That's a Wrap

Life is so crazy, you know? I'm in my room in Chicago, the snow falling steadily onto American automobiles. Rome, with all of its life-changing, life-giving, megatronic, megalithic, neon, bruised, tasty, sweet, delicious, juiciness has come to a close for this little girl. I don't mean to get ridiculous but I have to tell you: it was the best thing that's ever happened to me. I needed a breath of fresh air, something to stir me up, a run way for all the restlessness I felt getting stronger inside. And then, I ran free. I met some of the most amazing people and I tasted some of the best vegetables and I saw things mundane, extraordinary, extraterrestrial. If you've read this at any point, thank you so much. And if you haven't, don't worry. It was really for me. I wanted a tiny piece of the goddess for myself for always.

The loves:

Chiara, Zoe, Becca, Courtney, Nicole, Kim, Annelise, Ilaria, Michele, Matteo, Simona, Via Annia (I miss you, dear fountain), and the Goddess herself. I will never forget you, friends. It's not goodbye, but ci vediamo dopo.

Se Telefonando

The women of Via Annia are sick of finals. In the spirit of procrastination, we invited some of our friends for a final feast. There were about fourteen of us, crowded in the usual fashion, eating and chatting. People filtered in and out, the responsible left to study for finals. I was not among this group. Around ten, we dimmed the lights and put on Gloria Estefan. Matteo got into the groove, so much so that he split his pants down the ass. To add insult to injury, he was wearing a faux laurel wreath when this happened. Zoe rolled some sloppy cigarettes and spun me around the kitchen for a while before taking a broom and holding it up to make a limbo bar. At that point, it was a test of flexibility and determination. The wine was flowing and the bar was dipping. After about two hours, the "worst symphony" ever occured. "Se Telefonando," an anthem by 60s sensation Mina, came up on my speakers and among the twinkling lights and empty pizza boxes, the Italians really got going. They were singing their little hearts out, eyes squished and hands clasped. I was sitting on the couch, mouth agape. It knocked the wind right outta me. I wish I could describe the swelling of the chorus, the ridiculousness of the scene, the perfection of this procrastination. After the music subsided, it was time to say goodbye. The American girls kissed their Italian friends goodbye, two kisses for two cheeks, and got a little teary eyed. It seems that after a semester of symphonies and failed quizzes and aching legs, it's almost lights down. Of course, that never stopped us before.

La Vie En Rose

In Largo Argentina, this one woman is always singing. Rain or shine, she is there with pink pants and white hair in a hasty bun. Her melodies are indistinct, somewhere between Edith Piaf and Amy Winehouse. Singer gets this crazed look on her face when she opens her mouth so wide, like she is going to swallow me whole. The people waiting for the bus tend to look away. It's a little heartbreaking. A woman throwing herself into a senseless melody (we've all been there before). And yet, the Singer has become a fixture of the walk to school. From the humidity of August through the drizzle of December, she has been there. And when she isn't, we worry and wonder. It's so strange- the things we've become used to. Who knew I would miss such a spectacle.

Donkey Flip Kick

We sat on the sidelines, watching. It was the last soccer game of the season for the teams and they were ready to bring it. Zoe was also ready to bring it- the Peroni that is. She unveiled it from her new, rather voluptuous, bag along with some ciggys, and chocolate. Game on. Becca, Zoe, Liam and I sat grooving to music and watching the criss cross back front donkey kicks going on. It was a chilly night, the kind where your breath crystallizes in the air before falling suddenly. The players were huffing and puffing (athletically) and flying around. Chiara was, of course, head honcho shouting out orders before she was brutally head-butted. We foresaw a scary bruise but it's alright. Everybody got war wounds this semester. It's not that the game was exceptional or otherworldly. It was really just good semi-clean fun- illicit cheering, running on the turf post-game, and eventually hugging your sweaty compatriots. Epic.

Alejandro

Prague was unreal. The city is something from a Grimm's fairy tale. The pointed towers and gilded clocks glow. I felt like I was floating..maybe that was from the hot wine (it's glorified sangria, let's be honest). We just explored the streets, hands in pockets, and faces to the cold. There were pigs roasting on spits, vendors with vats of oil throwing dough and rolling it into sugar, and nativity scenes. We enjoyed the view from the top of the famous castle, and saw some bizarre items at the 'Communism Museum' which felt more like someone's crackpot scheme to rent out their apartment and throw a few posters on the wall. Unfortunately, at Chapeau Rouge, my girl Chiara's winter coat was stolen by some thief with a pension for faux fur. Wherever you are, dear thief, we curse you. It was chilly, and that was una causa propia cattiva. Luckily, Chiara got something chic from Zara and all was well. She was a trooper and we soldiered through for a walking tour and later, a pub crawl. Don't ask. I never thought I'd do such a thing but hey, when in Prague. It was really fun! We made friends with a boy named Pat who protected us from Taiwanese dance leaders and the rain. And as always, we found ourselves on dance floors and cobblestones. It was the last weekend jaunt for this little traveler. How bittersweet.

Now, I'm in Rome and trying to soak it up. Last night, we danced for a good two hours, in honor of the Virgin's Immaculate Conception. (No school today). I stood in the windowsill for a second and just thought This Is The Best. Gaga was throbbing, yelling "don't call my name, Alejandro." Alejandro may as well be America. I can't wait to get home and see so many things and places but really, I couldn't be happier. So, Alejandro, don't call my name for another two weeks. I want this all for myself. Even if just for a wee bit longer.

Public Service Announcement.

Sometimes I seem naive, superficial, filled with sunshine and roses. Listen world, I'm a good girl gone bad. I'm done ignoring the bitches and hoes. Why am I suddenly angry? Today, I went to di per di, the grocery store near my place. I stood in line with my blueberries and wine, waiting to be rung up. The woman behind the register helped the old man in front of me, asking politely if she could give him a hand or if he needed a bag. He declined and then I stepped up. Her face hardened. The fluorescent lighting wasn't kind, I hate to say it, and I saw every crease deepen. She rang up my goods, scoffing at my selection, and told me the amount. I handed her a twenty. Do you have exact change? she asked me. I told her I didn't. I'd like to interrupt myself for a second. Bitch, if I had exact change, wouldn't I have forked it over immediately? I don't like being weighed down with centessimi, I'm trying to get rid of that business. Anyway, she gave me a cold look and threw my goods down the register. She didn't ask if I needed a bag. I know this sounds entirely minor but the women of di per di are evil. They have artificial black hair and wear their striped smocks with contempt. They are unhappy with my presence. I may live in Italy but I am undeserving of their peroni and prosciutto. They curse the day I ever walked in. Well, guess what, bitch maidens of the grocery store! You may give me sassy looks but you also dance in your little plastic seats to my music. That's right. I'm from America, and when you "rap" along with Kanye, you're reppin my shit. I said it. I might be a little white girl but I got some rage.

I'm taking my saucy self to Prague just to recuperate.

Private Insides

I was scribbling notes today when I saw the insides of a neighbor's notebook. I didn't see anything dirty or embarrassing. Neighbor wasn't drawing hearts or writing Mrs. Blank, her future married name. But I gasped anyway. The girl had the worst handwriting I had ever seen. It was huge and looping and frankly, boyish. I hadn't seen handwriting of the type since fourth grade, when I learned penmanship in my d'nealian workbook. I was so surprised: where did she learn such hideous scrawl? And then I felt judgmental. Why did I expect beautiful even cursive? That wasn't very fair of me. Everyone is entitled to their own chicken scratch. And aren't geniuses supposed to be sloppy and illiterate? I should be grateful. After all, the girl's handwriting was thrilling. Even thinking about it now, my heart quickens a little bit.