. Shit happens!
The next morning, after a trip to the local Apple Store, Christina and I crossed through the gates into St. Peter's Square at the Vatican. I'm seemingly often at a loss for words to describe the experiences that I am having, and seeing the Vatican will, for now, take the cake for having me the most "shook." I was raised Catholic and attended Catholic school for most of my life, but, like many of my peers who've shared a journey through Catholic education, I don't exactly consider myself to be religious. I find something about the institution of religion to be off-putting, and Catholicism is surely not free of problematic ideals and behaviors. That being said, my time at the Vatican was a religious experience. The artwork is perhaps Western Civilizations finest, and each fresco and marble sculpture contains multitudes of minute details and historical significance. Surprisingly, I found myself to be very emotional in St. Peter's Basilica. I'm definitely not #thatgirl who cries when she looks at a painting because she's so ~deep~, but something about St. Peter's struck a chord in me.
As we flowed with the crowd out into the square, who else was there to greet us but "il Papa"--Pope Francis himself. When I told my father about this, he said something that stuck with me: "Not many people live to say that they've seen a pope in person." I recognize just how fortunate I am to have had that opportunity, and my day at the Vatican was transformative and awe-inspiring. The next day, I sadly bid adieu to Christina. She is a little piece of home. I say that because, as I've written already, home IS family--and she's family. Perhaps not by blood, but definitely by vodka.
This brings me to my next adventure--this weekend in Venice. On Saturday morning, my friends and I boarded a train, and off we went through the foggy Italian hillsides for the first weekend of the famous Carnevale di Venezia. Stepping ashore into the vivid and beautifully decrepit cityscape, I watched as people in ornate masks and costumes paraded through the streets as if doing so was a daily occurrence. Strangely enough, between the typical Venetian Carnival garb and regularly dressed tourists, some people were wearing Halloween-style blood spattered costumes. Still not sure why, but hey--to each their own.
Venice is magical. It's everything you imagined it would be and more; a charming world, one free of cars and buses and noise pollution. We shuffled through the hundreds of tourists and lilliputian alleyways until we reached our AirBnB apartment around sunset, celebrating with a bottle of champagne on our terrace, a story above a canal full of Gondolas. While Venice can be garishly touristic at times, I found the side streets to be tranquil and romantic. I marveled at the historical elegance of St. Marks square, and we took an (expensive) gondola ride, though it was well worth it for the selfie.
I'm now on the train back to Rome, and I couldn't be more excited to get back into the eternal city. I felt a bit homesick for Rome today, which is a good sign. I have a very difficult time adjusting to new places, but Rome is just so comfortable. I'm coming to accept it for its unpredictability, as well as its serendipity. This hasn't come without complications. For example, I've learned that I can't treat my body like a fraternity garbage can, and, though tempting, I really don't have to go out EVERY night. I've learned how to say "move bitch" when attempting to get off the packed buses, and I've learned to always carry cash. Thanks to my best friend Timmy, I've learned that they do indeed have boxed wine here, and that it's really good. I've also learned that if you drink it, Romans will almost certainly think that you're homeless.
It's now 1:22 A.M., and though the man sitting next to me on this train smells like a wheel of Brie cheese, I'm going to attempt to sleep as I'm heading right to school in a short (ha) 5 hours.
Buonanotte bitches!
Risott-hoe
As I’ve previously stated, each week in Rome brings with it a series of personal epiphanies. I can’t attest these realizations to any one thing in particular. Perhaps they’re happening because my comfortable, ranch dressing addicted American ass was catapulted into a different country and way of life. Well, it must be that. I’m out of my comfort zone, and this allows me to think a bit differently than I do in Arizona.
The first epiphany that I had this week was that I will never think that the television show “The Big Bang Theory” is funny.
The second is that I absolutely hate pigeons. My body reacts to these flying rat creatures in a way similar to Caitlyn Jenner’s driving habits: dangerous. I will go flailing into walls, poles, innocent bystanders, etc. The worst part about this is that they're everywhere here, squawking their filthy, disgusting little bodies into every aspect of my life.
The third is that I seriously love cooking, and that Italy is the best place to do it. So far, I’ve had two significant cooking moments in Rome. Mind you, my kitchen--shared by five other 20 year olds--is far from the golden standard of culinary excellence. Think Kitchen Nightmares, but in a cramped corner, starring only me. Nonetheless, cooking is an activity I find to be therapeutic, a sort of natural Lexapro. Also, I’m taking a food writing course, and each week we are assigned a dish to make and subsequently write about.
The first assignment was to go to a farmers market, choose any vegetable, and create something with it. My first step: brainstorming. I grew up watching the Food Network, and always enjoyed Ina Garten’s segments. Though she possesses a mild serial killer demeanor and is definitely cheating on Jeffrey with her florist, her recipes always look incredible. I decided I’d try my hand at making her famous roasted tomato and basil soup. Even though store bought was fine, I did as my professor instructed and travelled to my nearest farmers market to pick up the ingredients. I followed the recipe, left it to simmer away, and made a quick trip to the bar a.k.a. my living room. I drank a full bottle of wine and then checked in on my soup, which appeared to be ready. Definitely have to give it up to Ina--the soup was fabulous.
However, to my dismay, I found myself running straight to the bathroom 45 minutes later. I’ll spare you the details--but I’ll say this: if there’s a Roman version of Montezuma, I apparently drowned his pets or crashed his wedding, because he was getting hardcore revenge. My friends believe this happened because my dumb ass didn’t wash the tomatoes before cooking them, but I think otherwise. Oh, and it definitely wasn’t the wine, either. Either way, I was exploding out of both ends for the rest of the night--but I felt really skinny the next day. You win some, you lose some.
My flight to Berlin this past weekend was canceled due to a labor strike at the airport, leaving me with a good amount of time to tackle my next assignment: risotto. Risotto isn’t the easiest dish to make, because the chef must constantly stir the rice, adding ladles of boiling broth every 2 minutes or so for an hour. Problem #1 arose when I couldn’t find chicken broth at the grocery store. Instead, I had to resort to using bouillon cubes and water. Bouillon reminds me of ramen noodle flavor packets, and those little shits will leave you bloated until 2023. But alas, I made do with what I could, and began the process of making risotto. One of the first ingredients used is white wine, so I made sure to have four bottles ready for the ½ cup the recipe asked for.
After what felt like an eternity--during which my right arm fell off after enduring the most physical activity it’s experienced in 3 years--the risotto finally took to an al dente form. I grated 45 pounds of parmesan on top, and dug in. This is when I experienced a full ayahuasca-esque body/mind/spirit orgasm. The work is WORTH it. I’ve never been one to promote exercise, and the only form I regularly practice is having panic attacks--but cooking risotto is definitely one I can get behind. Oh, and also--risotto doesn’t photograph well. In fact, mine looked like my dog vomited on my plate, so please don't judge me.
This week, I plan on continuing my conquest to find a store in Rome where I can buy a jar of crisp kosher dill pickles. I’ve been craving one harder than Melania is craving freedom. Maybe I’m pregnant?
That’s that for this post. I’ll leave you with one final thought: NEVER, ever take your drying machine or dishwasher for granted.
Copenhagen + 21
I am aware that I’m around 2 weeks late on my posts. In my defense, I've been busy grappling with a weekend-long addiction to Danish hot-dogs and funnelling Florentine wine into my mouth, so I couldn’t find the time to formally sit down and write. I also celebrated my 21st birthday, so...you can take from that whatever you’d like. Traveling while growing older and attempting to develop into a fully formed adult is amazing, but it is tiring as hell.
Two weekends ago I woke up around the witching hour to board a flight to Copenhagen. It was a bit of a last moment decision to tag along on the trip. I’d found myself without weekend plans and booked a plane ticket to tag along with my roommates. On my way to the airport, I realized that I had absolutely no clue what or where Copenhagen was, or what was going on there. When I landed, I was confronted with the horrifying reality that the more northern a city is, the colder the weather is. I stepped off of my plane into the cold Danish air, nipples as hard as ice and curiosity in tow.
What I found was a delightfully charming city. If you’re like me and don’t know what Copenhagen is, it’s a city that’s as funky as Berlin with the coziness of Amsterdam. Our first order of business was to find something to eat. A famous Danish dish is something called smorrebrod, which are tiny open-faced sandwiches, usually topped with some type of pickled fish and vegetables. Since pickled fish is not something I would ever seek out, I stuck with an amazing lobster roll and a beer.
After lunch, we walked to a part of the city called Freetown Christiania. Christiania is an “autonomous” self-governed neighborhood of Copenhagen. Imagine the Portland depicted in Portlandia, but packed into a much smaller space, containing much stranger (perhaps nefarious) individuals. This self-proclaimed “Green Light District” has only three rules:
“1: Have fun. 2: Don’t run--it causes panic. 3: No photos.”
I, of course, without thinking, immediately took a picture of the sign where these three rules are stated. I’m still learning how to not be a tourist, okay? The sale of marijuana and hash is “legal” in Christiania....kind of. It’s illegal in Copenhagen, but there’s a certain respect between the Danish authorities and the residents of the odd little commune. Walking through, we were bombarded with offers to buy joints and blunts and bricks of hash, but didn't partake. (I swear Mom)
Copenhagen is different from Rome in the fact that its topography is as flat as Taylor Swift’s ass. This was a much welcome feature of the city, since it feels like I have to climb 14 miles of Roman hills just to get to a grocery store at home. Another facet of Copenhagen I found particularly fascinating and incredible was the abundance of hot-dog stands lining every street corner. Even after eating at least 32 throughout the trip, I could definitely put one down as I type this. There are also tons of 7-Elevens in the city offering similar hot-dogs, upon which I found myself engorging on at many points.
Saying goodbye to endearing little Copenhagen wasn’t hard. This isn’t because I didn’t enjoy it, but rather because I was feeling homesick for Rome, and looked forward to its warm, welcoming embrace.
Speaking of warm, spring has finally sprung in Rome. From a poetic standpoint, the seasonal transition between winter to spring depicts growth and rebirth. As I was walking home from school last week, I noticed that the cherry blossom trees had suddenly bloomed. The barren skeletons of the trees on my street--almost as if overnight--had proudly re-birthed into their new form, alive and crawling with radiant pink flowers.
The next day was my 21st birthday. I’m a big fan of horoscopes and astrology ( only if I agree with them) and the first line of my birthday horoscope for 2017 was this: “Your birthday this year occurs not long after a New Moon/Solar Eclipse, suggesting a time of new beginnings and fresh energy. You are instinctively starting a new phase in your life.” Now, I’m really trying to avoid being kitschy, but just as the cherry blossoms bloomed into the most vibrant version of themselves, I’m hoping this year will help me bloom into the most vibrant version of myself. I can already feel it happening.
My birthday celebration was better than I could have asked for, surrounded by wonderful friends and shitty vodka. I also think I may have cracked a rib, but that’s a story for a different day.
This past weekend, I travelled to Florence with my study abroad program. There’s not really much to write about Florence. It was fascinating to see the Duomo di Firenze, and the works of art by Michelangelo. The nightlife felt like an episode of Jersey Shore, and my hotel was on top of a Subway restaurant, of which I was a customer three times in two days. But, Florence isn’t Rome. Rome is home. Roma is..homa?
As for this weekend, I’ll be staying home. I have another assignment to complete in my Food Writing class, only this one is to write a recipe. I’m taking this one seriously in hopes to become the next Giada de Laurentis, since she’s the skinniest chef on Food Network.
Ciao!