A summarized take on my experience in Italy

April 28.
- Italians are remarkably thin for the carbs their cuisine prides itself upon.

- Italian driving follows no rules. Driving in between the lanes, if you’re lucky enough to be on a road with lanes, is optional. Traffic lights serve as guidelines; Speeding up while squeezing through an alleyway crowded with pedestrians, is the norm.

- It’s cheaper to get a shot of espresso (which you drink while standing over the café’s bar) than a bottle of water.  Cappuccinos are not acceptable after 12 pm. Restaurants do not offer free tap water.

- Men range from either downright friendly or absolutely creepy—with no middle ground to even the two. Italians as a whole are wonderful—always willing to help with the limited range of English words they may or may not know. They, unlike the French, understand you don’t speak their language, yet do appreciate the effort for those who try. 


- Tourist information stands will forever be closed and expect hostel tourist maps to leave off every street you possibly need.

- Don’t rely on public transportation to get around Rome. The metro goes relatively nowhere and signs to guide tourists are largely absent. The hope: you’ll hire a tour guide, all government sponsored. Clever, really. Our solution: splitting cabs and a Rick Steves guide book

- Italian is a beautiful language—it rolls off with such rhythm, a smooth note to their every word.

- Let’s Go Europe (my travel book bible) says Venice has more tourists than locals. I found Florence more of a tourist breeding ground than Venice. Because canals cut through all of Venice, locals are dispersed among the tourists; I enjoyed watching the locals set up their markets and opening up their shops each morning.

- Italy is a beautiful country with so much to offer—culture, food, history. It’s a country I look forward to revisit—but next time, without a week alone. The week taught me I enjoy company, I enjoy a shared experience. It’s a good lesson to learn. And with it, I continue forth onto the final month of my study abroad program. Peace of mind that I return to a city that I know, an area that I love and an environment in which I have friends to share the moments of our remaining month, together. 

Milan, headed home

April 27. 6:30 am. Milan, aboard the bus headed to the airport.

Given I only had yesterday afternoon to evening to explore Milan, I leave, today, without much of a feeling of the makeup of the city. I spent yesterday on my self- guided hop on, hop off metro tour. The itinerary: the Duomo, Giardini Pubblici and Castello Sforzesco. I ended with my last solo dinner at a Mediterranean style pizza restaurant, ordering a margherita with a topping of french fries. Figured it seemed like a neat idea. A good celebration to no more dinners at a table for two with just a seat taken by one.

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Two Brazilian women entered my hostel room a few moments after I returned yesterday evening. One, a woman seemingly in her early 30s, hates Paris—about the only words she could say in English. The other, a 25- year old jewelry designer, spoke little English, yet made great effort to converse with her limited vocabulary. I attempted incorporating the few words of Spanish I know into my responses. Which, granted, isn’t Portuguese but she said the two had similar vocabulary.

  

Let’s just go with it.

She pointed out the redness of my cheeks and bridge of my nose, claiming Brazilians love the “burnt” look. I pointed out that Americans glamorize the “browned” tan look that she naturally attains.

The Brazilians had left as I stepped out of the shower later that evening. A Canadian girl sat in their place. We spoke for a little, nice to finally converse with another who spoke English fluently. She wasn't really interested in anything I had to say, and so I let her talk about her travels and her family, stories of her studies while abroad in London and her distaste for the hostel's dryer for ruining her seemingly fine shirt. She too had traveled alone for the past few days and I understood her need to talk.

I left the hostel at 5:45 this morning. And now am seated here, aboard the 50 minute bus to Milan’s Malpensa airport.

Milan's Duomo

April 27. 8:55 am. Milan.
The flight attendant greeted me with a bonjour as I stepped onto the EasyJet flight, destination: Paris. The ease in responding with a merci after she checked my ticket felt natural. She handed the ticket back as I shifted the weight of my carry on before proceeding forward.

It feels strange to board the flight. Strange that this airplane, the grounds of the Milan airport: by initial glance, this could be anywhere. I settled into my seat by the window, my gaze fixated on the mountains in the distance, the peaks topped by a sheen of white. It’s my reminder that I am not just anywhere.

Not just anywhere. I’m leaving Italy, headed back to Paris.

I welcome this return, this return to what strangely feels like home. I look forward to getting back to structure and routine, a language I know in an environment I love. Two weeks away was good. But to head back…Yes, it feels good.

As it always does. 

Gardens behind Castello Sforzesco

Giardini Pubblici

Venice: A broken umbrella and a flooded Piazza San Marco

April 23. 9 pm. 

A friend called, a few hours ago, to cancel on our planned Milan and Como trip. A result of a work conference in D.C. Or something. Whatever, if the offer fell in my plate, I’d probably cancel on Milan and Como too.

I arrived into Venice this afternoon, a two-hour train ride from Florence that seemed to slide straight into a city submerged in water. The walk from the train station to the hostel proved simple, a five-minute walk into a lively square. 

Check in, as per usual, started at two. And as the norm, my arrival happened before two. Dropping off my carry on bag, I left, heading away from the bustle and crossing a bridge before entering the old Jewish ghetto.

Totally accidentally given I hadn’t even glanced at my map.

Rialto Bridge

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The colors of the city brighten as they play off the blues of the water. Everything runs by the canals: the taxis and gondolas, the ambulances and funeral processions. They say the city is sinking.  From watching how they adapt their lives around the water (in addition to the speed at which they placed planks over Piazza San Marco after it flooded my second day in the city), I imagine they will find a solution to keep Venice alive.

I love Venice: the steady waves of water hitting the basin, the sound of the boat's engines as they maze through the expanse of the canals, the gondolas carrying seated tourists.

A flooded Piazza San Marco

I ate dinner my first night at one of Venice’s two kosher restaurants. Venice’s Jewish population dates back, marking the first community of Jews to live in a ghetto. I ordered schnitzel, yet received schwarma. It tasted wonderful and I didn’t make a fuss.

A street- performer came in halfway through dinner. (European street performers freely enter restaurants to perform, always pulling out the shabby cup in request of a few coins of appreciation.) The man played the loveliest Jewish hymns, gathering a generous accumulation of tips. Smart really, coming into the Jewish restaurant. 

April 24.

Of course it poured this morning. And of course the umbrella, the third one I’ve gone through at this point, had to break.

I spent the first few hours of the morning cooped in the train station, devouring my Nicholas Sparks book. Until I looked at the clock, realizing two hours had gone by. The rain had yet to let up. But I wasn't in Venice to read in a train station and so I packed my book away and headed outside. Bearing the downpour drenching the city, I held my broken umbrella up as I purchased a bus boat ticket, wincing slightly at the steep price.

But it worked out well, given the winding curves of Venice’s narrow alleyways, separated by bridge after bridge, make it easy to lose your bearings. The city posts signs on their buildings in attempt to guide walkers. Although you’re lucky if you find a sign that guides you the whole through, given Venetians seem to have given up halfway through with putting up signs along the whole of the routes. 

Murano 

I headed to Piazza San Marco—probably the most touristy part of Venice, but my absolute favorite. The morning’s downpour had flooded the plaza and by the afternoon, the water reached just above my ankles. I wandered around, heading into St. Mark's basilica and perusing the tourist shops lining the inner alleyways of the plaza.

  

Taking advantage of my 36- hour bus boat pass, I hopped back onboard, headed to Murano, a small island just off of Venice and known for glass blowing. The island was alright—a small version of Venice without the crowds. I found a beautiful cemetery. The signs marked clearly that photos were prohibited—a factor I liked. It’s funny—I don’t like graves within the cemetery. And I don’t like how real death becomes once you enter. But I love the beauty of cemeteries—the lush nature that always serves as a physical reminder for the renewal of life. It's peaceful and I enjoy walking through-- although always keeping to the main path rather than working my way around the graves.

I ended up sitting opposite a grass patch outside of the cemetery, glimpsing a field, of what I assume must have been a part of a school, just ahead. It was an ordinary scene, one a tourist wouldn’t head to visit. The area reminded me of Florida. The grass. The flatness. The boringness, in some ways. But I sat there and listened to my music for a while—a wave of emotions flooding over.

It’s hard to travel by yourself—a factor I never quite grasped prior to this week portion of my trip. I've always loved doing things on my own. I loved exploring by myself. I loved, and still love, not having to make conversation all the time. And I loved getting lost in my own head as I wander alone. But sitting there, the desire to be sitting next to someone felt so strong. I don’t know if it’s me that’s changed or if it’s me that’s come to a better understanding of myself, but I enjoy company. I enjoy sharing my experiences with another. And for the first time, I’m aware that I don’t enjoy experiencing alone. 

April 25- 26. 

There really are so many art museums you can go to. And with a massive selection to choose from in Paris, in addition to every other place I've so far visited, I decided to steer away from a classical art exhibit. Rather, I went to Palazzo Grassi, Venice’s modern art collection. One of the exhibits featured a nude model, much to my horror as I walked through. I recovered from my shock and did enjoy the museum. Palazzo Grassi is large enough to make the price well worth it, but small enough to make the museum manageable.

I spent a few hours in Lido-- a beach island off from Venice that bears a stark similarity to L.A.. I'd advise no more than a few hours to visit-- a stop to eat given the prices are significantly lower. 

There are new Korean girls in my hostel, making it a total of three Korean girls. One is a teacher, the other a student. The other, I’m not sure, although she just quit her job. So I guess she’s not sure either. They all spent the evening together—nice as they’re all on their own separate journeys, traveling the expanse of Europe alone. I really don’t understand how they go about months at a time by themselves. They don’t always speak the native tongue of the country they visit. And often, their English proves shaky. How difficult it must be to get around. And how lonely it must get. But they all seem fine, enjoying their time and soaking in their experiences. I find it amazing and admirable—but not for me.

My parents and my friend helped cancel my Milan and Como flight and hostel reservations, given I had no access to a computer. For me, 10 days alone is too much. I’m happy to call the trip finished after seven days of solo travel. I’m alright that I won’t be going to Como—it’s a stunning area, one I’d prefer to share with someone. As for Milan, my dad says it’s a one- day city. So cutting it a day too, does little to bother me.

I sat on the steps of the train station, my last morning in Venice. The water’s waves splashed gently against the edges of the pavement, the swarms of tourists adding a nice bustle to the character of the city.

I enjoyed my stay, save enjoying it alone. But it’s an area I hope to return to someday. What a different experience it will be, yet what wonderful memories I'll have as a basis for the future Venice experience.

Got bored on the bus boat to Lido. Hopped off a few stops early and found this gorgeous park!

Florence: Thank goodness, found myself a kosher chicken sandwich

April 21- 23. Florence

In my hostel room of seven, I seem the only who finds 6:30 am too early to wake up. 

But I like these girls, mostly Koreans, save the Chinese girl in the bed next to me. The majority travel alone, all for an extended period. We stayed up late talking, our last night, sharing stories of our travels, their comments on the difficulties of being Asian in Europe. One girl, boasting 30 days of solo travel, commented on her dislike of Parisians. It’s a comment that typically irritates me; No one goes to New York expecting warm, welcoming arms. And no one holds it against New York when that warmth isn’t received. And fine Parisians rarely extend an air of hospitality (although largely more a result of cultural differences), but it's not the Parisians we, as the tourist, come to see. The city offers so much more, art and food, history and culture. Who cares that Parisians aren't lovely. The city, on the other hand, is.

Regardless, as an Asian struggling to speak English, I understood her point.
 

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I passed by a small, kosher market after exiting Florence’s synagogue, my second afternoon in the city. The market sold chicken schnitzel sandwiches. To go, I asked. Absolutely, the lady at the counter answered.

She rummaged through the small freezer, pulling out a bag of schnitzel and bread. Tossing the two into the microwave, she sliced a tomato, tossing it over the mix of hummus and tahini that she layered over the defrosted bread. I waited until after climbing up to Piazzale Michelangelo (a beautiful lookout onto the city with a replica of Michelangelo’s David in the center of the plaza) to unwrap the silver foil encasing my kosher sandwich. And, funny enough, after a week of the most incredible Italian food, it tasted incredible to finally eat an ordinary (kosher) sandwich, once more. 

Florence is a small city, easily walkable and doable in a day, although worth the two days to take it a slower pace. As for the tourist traveling alone (namely, me), two and a half days is definitely a little too much. There are only so many buses you can hop on in attempt to see a different part of the city's outskirts. And there are only so many times you can pay seven euros for a tea and 20 euros for a book, to help pass the time. 

That being said, I loved the art, I loved the food. I loved the view from the top of Piazale Michelangelo and I loved sitting on the balcony of the Uffizi Gallery, people watching with a backdrop of Florence's famed Duomo. 

I LOVED seeing Giambologna’s The Rape of the Sabine Woman displayed in Piazza della Signoria’s Loggia dei Lanzi. I hadn't known beforehand, but Giambologna had created the piece with no story or title in mind. The name came after, transforming what Giambologna had intended as a work to demonstrate a technical masterpiece, into one that, now, evokes such an extreme level of tension and passion, movement and emotion. If the work carried a different title, would we pick up on the tension within the figures, or would the tension translate to a tender sensuality? How much of the work, as we perceive it today, truly matches Giambologna’s own vision in how we wanted us to look at the work? And how much power does a name have in constructing our own vision of reality? 

I loved seeing Michelangelo’s David. Michelangelo had a thing for hands, one he didn't leave out in the detail of David's own hands (as in the rest of his body). 

And I loved my gnocchi at the restaurant, San Spirito. Minus sitting at a table for four, opposite an empty chair and directly next to a couple on their night out, the gnocchi (and free glass of champagne) made the sitting situation SO WORTH IT. Lathered in cheese and truffle oil, the dish has a similar consistency to mac ‘n cheese. But Italian style. And a thousand times better.

Top: Florence's Duomo
Bottom L: Florence's Synagogue, R: The Duomo poking out from the view at Piazzale Michelangelo

Unless, you travel alone

Florence. April 22, 9:30 pm.

They've seated me at a table for four, opposite an empty chair and directly next to a young couple. He tops her glass of red wine as he speaks to her gently, a trace of a British accent amid the deepness of his voice. I feel their gaze, as they turn to stare at me, aware that my presence adds an unwelcome touch to their romantic date night out.

A year and a half ago, I believed I wanted to travel to see- to see the reality of what I knew in a photo, to soak in culture and life away from my own.

But you pass through as a traveler, merely taking bites of the newness around you. And no matter the length of your travels, you remain an observer, if you understand the culture or language. An onlooker, if you don't.

It’s taken me a year and a half, but I finally understand that the purpose of traveling isn’t just seeing; the observations are not the limit to the experience. Rather, they form the basis to expand from, one to share with another as a way of creating that personal connection.

Unless you travel alone. Because alone, you observe without the ability to share. Alone, you experience a new, with no partner to remind you of the old. Alone, you loose yourself deep in your thoughts as you travel in the company of the fire swirl of your mind.

Alone, you travel to think. You pick up on thoughts you many not have known you had, thoughts you may not understand, but thoughts, by the end of it all, that finally, will make sense.

I left Australia, last summer, after a period of deep self- reflection. I came out of it sure of where I wanted my career to take me and more aware of what I wanted out of future relationships. And so I left last summer, convinced that would be the end of that.

But our self-discoveries never end; we constantly change. It forces us to get in touch with ourselves-- to understand what the change means and how it effects our sense of being. It’s this way that we make the most of our lives, our relationships and our choices that have the potential of shaping the happiness we know and the fulfillment we seek.

I’m on day three of solo travel. I’ve sort of grown used to going to dinner alone, seated at a table for one. I bring my book, and when not reading, I observe those around me. I miss sharing these experiences with another, yet, in some ways, I’m grateful that my time alone has given me a sense of understanding that it’s not seeing I seek out of travel. When alone, thinking consumes. But when together, experiencing in the form of sharing takes shape. And it’s safe to say, that experiencing together is my favorite of all.  

Rome & Palermo: Converse, not keds. Scusa, not excuse me.

For this trip, my high school pair of rugged, blue converse took the place of the traveling blue shoes. Fake- keds should at least come with a warning of bound to break after a few months of wear.

But like all things in life, some things go unplanned. You make the most of the lemons life throws at you—the blue shoes you go through. 

I spent my first week between Rome and Palermo, accompanied by two friends. I left them Saturday as I continued, alone, for seven days in Florence, Venice and Milan. How different both weeks went, how different travel becomes when it’s done on your own. How lost you get in the voice in your head as you continue, treading foreign grounds, a fresh eye to observe, yet the hint of loneliness that undeniably creeps in.

I look back, pleased with the experience of it all—the adventures the three of us had both in Rome and Palermo, and the intense reflection that consumed my days while in the northern part of Italy.

It’s a lot to document, given the extent of the trip. What should have been 18 days of travel, cut down at the last minute to 14 after a friend canceled for the last leg of the trip, turned into two weeks of some of the most thinking and carb overload I’ve had since leaving for abroad.

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Week 1: Rome and Palermo 

Whatever plan of keeping my emotions together got zapped within moments of leaving Rome's main train station on our first day. Because it was there, from behind the rain-streamed window of our cab, that I got my first view of the Colosseum. Blame it on the tears that embarrassingly welled up or the torrent of the downpour outside, but my view blurred. And it was then that I fell in love with Rome. Fell in love with the beauty of the city among the ruins of its past, the, as I would soon discover, kindness and hospitality of Rome’s residents and the splendor of the city's, well really the country's, cuisine. 

Following lunch our first day, Erica and Nathalie headed back to the hotel for an afternoon nap. Never in the mood to pass time napping, I stayed out, working my way through Trastevere's winding cobbled streets, while shielding myself under my umbrella to avoid getting drenched.

I eventually came to a tram stop and headed to the nearest tabac to buy a ticket. The lady inside, who spoke little English—perfect given I speak no Italian—helped me with the purchase, suggesting that I take a bus to see the Colosseum. Easy enough, she seemed to say. And I agreed readily, looking forward to the opportunity to wander by bus, the idea of getting lost and making my way back. The lady left her spot behind the counter to walk me to the stop down the street. 15 minutes until the arrival of bus 271, so said the board. Not bad, I thought. 

I was still waiting for that bus 30 minutes later, attempting to shelter myself under the small brim of my umbrella. My shoes, by that point, served as holders for the lakes that had taken residence inside the soles of my converse. Shivering from my lack of rain appropriate clothing, yet determined to catch the bus, I stayed, rooted in position, my patience wearing thin. 

It took 45 minutes to catch the bus. 45 minutes of standing outside, along the side of the street, watching the trams pass me by as the rain held up, about as stubborn as I. 

It took just that day to realize how inefficient Rome’s public transportation is, how arbitrary timing runs by in Italy-- how structure and schedule appear foreign in a country that believes 30 minutes late means on time.

In a way, Italian time and Emma time run on the same wavelength.

I got lost exploring that day, deeming the decision to continue on past the Colosseum a good one, failing to take into account that the weather and language barrier would only make my maze back that much more difficult. I always figure it simple to get lost in a city—the metro will always get you back. I hadn’t realized that Rome does not, in fact, have an extensive metro network. Rather, the city runs on trams, buses, and, for the most part, walking. What should have been a 30- minute ride back turned into a three- hour trek. I came back into our hotel room that evening to find my friends stirring from their afternoon nap; I climbed into my bed, snuggling under the covers, still soaked from the year- long wait it took to catch the right tram back.

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It rained Saturday morning too, turning our tour of the amphitheater and Palatine Hill into a balancing act as we gave up all attempt to stay dry, navigating our way through the swarm of umbrellas while trying to not lose site of our tour guide. We met an Israeli family while on the tour, befriending the two grown sons. They joined us for the rest of our afternoon as we went to San Pietro in Vincoli to see Michelangelo’s Moses and wandered through Centro Storico (Rome's historical center). We later regrouped with the boys for dinner, joined by one of my pledge sisters. The evening ended on Capitoline Hill, soaking in the nighttime view of the ancient Roman Forum.  

Capitoline Hill

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Spaghetti and sardines. YUM.

We left for Palermo after two days in Rome, staying with one of Erica’s family friends. The family, who live in a large home in the city center, organized for a tour guide to take us around the city, while providing us with suggestions for our first day alone. Their warmth, in addition to the region's traditional food (ALL ABOUT THEIR EGGPLANT AND SARDINES! Literally in heaven), made our stay in Palermo enjoyable. 

As for the city, it's small, largely destroyed from World War II. Michael, our tour guide, explained the government pays for nothing; it's for the city residents to take initative. Residents tend to do, he said, if influenced by personal incentive. And after four days of observation, the incentive seems to be lacking.

Michael, a Palermo native who lived in New Jersey for several years, possesses an evident love, appreciation and admiration for his hometown. For him, the ruins of the buildings create the character of the city. And so in a way, it's nicer to leave them untouched.

We spent the afternoon of our second day at a Hamamm (a Turkish spa), consumed by an uncomfortable fit of giggles when we realized the whole episode would take place sans clothes—well, minus the pair of see through underwear (but actually like a string) we were given to wear. It took all of me to keep a straight face as I lay on the marble of the elevated bath as a woman splashed water over me. You’re supposed to unwind while lying there. But relaxing is one I’ve never mastered. And so I found myself trying to figure out what day my birthday falls on, if I could count, in my head, from today to then. I tried figuring out my schedule and wondering what time I would be done with class—if I should have friends over and if my roommate would be ok with that. If I would go to class the next day and what route I would take from my morning fitness class back to next year’s apartment (which mind you, we haven’t even signed a lease yet) to give myself enough time to shower in between classes.

Right, relaxing and tuning out. Apparently, I don’t even know where to begin.

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We returned to Rome after four days in Palermo. We had booked our second hostel last minute, therefore leaving limited options to choose from. We finally booked one a few days before leaving for Italy-- a hostel located near the shadier area by Termini station. The owner of our hostel requested we pay the remaining amount in cash-- which we didn’t have enough of, so he waved it off, saying we could meet him at his restaurant, a few streets away, to pay him the full amount by the evening. We would also move, he said, to a new hostel the following day as there would be restorations in the one for that evening.

And then we asked after the wifi in the rooms. Which we didn’t have, he said. We could visit the restaurant if we wanted to connect to the internet.

Oh, that restaurant. We went each morning and evening to use the wifi. That evening, we paid for our hostel in cash to a group of men seated in the back of the restaurant. They had tagged on charges to the amount we owed and I bit my tongue to keep myself from arguing with them. By the look of the men, it didn’t look wise to challenge their word.

So day two, after asking for a receipt that we never got and two wine bottles given to us as a manner of distraction, a man named Alfredo collected our bags, cramming Nathalie into the trunk, while Erica and I squeezed into the front of his rickety, white truck. He, we were told, would take us to the next hostel.

But like actually, he could have been taking us anywhere. So really, baruch hashem he turned out normal and we made it out alive.

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View from inside of the Pantheon.

Rick Steves and Nathalie guided us through Thursday’s afternoon walking tour, working our way from Vatican City to the Spanish Steps, Trevi Fountain, the Pantheon and Piazza Navona.

I loved the Sistine Chapel and Vatican Museums, yet the hoards of people make it hard to stop to appreciate the pieces. That and the security officers barking “no photo” while you attempt to sneak in a shot of the Sistine Chapel. It amazes me how famous the Sistine Chapel has become—how grueling and tiresome of a task Michelangelo set himself upon, and, out of all the paintings and scenes depicted, it’s the detail of Adam and G-d’s fingers that stand out as the most recognized. What would Michelangelo say had he known? 

Trevi Fountain, too, marked high as one of my favorite sites. I loved watching the swarms of tourists—how, no matter age, gender, ethnicity, all, at a point, turned their back to the fountain, gripping the luck of the coins as they threw them over their shoulders into the fountain’s basin.

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The Ecstasy of St. Theresa 

Rome's transportation went on strike the Friday before our departure. I spent the morning at the Borghese Gallery, before meeting up with Erica and Nathalie for an afternoon at the Capitoline Museum. We ended the day on a hunt for Santa Maria della Vittoria, a church designed by Bernini for his piece, The Ecstasy of St. Theresa. I had made it clear I was not leaving Rome until we found the church.  No one seemed to know of the church and the directions we received pointed us to all ends of the city center. It’s thanks to Nathalie’s adept map reading abilities that we finally made it there, 10 minutes before closing.

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I left Rome early Saturday morning, my bag packed as I made my way to Termini station. I had no way of knowing what the next week would have in store, how different of an experience I would set myself upon.

I settled comfortably in my chair aboard the train, plugging myself into my headphones as I gazed out the window. The scenery outside transformed into a streamed blur before the blanket of darkness hit as we entered the tunnel. The view of Rome disappeared as the train lurched, winding through the tracks, heading along to its next destination.  

Week 2: Florence, Venice and Milan—to be continued!

Palermo. We ate lunch overlooking the water.

Palermo: Gelato in a bun-- the Sicilian way of eating gelato!

Laocoon in the Vatican Museum. 

Preparing for food baby number two. Just call it, spring break in Italy.

Six hours between me and Italy-- between me and two and a half weeks of traveling (and eating) my way through 18 days of a spring break unlike any other. 

And so where to begin?

The fight leaves Paris just after 9 tomorrow morning. But the trip begins with the 5 a.m. wake up call for the 5:30 metro in time to get to the 6:15 bus that'll get us to Beauvais Airport. Which, conveniently (as if) located an hour outside of the city and bearing a stark similarity to that of a gas station, is where the 9:25 a.m., Ryanair flight to Rome departs from.

It’ll be 18 days of living out of a bag. And, for the first time, I’ve got it down to a science. It’s one small carry on holding a little under two weeks worth of rolled outfits and piled shoes, all nestled between the stash of necessities. And unlike my trips to Prague and Barcelona, I've, thank goodness, remembered to pack the shower shoes. Absolutely zero chance that my feet are coming anywhere near direct contact to a hostel shower floor for two and half weeks straight. 

I’ve got my fluorescent pink folder ready. Ready with the 20 pages I spent a life savings of two euros printing today, of my research and itinerary, of directions to each hostel and from each airport, train station and museum. Of the must sees and must dos in Rome and Sicily, Florence and Venice, Milan and Como.

This girl doesn’t travel empty handed.

I’ll be in Rome (4 days) and Sicily (4 days) with two friends, continuing on to Florence (3 days) and Venice (3 days) on my own. From there, I'll meet up with another friend, traveling through Milan (2 days) and Lake Como (2 days). It’s the perfect balance of time on my own mixed with time with friends. 

And so two and a half weeks away from the city of romance into a country of pizza and pasta, gelato and gnocchi: finding something to eat is really the worst of my fears.

As for the goals:

• Step 1: Make up sufficiently for a week without bread. Not that I have any doubt that I won’t. It'll all be excuse enough for Passover take two come my return.
• Attempt to keep it together while coming across famous works of art.Though no promise for Rape of the Sabine Woman, a beautiful, mannerist sculpture that’s been my love at first sight since 12^th grade AP Art History. A friend asked me how, out of the millions of pieces the art world has to offer, how could I narrow it to the one? Which, I agree, is a valid question. But there really is something about this piece— the way the figures wrap around, the imprinting of the fingers onto the stone flesh, the movement and tension of the story represented. It’s magnificent.
• Gelato a day= milk a day. Following the formula, a glass of milk a day is healthy, as are daily scoops of gelato. Protein fix: perfect.
• Avoid going bankrupt, while also not stopping myself from fully enjoying the experience.
• Come home with an Italian- Jewish husband. Or better yet, don’t come home. Stay in Italy and elope.
• Remember to bring an extra skirt in my bag to avoid ever having to wear paper clothing to enter a church.  
• Come back still able to speak French. Because two and a half weeks without it should just be seen as practice for the real deal come August.
• Enjoy the freedom of break. My internship starts a week after I return and it’ll be goodbye free time, hello working world.

And so Italy, here I come.

A bientot, Paris.