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.