Let the Games Begin

As a striking young girl teeters on high heels through the narrow Florentine streets, several older Italian men perched outside their storefronts light their hungry eyes on her, planning their attack of seduction. The girl is bright-eyed, energetic, unassuming, and naïve-aka, American. To be in her close company would be like taking a swig from the fountain of youth for any older male. After spending just a week in Florence, I knew I wouldn't be spending vanity time trying to impress the guys here. Italian or not, they all warrant the label "creepy." But after spending a few months here, I have noticed a trend: younger girls with canoodling with older guys. Although the age difference can be extreme, and therefore condemned by society, aged men on the prowl aren’t deterred by the inevitable side effect of being labeled as a sexual predator.

There is a common perception that when a younger woman is seen with an older male, she is being taken advantage of. But women who involve themselves with considerably older men are well-aware of their actions. And assuming they have a working pair of legs, they can walk away from any withering catcall that beckons for attention. Young hot rods have a clever agenda in getting their tanks filled free of charge. It is well known that girls don’t have to pay cover fees to get into clubs, nor spend money on drinks. But the alcohol-induced happiness that a free drink from a young guy brings is fleeting. It’s the summer houses, swanky hotel rooms, and elegant dinners with older men that stick (at least in one’s memory). Older men flaunt their power, assets, and money, and because of this, younger guys will always feel the shortcomings of struggling to achieve the goal their predecessors have already attained. Most women don't want to idly stand by their working-class heroes with the promises of the future. They want it now, and with an older man, younger girls will always be treated like, or at least feel like royal princesses. They have the comfort of escaping to a breezy Malibu beach house, lounging by the pool, and dining on fresh lobster, all on someone else’s tab. Barbie, eat your heart out.

Reminded of America’s Puritan beginnings (other than on our favorite food day), some Americans still hold harsh criticisms towards overt sexualization. Moral Americans are quick to judge relationships between couples with a defining age gap. Even with the popular coined phrases like “MILF” (mom I’d like to fuck), and “DILF” (you get it), the public still seems to be adamantly against relations between older and younger men and women. Sixteen-year-old pop star Miley Cyrus, the shiny face of Disney's popular "Hannah Montana," is questioned for being linked to twenty-year old underwear model Justin Gaston. For the mathematically challenged, that’s only a four-year age difference. But because Gaston is a sexual icon, it is an uncomfortable situation. And when the age gap is ten years or more, the road bending over the river and through the woods to grandma’s house becomes significantly more unwieldy.

When the controversial film, The Graduate, first appeared in theaters in 1967, people were shocked. For the time, a movie containing adultery, nudity, and sex, was extremely bold. The film exposes an affair between a college graduate and his parents’ friend, Mrs. Robinson. Being an older, provocative, and intimidating married woman, Robinson successfully seduces a young graduate. Her prowess in her state of affair has mandated "cougar" stardom, the cherry on top of the contentious sundae. As exhibited in the movie, there are precautions and secrecy involved in propelling a relationship between a man and woman of very different ages. Rule number one, when booking a hotel for a secret rendezvous, using a fake name, such as Mr. Gladstone will guarantee anonymity. The stealthy planning of clandestine meetings provoke feelings of a special bond between an older male and younger female. Even if the girl isn’t looking for love, it’s hard to resist a senior James Bond. But these sentiments are sometimes one-sided.

Older men who make the lifestyle choice to surround themselves with “pretty young things,” are nowhere close to monogamy. In lieu of a mid-life crisis, or for the indefinite pursuit of younger women, many men try to score as many dates a week as will fit in their electronic BlackBerry schedules. This outlook coincides with the Hugh Hefner approach. The "Playboy" magazine mogul who is now 83, has been married and divorced two times. Since then, Hefner has been known to juggle no less than three girlfriends at a time. Kept busy with all those bunnies running around, settling down isn’t his strong suit. According to an online entertainment source, Hefner thinks, "...that relationships with young people keep you young. I get older but they stay the same.” In the same way collagen will only temporarily conceal wrinkles, hanging around younger people will only make one feel youthful.

Still, many men hold the desire to be viewed as a stud until death, when the reality of the situation, and the fragile male ego may break at this, is that everyone, at some point in time, will age and become less desirable. The only outlet available to maturing men is to immerse themselves within an entourage of young women, and plenty of them. But for how long? The relationship, however exciting in its mysticism, is a fantasy. And when Disneyworld’s dazzling Magic Kingdom closes its gates at midnight, the enchantment fades.

CoffeeCoffeeBuzzBuzz

I've come to the point where I just ignore health articles about such things like breakfast, chocolate, coffee, and sleep. They're good for you, they're bad for you..it's emotionally draining. I know that I need all of things to function, so reading into them seems unnecessary. Admittedly, I am a coffee junkie. I need to drink 10 cups of the little blend Italian machines whip up just to satisfy my typical intake of 3 (regular) cups a day. Whether it is beneficial or not, there is nothing like a cup of coffee to jump-start your day. But all it takes is an article about the coveted bean to ruin it...

This article details how coffee negatively impacts your health. What was most disconcerting was that it said that coffee is a drug, and that your body enters a phase where when it doesn't receive enough, it goes through withdrawal. And I know that if you start with one cup a day, eventually you'll need to have two just to feel the same effects. What the article failed to mention, aside from the health aspect, is that it promotes socialness.

I think that coffee is a way for friends to sit down and catch up with one another. It also serves as a way for those who don't know each other to do so. Can a social norm (i.e. let's go to coffee), be considered bad for you? Because I believe that there is nothing sweeter than an iced coffee caramel delight complimented by some juicy gossip. But you didn't hear it from me.

A Little Birdie Told Me...

When Paul Revere rode horseback through cobbled streets and screamed, "The British are coming!" people barely had time to spread the word and gear up. Too bad they didn't have Twitter back then. A simple Tweet could have saved poor Revere a long journey, and sore throat.

The invention of the internet has brought about major advances in news media, one of them being that information can be spread with the click of a button. CNN, for example, uses Twitter to report news in Iran regarding unfolding events related to the elections. It serves as a quick and easy way to get the word out.

But news corporations aren't the only ones with the ability to put forth needed information. The term "citizen journalist" was coined when regular people began posting videos and statements about events that affected us as a nation, and were ultimately used by news sources and broadcasted. Just this weekend, Nashville suffered from a severe flood that damaged numerous houses, buildings, and cars. I guess the country is in too much of a deficit to record footage from a chartered helicopter, because this disaster was recorded by Nashville residents. Pictures and videos of the devastating sites can be found on Twitter and Youtube.

With a plethora of information available online and a decrease of print newspapers, it is no doubt that the media is moving into the Cyberspace community. Should the new neighbors be welcomed, or is the line between news media and the general public too thickly drawn to cross? Because online, anyone can be someone, even a journalist. But wouldn't that make journalists no one?

F My Life

There is no better way to form connections with people than bonding over the humiliating stories of others. Enter fmylife.com, a site where users can post embarrassing stories about themselves, and read ones from others. Originating in France, the ‘Vie de Merde’ site was Americanized to ‘Fuck My Life.’ Although the title got lost in translation, the sensation of the website hasn’t. It yields about one million hits a day. I guess about a million people suffering from their own sorry lives cope by injecting themselves with a boost of self-confidence from reading the blunders and misfortunes of others. Lee Greenwood might want to make some changes to his song.

In a sense, people are confessing, telling their stories of misfortune, and at the same time they read other people's stories. There is an understanding that these things can happen to anyone. I don’t have to be Nancy Drew to figure out that the World Wide Web is a community within itself. But is the message of fmylife.com telling it’s community that it’s perfectly fine to feed off of people’s calamities? Indeed it is. The website features a tool where one can read a story and then vote whether the story writer’s life is fucked or if it was deserved. And the writers only have three-hundred characters to tell their condemned tales, the last three characters being FML.

One of the top FML posts is: “Today, I received my passport in the mail. They got my birthdate wrong. Then I picked up my birth certificate that I had sent in with the application. Turns out my parents have been celebrating my birthday on the wrong day for 16 years. FML.” Unlike this story, some aren’t deemed worthy enough to even make it onto the website. There are moderators assessing people’s submissions to make sure they are unfortunate enough. And to fit a particular mood, users have the convenient ‘categories’ tab, where they can choose what kind of stories they are interested in. The site is a black hole of sick humored parasites who jump from story to story, feeding off awkward and mortifying accounts. And I’ve fallen into it. FML.

What Happened Last Night?

''Carbo load every day and drink up every night,'' my friend advised me. Most people think that studying abroad entails inebriated nights only remembered through tagged photos on Facebook. And they could not be more right. With the drinking age only set at 18, it is hard to resist the temptation to buy booze and throw back beers at bars and clubs. After all, studying abroad is a semester of partying. But after a recently daunting event where a boy on the program drunkenly climbed over his balcony fence and fell four stories, my mindset is starting to shift.



Am I acting wreckless? I am nervous that my carefree Italian attitude, and love of alcohol, might get me into more trouble than a regrettable romantic decision. People clearly act stupidly when under the influence and always think that nothing bad will ever happen to them (me included). But when it does happen, the rules change. And I think the laws should too. While studying abroad, students can either further their alcoholism or start it. It wouldn't be terrible to take precautionary measures against students' alcohol conspumption. I don't mean that it should not be allowed, but perhaps there is a happy medium that could be reached without being overbearing. Am I wrong?

What Happened to Getting 'The Skinny?'

       I was at Wendy's when I first learned what a calorie was. My dad took me and a friend for celebratory burgers and fries after losing a soccer match (we were still winners at life). 

''I wonder how many calories are in this,'' said my friend, examining a limp fry. At first I was excited about what a calorie was, thinking it was a really cool term only related to potatoes. I was wrong. 

Now, consuming way more calories than I should (gelato is the culprit), there is a new term on the block: fat. Many people are unfortunately too familiar with it, but don't know what it looks like in its natural form. But if you ride the subway in New York, you're in luck! The New York City Department of Health and Mental Hygiene just released new subway ads that feature human fat being poured out of a soda can. And yes, this is fat not fiction. 

Personally, I do not think it is a secret that processed foods and beverages that are high in sugar are causes of weight gain. Everyone knows. It is a personal choice whether you want to care or not. I don't need to be slammed with disgusting images on my way uptown (there are enough of those in subways already).  Is this campaign necessary or just annoying? Chew on it before spitting out a response... 

The Tech Age

Since I was young, new social media phenomenon have come and gone. Blogger has replaced Live Journal, Facebook has replacedMyspace, and virtual communities have replaced physical ones. Sounds crazy, right? But think about it. How often do you log into Facebook, Twitter, or AIM? Most would say every day. I don't think this is a bad thing, we are just keeping up with the times. We're living in the Jetson-age rather than the Stone Age. And with so much progressive technology that makes our hectic lives so simple and easy to maintain, that's definitely something to YabbaDabbaDoo about.

Normally, a groom will say ''I do,'' and kiss the bride. This newly-wed did things a little unconventionally, updating his facebook status in between steps. But sometimes I fear that being online takes precedence over being present...even at one's own wedding. If I was the other person standing on that alter I'd probably tell him to to re-update it to single. That should be a fun walk of shame down the aisle!

I'd like to say that there are only a select few that are bred with this kind of ''specialness'' (like the cast of Jersey Shore). But according toMark Zuckerberg, such social media stints won't be so unlikely in the future. Zuckerberg sees Facebook as a kind of technological take-over. Let's just hope he uses his powers for good and not evil...even though interviewing with Forbes makes that wish questionable. Feast your eyes on The Facebook Invasion.

I'm wondering if the coined joke is even funny anymore, or just true. Is nothing official unless it's Facebook official? Even our lives? Young tech-savy CEO say what?

When Dinner Means Dinner

Still buzzed from the incredible wine I had at dinner, I can't help but relish in my good mood. Kelly and I went out to eat with these two Italian men we met over the weekend, and despite my fear of being pressured into a post-dinner embrace, I was happily surprised to be let go after a simple European kiss on the cheek. No obligations, no expectations; that's my kind of date. And surprisingly, they want a second one. I guess guys really do like a chase.

On our way to the David statue by Michelangelo, where we met Alberto and Mirko, Kelly and I got lost. Typical. But after asking for directions in our butchered Italian, a nice Moroccan guy sipping beer out of a brown bag offered to walk us there. We conversed in French after he picked up on my accent, and asked if he could take me out for a coffee. This would have been fine had I not been on my way to a date. I politely declined, and said we were fine to wait for our friends to meet us once we got to the statue, but he lingered regardless. And when our dates arrived, he stayed too. You know when people make a turtle with their hands to signify an awkward moment? Well, this was like that, but with a giant sea turtle instead.

Once the fifth wheel got the hint and rolled on, Mirko and Alberto led the way to a charming Italian restaurant near the Ponte Vecchio. It's easy to walk past, as it is situated within the faded stones of an ancient tower, amongst the antique and arts shops. But after stepping inside the inviting air of Osteria del Cinghiale Bianco (The White Boar), and being seated by Massimo, the jolly and hearty owner, there is no way I would now be able to overlook this trattoria. Lit by candles, and definitely an older crowd, I became wary of this 30 year old Italian man I knew almost nothing about. The entire walk over I spat out information about my hometown and college in New York, so during dinner I decided to take on the role of inquisitor. Alberto opened up about his family and told me a lot of fascinating Italian history that was ten times more interesting learning about over steak and red wine than in a stuffy classroom.

Relaxed and at ease, I felt like I was getting an authentic Italian experience. Maybe the trick is to date a local..or drink a lot of strong wine, either way. But I did my best to use my Italian, even though only a word or two trickled out between sips. My date thought it was adorable, and gave me the look. Yup, the fatal "I like you" look. Now, I'm not being arrogant, nor am I being naive. I know this guy is 30, and is probably looking for what all single 30 year old men seek, but that look has no age limit. I know because it even happened to my rigid grandfather when my dog jumped on the table one Thanksgiving. He cocked his head to one side and smiled with his mouth, and with his eyes. It's always the same. Or maybe I'm just vain...because this post is about me.

The meal lasted longer than I thought, and the company definitely surpassed my expectations. We said our goodbyes after I made it clear that I had an early flight to catch, and after agreeing to another evening out, we turned down separate narrow alleys and disappeared in the darkness. Heels clacking against the uneven cobblestone, I locked arms with Kelly and said: "I am really glad that dinner was just dinner."

Reality Check

Being abroad is kind of like an escape from the real world. I am mindlessly swiping my piece of plastic and planning trips to other countries, overlooking the fact that I am kind of broke. Fortunately, my personal bank (The Bank of Dad), has a no-penalty policy for overdraft fees. But once I return home, the frivolity ends and reality begins.

I am transferring back to Eugene Lang: The New School for Liberal Arts, and breathe a refreshing sigh of relief every time I think of returning to my small, undeniably hipster(y) college in downtown Manhattan. The only reason I ever left was to alleviate some of the financial burden. But unable to stay confined within Stony Brook's middle-of-nowhere campus and aching to be shoved into buildings by quick-stepped New Yorkers racing down the sidewalk, I am taking on the staggering tuition fee independently. Meaning, I'll need to take out student loans, which consequently translates into debt.

Just two semesters shouldn't be a problem. I'll make it back in a year, easy. But after coming across an article from The Wall Street Journal, I'm not feeling so assured: http://online.wsj.com/article/SB20001424052748703389004575033063806327030.html

Does this mean I should expect to pay way more than I'll be told? Will there be absurd inflation rates if I don't go through the "right" company or allow for adjustable payment terms? I just learned how to make pasta, this seems like too big of a leap. As money-conscious students, what do we do?

Drink All Day, Play All Night, Let's Get it Poppin'..I'm in Venezzia!

The first carnival I ever went to was at my overnight camp for the 4th of July. I was ten, so naturally I thought the cheap decorations and games the older campers put together were awesome. Ten years later, on a train coming back from the Carnival in Venice, I scoffed at this memory, for I had just experienced one of the most outrageous festivals in Europe. Every year before Lent, cities all over the world host wild celebratory festivals. I was fortunate enough to join the party in one of the most beautifully picturesque cities in the world-Venice. Known for romantic gondola rides and tender canals that flow throughout the city, Venice is a honeymooner's dream. Except during Carnival.

A trail of confetti guided Paula, Kelly and I from the small train station to the Piazza San Marco, an enormous square filled with empty wine bottles and clusters of costumed Italians and foreigners alike. Every shop we walked slowly past sported walls of detail-oriented masks. I wanted all of them. We even met a mask-maker who explained the history behind some of faces and showed us how he makes them in his shop. He proceeded to dress me in a cape and glittery purple mask that made me feel like a performer in Phantom of the Opera. But my stage fright showed when he tried to kiss me. Cue curtain fall.

After crossing bridges, pausing every so often to take a 'send home to the parents' snapshot, and stepping inside every shop to try and find the perfect mask, I spotted a winner. The process reminded me of when I got my dog, Miki. He was the only white husky sliding around the antique shop in Boston where the owner's dog gave birth a few weeks prior. With one blue eye and one brown eye, I knew Miki Blue Eye was a keeper. I had the same feeling when I saw my mask. The intricate details making up the face of a cat was the stunning work of a conscientious Venetian. Illustrations of the canals on the cheeks, music notes above the eyes, a gold trim around the eyes, and contrast of black and white made this mask as weird and desirable as my blue and brown colored eye dog. Strangeness attracts me.

Strolling alongside other veiled faces added an exciting element to our trip. But what was probably the most thrilling part of our time in Venice was our lack of housing. That's right, we were homeless for a night. Intentionally. It wouldn't have been so bad had it not been for the negative degree weather. Until about 2 a.m. we were fine, parading around the city with newly made friends who took us to the different parties happening around the city. They also exposed us to a new cultural layer of Italian wine-hot wine. Skeptical at first, it was delicious, like everything I've tried thus far in Italy. That is, except for the restaurant we had dinner at. Not only was our waiter a brashly rude ogre, but they inflated the service charge by triple the amount when we went to pay. (Now I don't feel so bad about secretly drinking wine we smuggled in.) I fought the absurd charge while wearing my mask figuring that he'd get too annoyed to fight with someone who looked like a cat. I was right. Me-oww.

But around 2, after parting ways with our friends who reminded me of Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle Dumb, the way they argued over silly logistical problems and such, we made our way to the train station. We assumed there would be a cafe we could sit in all night, but we were severely mistaken. I should have known better. Catering to tourists who come to their gorgeous city to breathe the scenic views of pastel-colored buildings lining canals whose tranquil waters are only interrupted by the gentle stroke of gondolier, it is no wonder that Venetians close shop early. The train station was our only option.

Evidently we weren't the only ones to be stupid enough not to book a place to stay in the middle of winter. As soon as we walked up the steps, we saw tons of passed out drunk bodies spread throughout the station. We found a small open space against a storefront, and my body was just about to go numb when a clearly inebriated Italian started speaking to us. We couldn't understand what he was saying, which didn't help when he threw a small backpack at our feet. But like heroes, Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum appeared out of nowhere, just in the nick of time. The guy wandered off, and we asked the guys what they were doing. "We came to say goodbye!" they said.

The rest of the night was a blur. Paula, Kelly and I sought warmth in the car of a train leaving for Milan in the morning, and hopped off before it steamed out of Venice. The train back to Florence was at 8:30, so we still had a few hours to wait. We stood outside of the station's cafe, ready to knock down the door as soon as they opened-like a clearance sale at Neiman Marcus. When they finally did, I realized how numb my body was. Heat felt like a distant memory as it slowly warmed the tips of my fingers. When my body temperature was back to normal our train had arrived. Finally.

I sank into my seat, ready to fall into a deep slumber-if only for a couple of hours. As I drifted off, flashes of the weekend flooded my head. Despite everything I saw, the two guys we met stood out most prominently. I was so surprised that strangers we only met a few hours earlier would be so kind as to make sure a few American teenage girls were safe. But I guess we're all strangers before we become anything more. It's funny to think how we can go on with our lives just fine, and then someone comes along who you can't picture living the rest of your life without.

Where are We, Toto?

It's meals like this that make it clear I'm not in Kansas anymore. I got a frutti di mare pizza that made me work for it. The shells were in the pizza when I opened the box-startling at first, but so delicious! And I definitely needed something good after a tough morning of no English. My teacher only spoke in Italian during class. I've never taken an Italian class before so things are moving a little too fast for what I'm used to. I hope we don't go to Lookout Point for class number three!

Once my teacher was done force-feeding us Italian we watched a movie, (in Italian of course), that was over two hours long. Granted, it was a good movie, but my leg fell asleep by the end of it. Mentally I was alert because of the cioccolotto forte I've been getting every day. It's a small cup of strong hot chocolate, I think. Honestly, I don't need to know what's in it. There could be crack in there for all I care-it is magical. And it's a good thing I was paying attention. The movie was kind of like The Three Stooges meets The Godfather tinged with the constant variables of an old black and white foreign film. Surprisingly they can fit a lot of humor into a movie about a girl who gets impregnated by her sister's fiance, whose father, upon finding out, sends the brother to kill the fiance (well, ex-fiance by that point). The mob did originate here though, so I guess you can't put anything past them.

You know when you have to go outside to get something, but it's too cold out and you're too lazy? That's how I feel right now. I need to pick up a few course packets a few minutes away, and aside from the aforementioned reasons why I don't feel like going, I am very prone to getting lost when I walk alone, and after I get my course packets I'll have to do homework. And every acclaimed procrastinator knows that to stay true to form, you should only do homework at the very last possible moment. Do I have a great work ethic or what? But there is some other work I should get started on, like my job application for a summer position at Columbia University. And I better start now since I know that the first sentence will take at least 72 hours to think of.

Superbowl Sunday: When Football is What it is

I've been powering through my cold in order to go out and be social. As long I'm fueled up on Ibuprofen, I'm okay. And if I missed the chocolate fair because of a silly cold, I never would have forgiven myself. I probably have the biggest sweet tooth on the planet. Cake, cookies, ice cream, you name it, I love it. But at the top of my list is chocolate. Give me a block of dark chocolate, and I'll work on that thing like a dog chewing on a bone. Needless to say, the festival was heavenly. Entering the tent was like climbing the stairway to heaven that Led Zeppelin so sweetly sang about. The scents of truffles, chocolate covered everything, and melted chocolate wafted through the entire place, sending my senses into a frenzy. I sampled chocolate liquor, chocolate covered orange peels and got the most delicious cup of melted dark chocolate I've ever tasted. If I died at that moment, I would have died happy.

And even though Paula and I were still full from the chocolatey goodness, we later went to a bar called The Joshua Tree (which we have at home), and then to arguably the best pizza place in Florence. We ordered a pizza with artichoke, ham, and cheese that melted in your mouth as soon as it touched your tongue. We could barely speak to each other, it was such an experience. Almost spiritual. To continue with our gluttonous day, we found a bakery where I got a connoli that convinced me that I can never go home. I don't know what kind of drugs they slip into these foods, but I need to take some back to the States.

After happily walking back to the apartment with a glow that only comes from the enjoyment of a fantastic meal, we got ready to go out to a club I have mentioned previously, called Space. It was impossible to just dance alone and enjoy the music. Creepy Italian men kept skulking around us, circling like predatory animals. I wouldn't have minded had they just watched from afar, but they swoop in and grab you with their sharp claws. An Italian guy even approached while I was dancing with an American boy I met named Nick. He seemed nice, so I thought a dance would be fine. But the whole time I felt numb. My mind was somewhere else and no matter how hard I tried to push the thoughts away, they kept re-entering. Finally I said I needed to rest and left Nick to find someone who might actually be interested.

But even when Paula and I were just dancing together, men kept penetrating the bubble. One guy just crept up on her from behind and started moving his hips. She asked me what he looked like and I said, "You don't want to know." Needless to say, he wouldn't be anyone's type. We tried escaping to the downstairs area but that was the same situation. Even after leaving, in the streets some guys got way too close to me, touching my arm and cat-calling. I guess this is something I'll have to get used to, but it just really sucks. I like to go out and have a good time and meet and converse with people. To have guys treat me like some candy bar they'd like to unwrap is just disgusting, especially when they actually tell me what they want to do to me. No, that doesn't get me in the mood, it just makes me want to take a baseball bat to your head (which I'd enjoy because baseball season has been gone for far too long).

And with Superbowl Sunday just a few hours away, I want to immerse myself in American sports, no Italian creepers allowed. So what do you say we head to a bar and watch some guys throw the old pigskin around? Go Colts!

Did You Know that Roofies Equal Fun?

Wrapped in a blanket with the sniffles is not how I pictured my Friday night. I had plans to go out every night-hitting bar after bar. But after staying out for two nights, my immune system turned on me. And I suppose the margharita I had earlier isn't helping. But instead of powering through, I'll stay in for a night of recuperation and (fingers crossed) be back in action tomorrow night. And if not, the night after that. Even if I'm still feeling lousy, I have to go to a sports bar to watch the Superbowl. I mean, it is the Superbowl. There are no excuses.

The other night me and Kelly ventured out at 1:30 a.m. to fashion designer Roberto Cavalli's club. Sounds classy, right? That's what we thought..until we stepped inside. We were met with an overwhelming heat wave and malodorous stench of sweat entwined with alcohol. It seemed like more of a frat house than a club a famous designer would own. I even wore one of my "special occasion" dresses. Regrettable decision. I must have used my entire bottle of perfume to mask the smell. But after scoping the scene a little bit, we met a very friendly older Italian man. He was nicely dressed and smiled like a fox. Sly guy.

Sly guy chatted with us for a while and bought us some shots of something. He was clearly older than Kelly and I combined but it was entertaining nonetheless. Well, until he told me that his clothes were too tight and I needed to help get them off (reaching to put my hand on his pants). I heard Italian men were forward, but this was pushing it. After we ditched him for the VIP room, we were able to breathe a little. It wasn't as crowded and there was another bar and small dance floor. The music that the DJ was playing was really great. I just wished I was able to enjoy it. I asked a random guy to take a picture of me and Kelly, which he gladly did, but then he made Kelly take one of me and him. And then wouldn't leave me alone for the rest of the night. I love meeting and talking to new people, but what he was saying weren't things I wanted to hear. Fast forward to leaving the club when a few guys called out to us, "Hey! You girls wanna have fun? We're gunna take some roofies!" Oh yeah, that's my idea of a party. I really don't know how I meet these guys. Just lucky I guess!

Last night was a much needed girls night. Paula, Kelly and I went to a place called Art Bar where the drinks are made by two old Italian men, who see every concoction as a masterful work of art. And they are! We got the fruit cocktail which was almost too perfect to eat. The pineapple, strawberry, apples, lemon, and kiwi were cut so intricately, it was a shame to eat it. (But, of course, I did.) We were there for almost three hours without realizing it. No one was rushing us, so we simply ate, drank, and enjoyed. Walking back along the river was relaxing, too. It's so beautiful at night, and I can't wait for the weather to warm up so I can linger there for hours. Along the way back we did some bar-hopping, checking out places we want to go back to. Florence has an insane nightlife. It seems contradictory to its historic exterior. Florence is a city that is famous for its past, but the bars and popular clubs say otherwise.

I talked to my parents on Skype when I came home, who were happy to hear that it only costs 3 bucks a month to talk to them as much as I want. For a few extra dollars I can call cell phones too, which my friends back home were happy to hear about. I feel like so much has been going on with me this past week, that the same would be true for everyone back home. But, not so much. The first time I studied abroad, I had this feeling of resentment towards my friends when I came home because I felt so different and they were all the same. I have this weird need for change all the time. It can be mild, like something ethnic for lunch, or really intense, like studying abroad. But I am a Gemini, so I guess that explains it.

Oh man, I feel like I have so much time on my hands right now but I can't do anything because I'm sick. Well, I do need to take more medicine soon, so that constitutes as something :-/ Anyways, at least one thing went right today: I switched into a closed class. It wasn't easy though. I had to hone all of my persuasive abilities and charm..and when that didn't work, I demanded a meeting with the Dean. Easy enough. Now, instead of my cooking class (which I was really excited for but the teacher is absolutely horrid), I'm taking social media, where we use social interfaces like Facebook, Twitter, and blogs to discuss the inner-workings of online communities. My roommate Megan is in it and said it's great and easy. Hello easy A! I don't mind challenging courses, but it's hard to devote a lot of time to studying when you're abroad. Food, culture, language, places to go, things to see, people to meet; talk about distractions. But I don't want to start off behind so I think I should get started on my homework. I'll begin with Italian. Ciao!

Love: Question Mark

Everyone keeps talking about how they want to find love in Italy. Like being here will magically make all of their romantic dreams come true. I'm sure the wine and the charm of the city help, but is love something you can plan? I don't think I could plan on finding something when I don't even know what it is. That's like knowing there's a guy named Waldo who's always getting lost and attempting to search for him when you don't even know what he looks like. You'd be looking forever.

I think I thought I was in love once, or something like it, but that was just a waste of time and days spent eating ice cream on the couch. Plus, can you plan for love to only last three months? That seems fleeting. I'm confusing myself. It's so intricate, and yet simple at the same time. No wonder people who are in love always complain about having the feeling of butterflies in their stomachs, it's because they're so freaking confused about what love actually means!

And I'm not just picking on love, relationships in general can make your head spin too. Friends with benefits, booty calls, seeing someone, it's 'complicated,' in a relationship but not in a relationship on facebook (which clearly dictates what is official and what is not), an open relationship... I need a Xanax. Whatever happened to: boy likes girl. girl likes boy. girl and boy date ? Did that go out of style when hair scrunchies did? I just think that if a guy really likes someone, he will make it happen...which comes back to this whole idea of how relationships carry too much pressure. With so much corruptness going on in the world, do relationships need to be equally as draining? They're supposed to be fun and care-free, and happy! They're not meant to make people stressful, anxious, jealous, or miserable. And with 50% of marriages ending in divorce, the latter unfortunately seems to be the type of relationship most people are in. But I don't want that.

Smiling and laughing are two of life's simple pleasures that I over-indulge in on a regular basis (gay, but true), and I don't think I should give that up for anyone. So I guess what I'm trying to say is, well, I'm not really sure. I just don't want relationships to have such a negative connotation. People should take them in their organic form-a connection between people. Simple, right? But I guess that's easier said than done...

Days 2-4?

I'm already losing count of the days, and it hasn't even been a week! And classes start tomorrow. Lame. Actually, I take that back. A gag reflex usually ensues after someone mentions school or classes, but under these circumstances (me being in Italy and all) I'm really excited to begin classes. I'm taking Italian (duh); Travel Writing; The Jewish-Italian Community through Culinary Tradition (a cooking class, for short); and Literature and Immigration. My Italian class is really intensive, but hopefully I'll learn to be somewhat conversational. It seems like a really tough language to learn. French comes easily to me because it seems to flow so seamlessly. Like one beautiful sentence after another. But I'm sure that's what Italian will seem like once I get the hang of it (if that ever happens).

I really can't get over how beautiful Europe is. The 4th of July is fun and all, but Europeans must think we're so dumb for celebrating like 200 years, when they're countries have been around for centuries. One of the many reasons Americans are looked down upon I guess. I went to the Duomo the other day and all I have to say is, "Wow." It's one of the most beautiful pieces of architectural phenomena I've ever seen. Not to mention it is enormous! Walking along the perimeter while looking up simultaneously is definitely a skill. But the ceiling of the dome is the real draw. The mosaic is magnificent, and it seems to continue for miles. I was standing underneath it in the center, just staring. I couldn't take my eyes away. The thought of something taking so long to built, with so much thought and time invested, and the level of detail..it's overwhelming. It's so refreshing to be somewhere where things are appreciated. Back home no one stops for anything. Either that or we're too busy to even notice something worthy of appreciation. That's not to say I'm becoming anti-American, trust me, I like McDonald's as much as the next fat kid looking to file a lawsuit, but it would be nice if people slowed down once in a while..even if that only means avoiding the left lane for a few exits.

But what I don't appreciate, regardless of where I am, is a hangover. Like the one I had the other night. Everyone went to this club called Space Club. It was interesting to say the least. It's a huge space, but the interior is just bizarre. Everything is in neon lights. There's a aquarium against the bar, metal floor, dancing pods..enough said? I think so. But it was still fun! They even had karaoke. And even though I'm beyond tone-deaf, I belted it out to Livin' on a Prayer (arguably one of the best songs ever). Three beers later, me and two of my roommates meandered the streets of Florence and wound up at the restaurant we've been frequenting. At night it turns into a fun bar with drink specials like 3 for 10. I'll take it! But that night I couldn't...I had three vodka redbulls, and Fabio, our friendly waiter kept pouring me shots of limoncello. Needless to say, I got shitfaced, and don't remember how I got back to the apartment.

When I woke up in the morning I couldn't see straight and the room was spinning. I asked Paula and Kelly (my roommates who were out with me) what happened. Here's the breakdown of the night once we got to the restaurant:

-free shots

-bought 3 drinks

-started one drink one and talked to Fabio

-started on drink 2 and talked to other kids in the bar

-started on drink 3 and talked to EVERYONE in the bar

-was saved from being hit on

-took the wrong jacket home (which I didn't figure out til the next day)

-threw up pure alcohol

-refused to drink water

-vowed to never drink again

-asked for a drink

-was tranquilized and put in bed

Forward to the next day when I see a black coat that isn't mine. "This isn't mine," I said to Paula and Kelly.

"Well that's what you wore home last night," said Paula. I was holding the coat over my arm, dumbfounded. I reached inside one of the pockets and pulled out a wallet and keys. "Shit," I thought, as I proceeded to open the wallet, searching for identification. When I found a Massachusetts license I couldn't help but laugh. Of course the owner of the jacket is also from Boston. Just my luck. I was just hoping my coat was still at the restaurant, so I popped a few Advil and headed over. As soon as I walked in, Fabio rushed toward me, laughing as he said my name.

"Oh Sasha you were so drunk last night! But so cute!" he said. I wish I found it as funny as he did.

"Come. I will make you a cappuccino. You like cappuccino?" I nodded my head yes and took a seat at the bar. When I looked to the left, I saw my coat resting on the same seat I left it on the night before.

"P.J. was so sad when he couldn't find his coat!" Fabio said. "But I said don't worry, I think a drunk girl took it. But it's okay, I told him. She is very cute American girl." Because that makes the situation so much better?

"I feel so badly!" I said. "Can we call him to come get it?"

"Leave your number here so when he calls, I give it to him. And that way I can get your number," he laughed. I sat at the bar for a long time, sipping slowly on my cappuccino and chatting with Fabio. Before I left, he asked if he could take me to lunch or dinner. Why not, right? Going out with a local is a great way to get to know the language and culture.

Later that day, I got a call from P.J. the coat boy. I met him at a pizzeria on my street, and apologized for being such a drunken idiot. He gave me a little bit of a hard time, but in a joking way. And then he said I needed to make it up to him by buying him a drink. (I guess stealing random coats is a good way to pick up guys). Anyways, I said I needed a little more time before my next drink, but I'd let him know. He retorted with, "You can't back out if it. Now I know what your coat looks like." Ha Ha Ha.

After the coat fiasco things calmed down. I staved off drinking for a good several hours before getting ready to go back to Space Club with one of my other roommates, Meghan. She's from Long Island and has a really heavy accent. It's funny because it doesn't suit her at all. It's always funny to me when people don't match their voices. But she is really nice and we get along really great. I feel so fortunate to have wonderful roommates after my nightmarish roommate who I lived with in Jerusalem.

Saturday night, one of other roommates who has been hooking up with a different guy every night, told us how she was messing around with a guy on the upper level of Space Club, and seemed proud of it which bugged me. She's also fat. I'm not a fatist, but slutty fat girls are almost as bad as Guidos. They might be like one pyramid level above. But if she's proud of getting with grabby Italian men, good for her. I'm only a slutty American girl on one spooky day of the year: Halloween-the one night a year where a girl can dress like a slut, and no one can say anything about it. American culture at its finest.

While dancing with friends I ward off aggressive Italian men with evil eyes. Hopefully this won't always be the case. But even if it is, I guess I'll get a good workout from pushing guys off of me. Despite taking it easy with one drink, I slept until 4 p.m. today. I am still screwed up from being jet-lagged and everything, but classes start tomorrow and I'll need a good night's sleep. I have Italian at 9 a.m. tomorrow..until 2:30 in the afternoon. Then the same schedule on Tuesday. That's a pretty long day of one class, but then I get to have some fun on Wednesday during my cooking class. My mom is probably most excited about that so I'll be able to contribute in the kitchen. As of right now I can't cook anything that isn't microwavable. By the end of the semester I'm hoping to have mastered the art of pasta. Wish me luck. That's almost as tough of an endeavor as a paraplegic climbing Mount Everest. Seriously, I'm that inept. When my parents tell me I'm "special," I know they really mean that I'm domestically challenged. At least they love me anyways.

Day One

The wine finally wore off and now I'm wide awake at five in the morning. (I am taking this as a sign to up my intake). And because my roommate still hasn't returned, I am using her computer charger. Note to self: never trust anyone at Radio Shack to know what he's talking about. Of course I was given the wrong converter. Typical. But I think I should be more concerned with the fact that my roommate is still out. Granted she is 25 years old and can take care of herself, she is still a woman roaming the dark streets of Italy. But I knew she was a wild child when I met her. She is an art school graduate from California who came out here to try something new. Her name is Jessie and she says things like "that's gnarly," and "let's go cruise around," and everything is "super" something or other. It makes me want to pack up and move into a Malibu beach house. Barbie, eat your heart out.

But she seems really nice, down to earth, and spontaneous. And of course, a raging partier...meaning that we should get along just fine. The other girls in the apartment seem a little more reserved. More stick to the guided trail than off the beaten path if you will. There are six of us altogether, two per room. After doing a little unpacking and settling in, we went out to dinner, landing on a restaurant where a flirty, friendly waiter ushered us in. We split two bottles of the house wine and two fabulous thin-crust pizzas whilst going through the preliminary "where are you from," and "what's your major," questions.

After dinner we said "Ciao" to Fabio (of course that would be his name), and headed to an Irish pub for more drinks. Embarrassingly enough, I was already feeling the two glasses of wine I had at dinner. It must have been a mix of exhaustion, too much traveling, and only eating Swiss chocolate on the flight. So I could only stomach one shot, a brief conversation with a guy from London, and then called it a night at 11 p.m. I assumed I'd sleep uninterrupted for the next eight hours, which brings me back to being wide awake in the middle of the Florentine night. Everyone else is sleeping and I'm still alone in the room which is quaint, but creepy in the dark.

That describes my whole apartment actually. It's big and kind of empty, with various pieces of outdated furniture scattered throughout the rooms. But the building in its entirety will take some getting used to. I was so confused when my cab driver who wanted to marry me pulled onto the sidewalk in front of a brown wooden door that fit discreetly into the surrounding mortar. I thought I was stepping into Narnia as he pushed back the door, revealing a cold, dark interior with a tall black gate standing before a spiral staircase. I fumbled with my keys to unlock the brass beast when an American-looking boy around my age said, "Need some help?" and effortlessly pushed open the gate. I'm such an idiot. I could have breathed and it would have swung open. The guy, who lives a floor above me with roommates from NYU, helped load my luggage into the miniscule elevator that I surely thought would drop and send me to my death. I didn't catch his name, but with an apartment of 6 girls and an apartment of 6 guys, I'm sure we'll get to know more than each other's names. Like where we're from and background stuff like that, obviously.

I was the second roommate to arrive. The first girl was sleeping, so I rolled my luggage along to the next room and set up camp. I unpacked everything except clothes I won't need for another couple of months and called my parents to let them know I was safe. That movie "Taken" really freaked them out. But I was alone for a good couple of hours, too tired to wander the streets, knowing I would inevitably lose my bearings. Once a couple more girls came, I felt a lot more relieved. The apartment had been completely silent, except for the occasional Vespa that I heard hum along outside my window-- similar to how it is right now.

Orientation is in five hours, so I hope I can fall asleep. Either that or I'll Google nearby restaurants with the tastiest house wine. I'm thinking the latter. I mean, I'm only in Italy for a few short months meaning that sleep is overrated and I'm allowed to carbo-load every day and drink up every night. This must be what they call the good life.

Procrastination at its finest

Of course after spending the day running all over town to do last minute errands, I come home to realize I got a bunch of stuff that I don't need. Instead of getting rain boots (which I know I need since I finally checked the weather), I bought slippers. My reasoning? They are cuter and more comfortable to walk around the apartment in than just plain socks. While I don't in good conscience think the slippers were a frivolous purchase, I really needed rain boots, and still don't have any. It's a good thing my flight doesn't leave until tomorrow evening. I think I'm going to do some more running around. And this time I'll only buy the bare essential. Girl scout's honor.

I should make a list so I don't let my mind go on any tangents-envisioning ridiculous scenarios where I'd need a scuba suit in case I decide to go on a diving excursion. Although now that I think about it...

Anyways, a list. I love lists. They are great for reducing things to the simplest form. Otherwise, even grocery shopping can seem chaotic and scattered in your mind. Pros and cons lists are the BEST type of list. I can't tell you (my beloved blog) how many guys I've weeded out just from making a simple list of pros and cons. It's turned into to kind of a bad habit actually. Every guy I become involved with eventually gets "listed." If the pros outweigh the cons, consider yourself lucky. But if there are more cons than pros..see ya lata. I don't do it to be cruel, I do it for the sake of my better judgment. *Sidenote: Few hearts have been broken in the process of list-making.

But back to the list at hand. This is one of my least favorite: the packing list. (cue shrieks of terror). For a packing list, you need to make notes about the location, climate condition, culture, lifestyle, nightlife..mama mia! (I figure I should try to start using Italian phrases as much as possible). I'll be in Italy, which is generally warmer than the arctic tundra that is Massachusetts, but it's still cold there right now, so I'd say I should bring UGG boots, a winter jacket, a peacoat? Hm...(and so it begins).

-UGG boots..even though they scream, "I'm an American"

-combat boots..because I am a quarter part hipster

-flats..I wouldn't be a girl if I didn't wear 'em

-flip flops for the shower

-flip flops for the beach

-heels..my classy pair, my 'goes with everything pair,' and of course my slutty pair

-equestrian riding boots..that I only ever walk in

-tan suede wedges with the shiny black tip..because they're awesome

-sneakers..even though I probably won't exercise

-moccasins..because I know I won't exercise

-and of course a pair I know I've forgetten

moving on...

-one million pairs of black leggings..because let's face it, that's all I ever wear

-sweatpants..because they're all that fits me right now

-black skinny jeans..they have the word skinny in them

-blue jeans

-light pink pants..so adorbs.

-tights

onto the next..

-12 tee-shirts

-11 tank tops

-10 pretty dresses

-9 blouses

-8 short shorts

-7 cardigans

-6 zip-up hoodies

-5 long shirts

-4 cute vests

-3 church outfits

-2 bathing suits

-and a partridge in a pear tree!

and if there's room..

-headbands..I have a lot. And yes, I want to be Blair from Gossip Girl

-jewelry..because I like to ice it up every now and then

-a lot of underwear..mainly because I have a copious amount already

-makeup

-makeup remover

-hairbrush

-toothbrush

-shampoo and conditioner

-feminine hygiene products..ahem ahem

-a rubber ducky..just kidding

the things I'm forgetting..

-backpack

-computer

-camera..say cheese!

-books

-handy dandy notebook

-a few towels

-and my passport? that might come in handy

And voila! My packing list is complete. Now I just have to physically do it. Ugh, manual labor is such a bitch.

Travel Fever

It's been a little over a year since I last left the country, and I'm starting to get the itch. It's always the same-that hunger that starts to grow in the pit of my stomach, when if left unfed begins to growl like a wild predatory beast.

I don't know why it's so difficult for me to stay in one place. I have no problem lying on the couch all day long watching trashy shows on TV. But when it comes to traveling, I might as well be Homer Simpson in a bar. The substances are different, but the addiction is the same. We both suffer from the same intoxicating effect-especially the part where you feel all bubbly inside(although in Homer's case that's probably when he's about to burp).

But I'm getting my fix in a mere five days, so I should be able to make it until then. That is, if I can finish (and consequently start) packing, obtain my visa, and find a decent plane read. And I have to do all of this while working twelve-hour shifts until the day before I leave. Gotta earn some green so I can live large in Italia, right? Oh yeah, that's where I'm headed by the way-to Italy. Florence, more specifically. Despite traveling to many European countries, I've never been to Italy. Until now, I guess. If it's anything like when I studied and lived in France, at the end of the three and a half months I'll be there for, I won't want to leave. But alas, life must go on. Not to mention I would probably die of gelato-overload if I extended my stay. Speaking of which, dinner anyone?