Rome

One afternoon I was walking down Via Vittorio Veneto in Rome. I was listening to my iPod and walked past a few carabinieri, which I think are some kind of police but I only ever saw them strut around in their uniforms, which are very pretty. They motioned to me and being concerned that I was doing something wrong, I took out my earpods to talk to them.

Scusi? C'e una problema?
Non problema. E bellisima.

Right. So, after a little confusion, it was decided that the cutest one would take me to dinner later that night. Unfortunately the cutest one, was also the most non-bi-lingual one. So, in preparation, the things I bought were:
1. Gold Obi Belt
2. Necklace
3. Black camisole

We met up at 8 and walked over to get his car. This guy literally spoke NO ENGLISH and well, I spoke as much Italian as possible having started from scratch two weeks before. We talked about family:

Me: Fratello? Sorella?
Him: Si.
Me: OK

Work

Him: Que cosa fai?
Me: Non capsico
Him: (motions toward himself) sono carabinieri (points to me) e lei
Me: Oh, uh, lower level marketing pee-on at a satanical pharmaceutical company?
Him: Non capisco
Me: Publiccita (suddenly remembering the word for TV commercial, while gesturing as though I was making bread)
Him: Ah, attrice!!
Me: Not quite.

Music

Me: Gusta Simone Cristicchi?
Me: Oh wait. That's Spanish. Um, Lei...amore...Simone Cristicchi?
Him: ....
Me: Music bene o music male
Him: Ah, music!! (And he pulled out this mix CD that I swear they must hand out to every Italian boy when they graduate or something. It is a mix of the blandest, crappiest American music ever made and they ALL have a copy.)
Me: Oh, Bryan Adams AND Backstreet Boys in one place. What luck!

But dinner was the best I have ever eaten.

Every time I go on a trip, it takes a few days for me to adjust. I remember the exact moment I adjusted to Italy. In Milano, everything is about the aesthetic. Even the drinking fountains are designed more for looks than for actually dispensing clean drinking water. To get a drink in Milano, you stop up a fountain with your finger to push the water towards your mouth. Which means the water you are drinking has passed through literally thousands of hands and mouths. Staring at that fountain, I realized I was at a crossroads in my trip and I DRANK THE WATER.

One night, while walking around the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele, Jazmin turned to me and started pointing to a mosaic of a bull on the ground. She began trying to act out what I was supposed to do, which looked a lot like grinding my heel into the bull's groin. Suprisingly this was right on. I dug my heal into the bull, and spun three times, something the Italian men do regularly, and now theoretically I am more sexually potent than I was before.

List of Italians molested by me in Italy.
1. Il Porcellino
2. Torino Bull
3. Carabinieri

That night we also went to a concert at the Duomo, which turned out to be the MTV Italia TRL Awards. Hillary Duff won like everything and he came up in conversations with almost everyone. "Ciao, where you from...oh you know ill a reeee, oh I love ill ah reee." Francesco explained that Italians love Hillary because she is ..."scandaluz wiz a man on dee elevaterrrr." Also Italian rap group Inoki won for best Italian cornrows.

My last day in Milan we went to the Europa Amusement Park, although driving to the park was scarier than any ride, like a massive racing video game and the results were for keeps. My favorite part of the park was the fun house. This was one of those rides where the floor is made of rollers and there are stairs that go up and down. You know what I mean. Anyways, places like that are super boring in America. But in Italy, the building/health/safety codes are a little, how you say, interessante, and this makes for a much more exciting caterpiller ride. It's pretty exhilarating to turn the corner in a roller coaster and wonder if you are actually going to turn, or go off the rails. The fun house was absolutely pitch black, with extremely dangerous machinery, and no one to hear your screams.

How to say No in Italian

When I get into Florence, I get off the train and saw my first real live gypsy. She is little and old and wearing actual colors. I hold my duffel bag tighter because she is little and old and wearing colors. Thankfully, I am wearing my money belt, and so any money she decides to take will have to involve removing my button fly pants, which makes me realize that I'm going to be paying for a lot things whilst being naked. I see a couple of billboards and relax.

One of the first things I am concerned about finding is a tabacci because Rick Steves said this is what I have to find to get like phone cards and like tickets to the Colosseum and like pretty much everything. I have practiced saying, "Dove il tabacci," in my head because apparently it is going to be DIFFICULT to find a tobacco shop in a country where fresh air smells like cigarettes. I find about three in the train station alone and look for the payphone phone cards because that is what Rick Steves said to use and if Rick Steves said it then it is gospel truth. The tabacci shop has no idea what I am looking for because honestly who uses payphones in country where ambulance sirens sound like that and drivers drive like that. Next I go to the ATM, get 240 euros and suspiciously look around for anymore colorful elderly gypsies who are looking to sell my body to the mafia. But instead all I see is a mildly annoyed Italian woman waiting behind me. I unbutton my pants, shove my money into my convenient money belt and go on my way.

Next I go outside and wait to be accosted by the taxi drivers who I've been told will try to drive you to places you don't want to go, like Naples. I kind of stand around but none of the taxi drivers try to tempt me with their taxis. So I run back inside, discretely pull out my Rick Steves book, which I have discretely wrapped in a piece of blank paper, so it looks like I am casually reading the most poorly designed book ever written in the middle of SMN station.

I want to look like an Italian (walking by the train station, with blond hair, a heavy winter coat, and a duffel bag) so I refuse to open up my map again. I look up at the street signs and nod and then head purposefully in whatever direction seems appropriate. After doing this for 45 minutes, I find a little square and lean on a stone wall. I notice a small golden plaque on the wall about the size of a business card. Hotel Aldobrandini. MY HOTEL. I see two gigantic wooden doors, but no door knob or alternate method of opening. I whisper Open Sesame. But still nothing. Then about halfway down the sidewalk is a little intercom. I push the button as a last ditch effort. And right I as I get ready to curse Gregory Peck, the door slowly creaks open. I walk inside into a huge dark hallway, up three flights of stairs and through a wrought iron gate. I'm concerned that I'm at a museum, and start to take out my camera, discretely, in case there are any gypsies, but eventually I see the doors for the hotel and I walk in.

Ignazio shows me to my room, which has a sink in the shower which is actually just a shower head next to my bed and a funny little sink to wash my feet, how thoughtful. No toilet, but at least my feet will be clean. The first thing I buy in Italy is a purse because Rick Steves is an idiot.

The next morning, I realize that most of my wardrobe is not tight enough or sequined enough or Prada enough. I run into Ignazio who has me sit down for breakfast, which is nutella and croissants and steamed foamy milk made to look like cappuccino because he can't understand why someone over the age of 4 is drinking milk for breakfast.

I head out and walk over to the duomo, the piazza della signoria and other places. I have no idea where I am, but I am aware that I am the HOTTEST thing ever. Because everyone keeps telling me this. Hot men, in their hot jackets, and their hot jeans, and their hot designer shirts keep telling me I am HOT. This is so the opposite of the reaction I get in Boston which has ranged from no reaction to .... still... no... reaction. I find the Uffizi gallery, and for once Rick Steves has been right. I was able to walk right up to the door with my reservation, which prevented me from having to watch the freaky statue people for two hours outside the ticket booth.

After soaking up Italian art for 45 minutes, I walk outside and across the Ponte Vecchio. I find a little park which has no tourists because they don't speak English south of the Arno river. Unfortunately, as I'm sitting there, a man across the street decides to stare at me and I'm worried that he will be embarrassed because I always win staring contests with hot Italian men. So I get up and go back into the city and try to find my way to the David.

While I'm walking, a man next to me says ciao and asks where I'm going. When I look over, BOYFRIEND ENRICO smiles at me and he's hot. He's tall, with dark curly hair and he doesn't say ciao bella. And I think, "Statue of David or Real life David standing in front of me?" And it is kind of an easy decision. So, Enrico/David asks if I want to go get a caffe and I say no, just a diet coke and I am lucky he doesn't cut his losses and leave. We head over to a sidewalk cafe and he goes in to get our drinks. I sit down and he comes out with two little coffees, one is an American coffee which he had them make special since I don't drink coffee. And after I explain Joseph Smith and the golden plates he completely understands. We head over to buy a leather coat and he holds my hand because that is what Italians do and that is what Carolyn does when cute boys try to hold her hand. We spend three hours...shopping...for clothes. Enrico/David gives passionate opinions about every single thing I try on, and I consider moving to Italy. I finally get a coat and in the first of many similar transactions, I get the "beautiful girl discount" which is 30% off the 50% "tourist girl mark-up."