High on Altitude

This past weekend was the best weekend of my semester abroad yet, and maybe even the best weekend of my life. Definitely top five. The weekend began with a Thursday evening bus ride filled to capacity with students passing around potato chips and candy bars, goofing around with each other, and eventually wriggling into the best possible positions to daze in and out of stiff-necked sleep. After a nine hour bus ride, we arrived at the ever so famous Balmers hostel, with three hours to sleep until a full day of skiing. Lauren and I had come with three other girls from our apartment building in Florence, but we were both so excited when we were assigned to an eight-person room with three strangers, two of which were boys. Reid and Melissa were traveling from Rome. I thought they were a couple at first, but from the time we checked in until we went to sleep (about 40 minutes later) I could tell they were just friends. The other stranger was a shy boy from Florence whom none of us had ever met. We dubbed him "The Boyfriend" because he didn't really become part of our Balmers family. He and "The Girlfriend" were supposed to have roomed together but they were assigned to separate rooms, so he was pretty quiet and whenever he was in the room, she was right there, PTFO-ed next to him. Reid taught me that acronym, and I told him I was going to make it part of my lingo. Loves it.

After a few hours of tossing and turning and a few winks of sleep, it was go time. Jamie nudged me awake, and I hopped to to get ready. I could hear all the Prague Bus2Alps-ers arriving through the narrow wooden hallways while I washed up at the bathroom sink. Supposedly, this was the big weekend for Prague to come to Interlaken; Florence's big weekend was a couple weeks before. I knew some people studying in Prague and I wondered if I'd see any of them here, but really thought nothing of it. I opened the door and started to wedge myself through the line of Prague students. I looked to my right. "Ohhh, my GOSH!" The person I walked out in front of was Jimmy, one of my good friends from IU! He looked at me blankly, almost long enough that I thought he forgot who I was, but then his face lit up with recognition and we hugged, both excited and surprised to see each other. We told each other we'd meet up on the slopes. I was so excited to have bumped into him, excited to make new friends in the adorable hostel, and excited for a beautiful day of skiing on the Alps.

Kately, the girl I'd met in the bathroom the night before, Lauren, Jamie, and I, tiptoed out of the room so as not to wake our other five roommates and went downstairs to the mess hall for a perfectly simple ski breakfast of muesli, instant coffee, and a banana. After breakfast, we went to the reception desk to sign up for night sledding and canyon jumping and then we walked a couple of doors down the small town road to rent our ski equipment. The man who fitted my boots was so my type. He was a tall, husky, scruffy man with a sweet face and an accent. He wasn't fat, but definitely big-boned, enough that even though my pink ski pants made me feel like a tree stump, I still felt petite around him. So once we'd all rented our ski gear, we went to the bus stop and by chance met Jimmy, his adorable friend Sam, and two of their girl friends from Prague there. Between a bus ride and jumping a few different trains, the trip up the mountain took about an hour. The scene from the train windows was stunning. I've always thought, that of any landscape, mountains have the most personality. They are so vast and massive and seem to communicate with one another. They seem like strong wise old women. They watch over the people within their valleys and around them, but they will become frighteningly angry and unforgiving if taken advantage of. I've been skiing many times and spent a few weeks backpacking in Colorado one high school summer and the Swiss Alps are definitely different than mountains in America. Maybe I only say that because I haven't been to the mountains in a few years, but there are just so many of them, and they seemed grander, prouder, more plentiful than other mountains I've visited. The Prague crew went on their way, and we Florentines decided to start easy and ski a blue trail that would take us pretty far down the mountain. Blues on the Alps are like greens in America; they signify the easiest trails. What a perfect day for skiing. The snow was powder and I let me skis run down the open trails. Everyone was in good spirits. Kately could have been snowboarding on blacks; she is from Vermont and has been skiing since she was three and snowboarding since she was ten, but she stayed with us because she said she was just happy to have found nice people to ski with and in awe of the Swiss Alps on this gorgeous day. Lauren fell about six times, like seriously face-planted deep into the snow, but she maintained her goofy giggle and positive attitude because you couldn't help but glow when you looked out at where we stood. On some of the unpeopled cat trails, when I couldn't see anyone in front of me or behind me, I spread my arms out wide and yelled. The first run was very long. It stretched all the way back down to one of the trains, so when we finished, we had already built up an appetite for cozy ski lodge food. Once we had our food, we shoved our way through awkwardly-walking ski-booted diners and ran into Jimmy and co again. We all had a really nice time eating and laughing together. After lunch, Kately and I went with the Praguers for a bit more of a challenge. Lauren and Jamie found another blue to ski on and we all agreed to meet back at the hostel before night sledding. The weather had gotten worse since the morning and the light on the mountain hid moguls and ice patches, making skiing much more difficult. We only did a few icy runs, and then took a lift to the train station that would take us down the mountain. Music blared from the big tepee next to the tracks, so we walked in and discovered a cozy, bustling bar! We all got drinks (I got spiced hot wine...same drink I bought from a street vendor in Venice and LOVED) and schmoozed with some of the silly, drunken mountain-goers before making our way onto the train. We were all pooped (when I said that to Sam, he said, "Ew, Betsy, TMI." I love quick-witted goofy people!). By coincidence, we caught the same bus back to Balmers as Lauren and Jamie, so we went straight to the ski rental shop to turn in our skis and prep for night sledding. I was kind of nervous, but so excited. Three shuttles of night sledders made our way up through the now moonlit mountains. Literally, we drove through mountains. So cool! Moose, the scruffy shoe-fitter from the morning, was our driver. He told us the main thing we needed to remember was to stay on the white, an avoid the black, because the black was either a tree or the edge of the cliff. Oy. Night sledding ended up being so much fun. I had to get of my sled and walk it a few times to pick up some speed, and I was awful at steering, so I bumped quite a few people, but everyone was friendly and excited. A few times throughout the 45-minute run, the guides told us to leave our sleds and walk off trail a bit to see frozen waterfalls. They were absolutely stunning and brought up everybody's spirits even more. After sledding, we gathered inside a warm-lit, tiny wooded restaurant where we were served a classic, three course dinner of salad, Swiss cheese fondue, and rosti, a dish consisting of greasy hash browns and a fried egg. How's that for soul food?

Although we were exhausted, Lauren and I were so buzzed from the day and everything and everyone around us, that we came back to the room, changed into slightly more presentable clothes, and made our way down to the Balmer's basement-turned-nightclub with Reid and Kately. All of us were shocked when we walked down the stairs into a legit nightclub. I felt like I was in Acapulco again when I entered the people-packed, strobe-lit, techno-thumping room. All four of us had expected something less clubby, with groups of people sitting around wooden booths laughing around pitchers of beer. The club was awesome though! Our foursome quickly came up with a brilliant system of taking turns buying rounds of shots and dancing and taking laps around the club in between. The night was so fun, mostly because of the people I was surrounded by. After vodka shot numero quattro, I was exhausted and headed upstairs to bed.

The next day was the highlight of my trip. Lauren and I woke up around 9:30 to catch the tail end of breakfast and then went back up to the room to meet up with Reid and walk around Interlaken for a few hours before meeting in front of Balmers for Canyon Jumping. Interlaken is teeny and there really isn't much to see, but we had a great time goofing around in random stores, freaking ourselves out about Canyon Jumping, and getting to know each other. Before we headed back to the hostel, we stopped in yet another cozy, wooded restaurant and we each ordered a coffee with Bailey's. Perfetto. It was just what we needed to calm the nerves and satisfy the taste buds.

When we met up with the group of 12, my nerves moved from my head to my stomach. Besides Lauren and I, there was one other girl out of her mind enough to pay almost 100 dollars to jump off a 300-meter cliff. Jennie was a fellow Hoosier studying in Prague. A bunch of the guys were talking all this macho game, like they weren't afraid and they were extreme daredevils. As we got closer to our destination, however, most of them became silent, taking deep breaths and staring out the window. I couldn't believe what I'd gotten myself into. At first, I was driving myself crazy with all the what-ifs. How did they know we'd be safe? Was it true that no one had ever crashed into the rocks, or gotten tangled in the rope mid free-fall? I was not feeling so hot. Jennie and Lauren were fine. They were buzzing excitedly as if they'd just found out their long-time crushes liked them back. After 20 minutes, we got off the bus and looked out at the narrow canyon we'd soon be falling through. Some of my nervousness turned into excitement when we got out of the bus and into the fresh mountain air. I just told myself, "The mountains will take care of you. You have to trust the world around you." I was obviously still nervous as we hiked up to the jumping point, but I wasn't contemplating my death anymore. I knew it would be scary, but I made myself trust the canyon. (I must sound like a crazy hippie right now, but this really was my thought process, and it helped.)

Once we reached the jumping platform, I read aloud this silly contract that said things that mocked how out of our minds we all were. I was starting to feel pretty cool. I didn't realize when I signed up how extreme Canyon Jumping really was. And now I was here, there was no turning back, so I was a crazy daredevil too! After we signed the contract, we made a rough jumping order. While one of the guides was setting something up, another guide harnessed himself, said "See Ya!" and dove off the platform. I screamed so loud and for so long, you'd think it was me flying through the air. I wasn't the only one. We were all immediately glued in a clump in front of the fence, screaming in awe and terror at the demonstration. Joey, the guide who was jumping for the first time with us, had to go last and I wanted to go right before him. I think subconsciously I believed if I stalled long enough, I wouldn't have to go. Don't get me wrong though, at this point I wanted to jump, but I was still absolutely terrified and couldn't quite perceive that I'd actually be jumping, by myself, for a 300 meter free fall. One by one, each person harnessed up, flashed a nervous smile at the photographer hanging by a cord in the middle of the canyon, and 1-2-3 jumped. Whew. Each time was just as scary exciting. As the small group up top got smaller, the waiting was really getting to Joey. "What are we doing!?" he shouted through a wide grin at least three times. I liked going last, because as per usual, I really like pumping other people up. Pre-jump, I'd cheer, "You got this you got this!" and then mid-jump, "WOOOHOOOOO! There you go! WOOOOOO! OH MY GOSH! WE ARE NUTS!" The guide who harnessed each of us up and pushed us off the platform had told us we could either hold onto the rope close to the harness, or we could jump with our hands out, which was a little less safe only because if you tried to hold on mid jump, you could really burn up your hands. "I'm not holding on. Definitely not," Lauren kept convincing herself. She wanted the full experience, and felt she'd be cutting herself short if she held on. She had been wanting to Canyon Jump since she'd heard about one of her friends' experiences. Literally five seconds before she jumped, she grasped onto the rope for dear life and then "1, 2, 3," jumped fearlessly off the platform. The girl flew! I was so proud of her. She screamed the whole way and opened her body up to the canyon as soon as the rope caught and she went from free fall to swing. She looked awesome.

Reid had really shut up since the beginning of the bus ride, and I knew he was afraid of heights, so I thought he was absolutely terrified. He shocked us all, however, when instead of letting himself fall of the platform, he took a couple steps back, and sprinted into the canyon, hands free, and screaming his head off! We were all hooting and hollering for him. Joey was so impressed. "Reid just killed it!"

After quite a while of waiting and critiquing everyone else's screams and jumps, Joey and I were the lone rangers. We jumped up and down, trying to keep warm and keep our nerves down. We took silly Zoolander pics, and we kept talking about how nuts we both were. The guide lured the rope back in and it was my turn. Whew. My stomach is dropping all over again just writing about it! As was his procedure, the silver haired, bad ass facial-haired guide, looked me in the eye, and asked me in his manly Swiss accent, "Are you sure you want to jump?"

"Yes," I responded certainly. As soon as I answered, I walked out onto the platform and all of the nerves I'd thought I'd calmed slapped me in the face and if they could have talked would have been the obnoxious character in Bart's grade on "The Simpsons" saying, "HAHA! We're back! HAHA!" Now, finally, I was jumping. I looked at the camera for my picture, but didn't smile and "1, 2, 3," jumped. I couldn't even scream. My breath and my voice were completely taken and my stomach has never dropped that much in my life. It felt like 2 seconds, but it also felt like an eternity. It was the most terrifying physical feeling of my life. The moment the rope caught up with me and the free fall led into a swing was the best moment. I felt clear and free and I stretched out my body and felt the air and wind around me and screamed, "WOOOHOOOOOO!!! OW OW!!!" After some screams of relief, I just laid back and smiled. I couldn't help but smile. I was in ecstasy. I didn't want to stop swinging there freely among the rocks. Ahh.

After Joey's "Flying Buddha" jump, we all skipped back to the bus and took pictures and laughed and jumped and buzzed and tingled with an energy hard to explain. It was as if we'd all transformed. Lauren and I haven't been the same since. We both left Canyon Jumping and the whole weekend with a new outlook on life. A feeling of wanting to grasp every opportunity that comes our way, a new trust for the world and an appreciation for every person we encounter. We haven't gotten along so well since the trip began, maybe even since we met in first grade. We were such a team that weekend, so appreciative of one another without any sense of competition. Although we are bound to bicker and fall into a few tiffs during the rest of our time together in Florence, we shared a new sense of individuality together that most certainly gave us a deeper understanding of one another and is sure to last a very long time.

Coming back to Florence was bittersweet. I had missed my other two roommates and my apartment and the Italian atmosphere and language, but I would miss the free-spirited fast friendships I'd made, the ease of living in a cozy hostel in a tiny town where trends did not matter and strangers were welcoming, and the surreal mountain atmosphere. It was a flawless weekend I will never forget.

Amsterdam: Men Pee Free and Pay for Kisses

This whole journaling and blogging thing is very time consuming. When I blog before journaling, I feel as though I'm betraying my journal. I love my journal. My Grandma Jackie gave it to me before I went on a trip to Poland and Israel in 2006. I love being able to flip through the golden-edged pages back to random memories and observations from travel experiences throughout the years. On the other hand, I've really taken to this blog. I love that I can write as I'd write in my journal (plus a few read throughs and the thesaurus tool on my widgets) but anybody can read it and kind of get inside my head. Pretty cool. Then again, I want my grandkids to be able to find my journal and read it one day and bring it in for show and tell. Will they be able to do that with a blog? It's 3 am and I have Drawing at 9, so I think I'll just start typing.


Last weekend I was in Amsterdam from Friday morning through Monday morning. We had freezing, rainy weather the whole time, but the weather did not take away from my impression of the city. Although Amsterdam is beautiful and quaint in its own way, its charm is not centered in its aesthetics, but in its people. From start to finish, I was drawn to their positivity toward other humans and toward life in general, and the pride native-born and newly converted Dutch alike have for their city.


The three girls I was traveling with and I arrived late Friday morning, exhausted from an overnight bus, flight, another bus, and 30-minute walk to our hotel, so we decided to take our first half day to tool around the city casually, walking into any store that caught our eye. We'd save the tours and museums for the remainder of the weekend. After a goofy day of almost getting caught for shoplifting when my purse set the alarm off in "Da," Amsterdam's Walgreens, giggling our way through one of many sex shops, and eating enough chocolate to actually make me lose my appetite for sugar for a whole 24 hours, the four of us crashed in our comfy beds and slept soundly through the night.


We woke up early the next morning to head to the Anne Frank House for a self-guided tour. Excerpts from her diary were displayed on walls throughout the narrow-hallwayed, steep-stairwayed house. She wrote about small things she found pleasure in. She wrote that when people are negative or ridiculous in their behavior, we just have to laugh because that's all that can be done. Her positivity was amazing. Today, it is refreshing to find someone with a genuinely positive spirit towards life. Anne was in hiding from the Nazis for two years, living in a time when no one could be trusted. She did not get to ride her bike or sit outside on her front step or play with other children for two years because if she did, she'd be taken to a concentration camp. And she maintained her spirit. It is absolutely amazing to me. Perhaps I'm stating the obvious. I was just so swept and touched by her love for the world and her trust in the goodness of humanity. The most inconceivable part of the visit, was that I walked into the house at 9:15 and walked out at 10. I walked outside, ready for a weekend of more museums and fun. Without question. 45 minutes.


After a quiet, thoughtful walk and a snack, we were off to a free tour of Amsterdam. We were running a few minutes late and missed the group's departure from Central Station, so we literally ran through the streets until we arrived huffing and puffing at the National Monument, the first stop of the tour, just in time to meet our tiny blonde pistol of an Australian tour guide. Amy started the tour with a brief history of Amsterdam, and an explanation of why she loves Amsterdam. It was her birthday, but I have a feeling her great sense of humor and enthusiasm was instilled in her person and had probably been enhanced by her home of four and a half years. Throughout the tour Amy pointed out interesting things I never would have noticed on my own. She taught us about Amsterdam's history in the most personable way, sharing her own opinions of the historical figures without holding back. We walked through part of the Red Light District and stopped at the Oudekerk, meaning literally Old Church. Amy laughed that the Dutch had a way of naming everything exactly as it was. Amsterdam, for example, was originally Amstellerdam, a dam built in the river of Amstel. Another church exists, called the Nieuve kerk, New Church. Their national monument, is literally named, National Monument. She explained to us that the church was conveniently located for sailors who used to stop in Amsterdam to visit the women of the Red Light district, and then feel so guilty afterward and need to confess immediately before meeting another woman or going back to sea.


We stopped in front of a green, squiggly-walled structure on the side of the street and Amy surprised us all when she told us it was a public urinal. They were located all over the city, built in the 60s for sanitation's sake and because the government thought people should not have to pay to pee. This was a great idea, but the women still had to pay. Considering the time, groups of angry, full-bladdered Dutch women would not settle for paying to pee while their male counterparts could chose from a different free stall on every corner. Pencilled in between bra-burning conventions, a group of women protested for public bathroom stalls to no avail. When the government did not react, the women all gathered to urinate on one of the central bridges in the city. And what do you know, they got their stalls! Unfortunately, with the rise of drug use in the 80s, junkies left the cylindrical, now poster-laden yellow stalls unsafe for proper use and the government had to permanently lock them all. However, Amy told us, if any of the ladies had to pee during the tour, she'd gladly point us to the nearest bridge.


In the middle of the tour, on our way to stop for coffee, we crossed a bridge where a smiley group of people about my age were giving away free cookies and brownies. The cheerful trio assured passers by that the sweet treats were drug free; they just felt like doing something nice. This moment was Amsterdam in a nutshell. Friendly people full of love and trust for the people around them. I didn't realize a place like that existed. And on top of their friendliness, the cookie was delicious!

We walked for three and a half hours and learned so much about the innovative city. We learned about the hooks centered below the pointy roofs of every building, why buildings slanted into each other or in front of one another, and why secret churches and coffee shops were welcomed into the community. Although Amsterdam was once a Calvinist city that banned Catholicism, the churches would be a good source of income and therefore were accepted.The government of Amsterdam accepted the buying and selling of marijuana because it is incredibly economical and when sold and used within the strict, logical guidelines set by the government, it is completely harmless. The same logic and open-mindedness applied to the Red Light District. Run by stirct, safe guidelines, the women in the windows work only for themselves and have to pay taxes, so the industtry is highly beneficial to the city. Amsterdam's acceptance of otherwise rejected groups of people or ideas can also be seen in the Jewish history of the city. Jews were tolerated when they immigrated to Holland to escape the Spanish Inquisition because they were generally successful bankers and merchants and were useful to the city. While the Jewish population of Amsterdam was practically demolished by the end of World War II, Amsteram today has one of the largest Jewish populations in the world, and the city's Jewish mayor, Job Cohen, was runner-up for the award of World Mayor in 2006.


Later that night we went on yet another tour, lead by yet another Auzzie gone Amsterdammer. "The Red Light District: Exposed" was everything I ever wanted to know about the Red Light District and more. I started crushing on our tour guide Ryan within two minutes of listening to his strong accent and hearing the respectable way he presented the district. He talked about the self-advertising figures in the windows as business-savvy women, not as whores or pathetic, desperate, objectified women. The district was not scary. We were warned not to take pictures of the women, however, because they were known to throw cups of urin at tourist photographers. There is something about women and urin in that city! Ew. Ryan explained to us the measures of safety the government had instilled. In every room, the women had a button they could push if one of their clients got out of hand. Those men would be beat up and arrested immediately. He explained that because many of the women were working moms, there was a day care located conveniently in the middle of one of the red glowing streets. Supposedly when asked what kind of work their parents did that meant they needed to go to day care after school, one little boy responded, "My mommy gives out free kisses." I kind of loved that.


The next morning we walked through the bitter cold fog to the Jewish History museum, made up of four former synnagogues in the former Jewish quarter. The museum was interesting because the Jews have so much history in Amsterdam, but we didn't need to spend more than an hour there. Afterwards, we trammed to the Van Gogh museum. This was one of the stops I was most excited for because I had completed a four-piece study of a rarely displayed painting in one of my art classes at IU and I hadn't been able to find the painting anywhere. Unfortunately, after gazing at and studying four floors-worth of paintings and sketches, I never found the painting. "Starry Night" wasn't even there. I could hardly feel disappointed, though, because I found so many of the works completely mezmerizing. In order to check our last museum off the list, we had to bare the windy rain and make our way to the "Heineken Experience" where we witnessed beer being made and tasted some of the fresh brew. I'm not a huge beer drinker, so it was cool to see, but not that amazing. Still, I'm glad I did it.


By Sunday night I was ready to get back to Firenze. I missed my roommates and my apartment and speaking Italian. I'd miss Amsterdam though. All weekend I realized I did not feel like an intruder as I have often felt in Florence. I didn't feel like I was polluting a quaint European city by speaking English and carrying around a map. Amsterdam is a city of ideals. At one point in the Red light District tour, when Ryan was taking us through one of the "blue light" streets, I asked him if anti-gay people had ever come through and hurt the men inside the windows. He simply responded, those kinds of things don't really happen here. People mind their own business if they don't agree with someone's choices, but for the most part everyone accepts everyone's right to be accepted.


Although feeling welcome in Amsterdam was refreshing, coming back to Florence felt like coming home. As my Italian and my aquaintance with the randomly intersecting streets of Florence improve, I feel less like an intruder, and more comfortable making eye contact and saying "Buongiorno!" to every fabulously-dressed old woman, sturdy standing doorman, and Gucci sunglassed Italian teenager I pass in the street. Tonight I'm off to Interlaken for a weekend of skiiing and more chocolate! Ciao for now!

Another Best Day

I can't even count how many times I've said to Elyssa, or whomever I'm tooling around Italy with, "Today is the best day!" And the wonderful thing is, it's always true.

I woke up at 9, and then again at 9:10, and finally got out of bed at 9:20, with ten minutes to leave the house according to plan for my first volunteer session at the synagogue. Of course, I left at 9:45 instead, makeup-less with a bushy pony tail sporting gym shoes and work out pants instead of my usual I-won't-stick-out-quite-as-much-if-I-wear-these-jeans-and-boots look. Sorry Italy. Sono Americana. Anyway, I power-walked the path I had just researched on googlemaps and arrived with thirty seconds to stand and stare up at the stunning, surprisingly massive synagogue of Florence. Ah, Hebrew. Seeing ivrit felt k

Important Side Note! This day just got even better when Lauren, Fee, and I were suddenly disturbed from our pleasant computer work by a strange noise. We all unplug from our iTunes and open the living room window to find four men dressed in colonial costumes walking slowly down our tiny street playing bag pipes. Wells in Florence: 80 bajillion dollars. New leather jacket: 140 euro. Colonial men playing bagpipes at 1:30 in the morning on the tiniest street in Florence: Priceless.

Okay, back to the synagogue. Mi dispiace. Seeing Hebrew was even more comforting than seeing English. There are so many Americans in Florence, and most of the locals immediately speak English to us sore thumbs before even attempting Italian. I don't by any means miss English. In a strange way, however, I felt that knowing a decent amount of at least one non-English language compensated for knowing hardly any Italian. Emanuele led me into the preschool room and I met one of the two teachers while the other pulled a howling four year old away from his mother. Emanuele decided I'd come in every Monday morning to help with the bambini. (What a perfect word for children. Practically an onomatopoeia.) Finally, when the other teacher had a spare moment, I was introduced to her and she said something very quickly to me in Italian with a lot of gusto. I had no idea what she had said and my facial expression must have shown that because in choppy English she said to me, "You come here to learn Italian, eh? So I speak to you only in Italian!" I responded, "Bene!" I stayed in the classroom for a while, cutting out paper shapes to tape pictures of the kids onto. I stayed silent most of the time because I felt rude speaking English. Hopefully my Italian will improve quickly and I'll be able to communicate with the bambini and with the teachers after only a couple classroom sessions.

I of course got lost on my way back home. It's strange. I can get almost anywhere flawlessly, but as soon as I try to trace my footsteps, I second guess myself into a giant knot of narrow roads and street names that might never stick to my memory until my only hope of finding home is looking for the Duomo above rooftops. That is one of the many reasons I've decided Florence is the perfect place for me. It's so tiny that I can never get that lost or be that late.

When I finally made my way home, I made my face and hair less offensive to the human eye and Lauren and I headed to the Central Market. We'd been wanting to go to the Central Market since week one, but it's only open til 2:30 and we just never made it there. We tried to find it one of our first days in Firenze before meeting friends for lunch but of course got lost and ran out of time. The Central Market is a foodie's amusement park. You immediately know you can trust the quality of everything in there. The market is pretty much a 2-story warehouse with a variety of different stands specializing in all kinds of fresh produce, pasta, meat, and fish. Lauren and I weaved our way around every counter, oo-ing and ah-ing at the pasta and produce and wincing at the skinned rabbit bodies, calf heads, and mystery pig and chicken organs. Already, my Italian is getting better. I was able to ask for two blood oranges, eight clementines, sun-dried tomatoes, and a taste of dried fruit in a mixture of Italian, finger pointing, and violent head nodding. Mercato Centrale is right behind the leather market, so we of course had to say "Ciao" to our best friend Massimo before heading home. Lauren ended up buying another great-looking jacket and we stayed and talked to Massimo and Ferri for at least 45 minutes. Ferri told me all about the history of Iran. Massimo said he'd come with me to the synagogue next Monday morning. I actually believe him! We'll see. (I'll explain Massimo in a later blog, but in brief, he's a quality leather salesman and a wonderful man who all the American Jewish girls studying in Florence know and obsess over.)

The day ended with my friend Kara's birthday dinner at Dante's. The wine was free flowing, which always makes for a fun get together. On the way home, before crossing the bridge back to our side of the Duomo, we stopped at best gelato place of my life. Tiny portions for cheapsies on top of the best consistency and flavor flave yet. Life is beautiful.

Italian Flamingoes and Feathered Cats

Carnevale is a celebration that takes place ten days before Lent and ends on Mardi Gras. It's celebrated all over Europe, but Venice is known for having one of the most elaborate celebrations. I went this past Saturday with my roommates and three visitors from Barcalona for the last weekend of the festival.

I had figured because of all the hype, that Carnevale was a crazy day of binge drinking like Mardi Gras and it would be super crowded and prime time for pick pockets but if in Italy during the festival, it was a must-go. Once on the bus, Sean, the trip organizer explained that while we would most definitely see intoxicated Italianos and tourists alike, the festival was not what most of us frat-tastic college-goers were accustomed to back at school. I was immediately more excited. Sean explained that he would be leading the group to Piazza St. Marco, the heart of Carnevale, but that we did not have to follow him if we for example, wanted to break off and head to the Jewish Quarter first. Elyssa and I really wanted to go to the Jewish Quarter, but twenty minutes into the walk with 45 more minutes to the Piazza, we saw how insanely crowded the streets were and decided to stick with Sean and go back to the Jewish Quarter after a few hours.

Our walk through the old city of Venice was an experience within itself. We passed over countless bridges overlooking gondola rowers in the black and white striped getups and wide-brimmed black hats I'd only seen in movies. The streets were even narrower than the streets in Florence and they were decorated overhead by strings of blue and gold Italian lights. We walked past old women dressed in elaborate floral-embroidered 17th century satin gowns and powdered wigs, new families dressed head to toe as bears and their cubs or lions and their kittens, and groups of drunk men donning priests' collars. Every so often, the crowded street would clog to take pictures of or merely appreciate especially creative, beautifully costumed troops. We came across four boldly-colored cat people in blue, red, yellow, and black feathery full-body robes and spooky cat masks shaped into pompous facial expressions. When they started to walk away, I didn't realize my shoe was on one of their feathers and I swear, I almost got clawed. Anyone who wasn't decked out in costume was wearing a beautiful mask or vibrant face paint. I bought a light blue mask embellished with dark blue and gold glitter. Soon after making our purchases, Lauren was quick to spot a group of Italianos who couldn't have been far from our age dressed as flamingoes and teletubbies. We excitedly asked if we could take a picture with them. They were either pretending not to understand anything we said for their own entertainment or truly didn't understand English. Either way, in the midst of trying to convey that we wanted them to be in a picture with us, not for them to take a picture of us, one of the flamingoes repeatedly pecked my head with the fuzzy beak that protruded from his forehead. I giggled, but by the tenth peck, I turned around and almost said, "Dye Maspeek!" but remembered that I wasn't in Israel. We took the picture and the flamingo immediately grabbed me and pecked me with his other pecker for just a few moments passed silly. I pulled away and my friends and I were hysterical! The raggazi were harmless and kept walking, but we made sure to wait for them to get ahead before we headed in the exact same direction.

We were in Venice for a few hours before reaching Piazza St. Marco. When we finally entered the square, I didn't know where to look first. The square is a huge open space that opens up to the water. The buildings bordering the square reminded me of the Vatican with their Romanesque arches and a layout that affords the Cathedral the most attention. Everywhere I shifted my eyes, a group of self-proclaimed photographers oodled over one costume or another. One man dressed as Noah and walked around the festival wearing a canoe-sized arc around his waist. Little girls and their puppies wore matching colonial dresses with fancy feathered hats. Tobacco-breathing elderly women in wigs and metallic, layered gowns were escorted by their courtly husbands toting matching, paisley-patterned tuxedos, ruffly waistcoats, and three-cornered hats. Have I mentioned yet that all four of us carried around our own bottles of wine all day? Taking swigs when we so desired, we blended in to the spirit of the festival perfectly. One of my proudest moments in Italy so far was definitely when my roomies and I were posing for a picture for one of our own cameras when all of a sudden we attracted a crowd of picture snapping onlookers! We could have posed for an hour straight; we were all so proud! As the sun set, we walked and gulped our way through the flow of the bustling crowd and even as chilly turned to cold, I couldn't wipe the smile off my face.

I've never seen so many happy, strange-looking, beautiful people in one place at the same time. I was standing in the middle a mass of people in the most extravagant costumes I've ever seen, a parade of giant, glowing mechanic creepy crawlers slugging their way through the audience, and decorations that must have taken months to prepare, and yet, there was a simplicity in the crowd. For one of the first times in Italy, I felt only love coming from the locals around me. Strangers just appreciated each other's costumes, their smiles, their presence.

When we left Piazza St. Marco, the sun had completely set and the Italian lights and storefront displays were even more charming and romantic than they had been in the light of day. We still had a few hours before departure from the buzzing city of water and we were all on a mission to find sweets. We strolled over bridges, through more narrow pathways, and passed stands full of more stunning masks. Now far from the Piazza St. Marco, we arrived at the candy stand we had passed on our way into the city in the beginning of the day. A male dance instructor and his female associate led cheerful families in Italian folk dancing. We obviously had to join in. Ashley, one of the Barcelona visitors, and I were dance partners and we couldn't stop giggling the entire time, messing up almost every step, then thinking we had the steps down, and then clapping at the wrong time and bursting into giggles again. It was so fun! We stuck with the dancing the longest of any of our friends, but then decided it was time to give up on and indulge in something sweet. I got a white chocolate-covered banana on a skewer. I don't even like bananas, but the 45 seconds I took to devour the sweet treat added to a whole day of perfect moments.

After more than our share of sugar, we were back to our search for the train station where we would meet Sean before walking to the buses with the group. We found the station easily, window-shopped more patisserie, tried some of Venice's hot spiced wine (which I wish my family could taste because they would label it a "Bets food" right away), did the macarena with a crowd of masked and costumed travelers, and sat on the steps by the water, reflecting on the perfect day.

Elyssa and I never made it to the Jewish Quarter, but I have no regrets about my Carnevale Venezia adventure. I loved Venice so much that I know I will be back at some point in my life, and then I will go to the Jewish Quarter. Venice was only our second trip out of Florence (the first was a visit to both Pisa and Lucca). I can't wait to see what's next. Ciao!

Welcome to Firenze!

After yet another "hurry up and wait" experience transferring our luggage from the big tour buses to the smaller buses that would take us to our apartments, we were just minutes away from moving in. The other passengers and I sat gaping out the windows of our Mercedes minibus as it drove over the Arno, squeezed through the quaint, narrow streets of Firenze, and passed by street art and stylish Italians toting shopping bags. We quickly approached a street defined by high-end stores dressed in charmingly old-fashioned stone walls. Gucci, Fendi, Cavalli, Bvlgari, Dior, and the bus stops. "Okay we here!" our advisor, Milva tells us. The ten of us living in Trebbio 8 screamed, shocked that we would be living off of one of the nicest streets in Florence. The other two girls looked intimidated at the amazingness of our location, but none of us even tried to hide our excitement. As each one of us brought a bag up the stairs and entered a room, there were more screams. Our apartment is amazing. I wasn't expecting nearly so nice a place. We have two two-bed rooms each with its own bathroom and plenty of closet space. We have an adorable living room and kitchen with cute arched entryways and windows and two white couches. We have nice, modern appliances, including heat which we were warned about. The place is great and safe and my roommates and I felt immediately at home. It was so nice to finally unpack our clothes into closets instead of living out of our suitcases in one cluttered hotel room.

Benvenuti in Italia! First Stop, Roma

One of the major perks of the Wells in Florence program was the four-day orientation to Italy in Rome. Upon our first night, we were introduced to the stunning Trevi Fountain, which was just a five minute walk from our hotel. The walking tour was supposed to go on for a few hours, but in the midst of taking pictures and trying to keep track of all of our roommates, three of us got separated from the group and after a fair amount of walking ignorantly around the same two blocks, we found the hotel again and met the rest of the group at dinner. I was so excited for my first meal in Italy! I had heard nothing but amazing things about true Italian cuisine, and assumed that anything I tasted in Italy, whether it be a two-euro panini in a cafe, or spaghetti bolognese at the chic restaurant down the street, would not just be eating, but rather, a life-changing food experience. Not so. The first dinner was fine. Actually, all of the food in Rome was fine. It was included in the program, and cooked in mass for our whole group, so we didn't get to taste the raved-about authentic Italian cuisine until Firenze. Anyway, I was happy just to finally be sitting down in a warm-lit restaurant with a glass of wine, a bowl of nothing-special pasta, and easy conversation with my new roommates.

The next day we were split into touring groups and I was assigned to tour guide Federico, the best tour guide I've ever encountered in my entire life. Federico showed us the Colusseum, the Trajan Market, the Arch of Constantine, and the ruins of the Roman Forum. He spoke about Julius Caesar as if he had known him well, and experienced the tragedy of one of the senators who had had no choice but to assassinate the man who created democracy in Rome in order to save any chance of future democracy. While that first full day in Rome was cold and rainy, Federico held my attention the entire time.

That night, after warming up in our cramped hotel room and convening with our program at the restaurant from the night before, a group of us headed into the city to find something fun to do. We clicked around the cobblestone, taking sporadic turns and crossing random streets, and giggling at some of the inappropriate terms I found flipping through my new bible, my Italian phrase book. (Calma!=Easy tiger!) After a while, we stumbled upon a gargantuan stone, cylindrical structure. Approaching the structure, I got the same feeling in my stomach I did watching "Cast Away," when all of a sudden a gray whale swims slowly by Tom Hanks on his raft. This has got to be something important, I thought. "The Pantheon! Oh my gosh we just walked up to the Pantheon!" I was in absolute awe. After a few minutes of staring, we decided to keep trekking to find a cute place to sip on some vino. We turned the corner onto what I thought then was a narrow street, but looking back, was an eight-lane highway compared to some of the streets in Florence. We found the perfect wine bar and ordered bottle after bottle and laughed and gabbed and took pictures for hours until our waiter made it obvious to us that he was ready to clean up and go to bed. He was very friendly though and left us with a big block of dark chocolate to chip away at before we left. We returned two nights later, but our fave waiter wasn't there, so it wasn't quite as magical as the first night.

The next day kind of put a damper on orientation and made everyone antsy to get to Florence and settle in our homes for the next four months. This was the day we took a three hour bus ride to Pompeii, an ancient city that was completely buried after the eruption of the volcano, Mount Vesuvius. Marco was our tour guide in Pompeii and like Federico, was truly passionate about the contents of his tour. The issue was, no one had eaten anything since seven in the morning before we boarded the buses, and the tour was way too long. So everyone was hungry and tired and became uninterested after a couple hours. To make matters worse, we were trapped walking around in a group with the "coasties." I hate to generalize, but there are a bunch of seriously nails-on-a-chalkboard-annoying girls on Wells who all happen to be from a certain area of the United States. So we finally ended the tour, finished yet another good but nothing special meal, and headed back onto the tour buses. The buses drove along part of the coast, which was super cool and beautiful but gave us an achy-necked six hour bus ride back to Rome. It ended up being kind of awful. Pompeii was very interesting, but seeing it wasn't worth the perpetual bus ride with obnoxious coasties.

Our last full day in Rome made up for the Pompeii setback. Well, we were not technically in Rome. The Vatican is actually its own city-state, ruled by the Pope. The neighborhoods surrounding the Vatican are more charming than the area we'd yet conquered (as Federico would say), and the sun finally decided to come out. Everything is better in nice weather. The tour started outside the Vatican museums, in front of posts that pictured the Sistine Chapel. Photographs in the Sistine Chapel are not permitted, nor is talking, so Fedi explained Michelangelo's revolutionary work from outside. Wow. I don't think I'll go into the details of Michelangelo's process in this blog, but it's literally unbelievable. Once again, Federico's passion for everything he explained to us almost brought me to tears. (And almost brought him to tears if you ask me!) We started into the museums. We conquered rooms covered by paintings and tapestries and filled with statues that transformed the use of light and dark, of perspective, of color; art that depicted the history of Catholicism and of the Greek gods; and art that became the foundation of everything we see in today's museums, and in architecture all over the world. We entered the School of Athens room. That was definitely one of my favorites. The colors are bright and whimsical and the characters have so much personality. On the lower left corner of Raphael's wall-sized painting one student studies, while his slacker friend comically looks over his shoulder to copy his notes. The blue sky behind Grecian columns sets the mood for the Renaissance painting. Ugh, love.

Our last room of the tour was none other than the Sistine Chapel. It is a magical room. Relatively silent aside from the clicking of Italian boots and murmur of whispers, the biblical figures sitting on the tops of sky-high walls and coming out of the ceiling, investigating which wall moldings were part of the architecture and which were painted on, and figuring out the iconography of the chronological pictures that line the wall could have kept me in the sanctuary for hours, even days. (Woah, run on. Tried to edit some of it out...couldn't. Mi scuzzi.) On a high from our tour, my roommates and I stayed with Federico for the optional explanation of St. Peter's Basilica and then took the rest of our time in the Vatican slowly gliding through the Basilica, which I loved even more than the Sistine Chapel and got to take pictures of!

Leaving Rome was bittersweet. I couldn't wait to get to Florence and actually live in Italy, instead of living out of a suitcase and traveling everywhere with a guide and a tour bus. But I would most likely not be coming back to Rome, the city my sister fell so deeply in love with, and a city whose history and life I had hardly dipped my feet into. Overall, it was a great orientation to Italy and made me excited to keep learning about history where it happened and art where it was created, and to finally have a food experience, and to become immersed into the Italian culture for the next four months of my life.

Late Bloomer

I am now 22 days into my semester abroad and I've finally decided a blog is a must. I struggled with the idea for a while. I've been doing a pretty good job keeping up with my journal, but that's just for me. I've sent sparse updates to those whom ask, not wanting to go on and on about my feelings and transformations and all that cheesy stuff over Facebook or email, but it's not enough. So this blog is for whomever is interested in the specifics of my travels. I hope you enjoy.