My Milano Sings to Me

Vagabond

I feel that this trip to Italy is like attending
weekly sessions of beauty therapy. The universe silences my internal negativity and shouts: "Come rest your mind child, inhale the beauty of the world!" I must say, the universe is pretty persuasive.

The train ride to Venice showcased the marvels of the Italian countryside in rapid succession. The rolling grassy hills and vineyards, the crumbling ruins, the distant castles and cathedrals. I smiled like a fool and pressed my forehead against the window, letting the cool of the window add to my spirit of utter content.My travel buddy, Zdan and I chatted aimlessly and tried not to annoy the Italian passengers. Time wore on and maturity waned. Dancing ensued followed by a raucous game of cards. By the tim

e we crossed the bridge to Venice, my heartbeat was in my ears. We were here.

Our friends arrived that evening, after a few mishaps (I got lost), we found our way into a decent restaurant. Dinner was delightful but expensive. The sit down cost was unexpected, but alas, we paid and went out into the night. Finding the way home was a challenge, I succeeded in getting us back to our hotel, but not to the club many of my friends wanted to go to. However, we ended up spending the evening in an Irish pub.

The only thing more amusing than 12 college kids sleeping in one room, is the fact that we were short 3 beds. Nevertheless, some gentlemen chose to sleep on the floor and our problem was solved. The room was like a 12 year old's sleepover. We giggled as we brushed our teeth, we joked after the lights had been turned out, we talked and talked (about who would die if this were a horror film), and we tried to sleep, but not before a chorus of "Goodnight Zdan...Goodnight Wiley...Goodnight Hannah...Goodnight Airiel...Goodnight Theresa....NO!"

The next morning we had breakfast and went to the Piazza San.Marco. This church boasts a solid gold alter and Byzantine Mosaics. We walked slowly through the church and marveled at the beauty of it all. From the vaulted ceilings, to the delicately carved columns, everything was breathtaking.

Next, we journeyed to the island of Murano via waterbus (boat). The ride to the on the waterbus was fantastic. We cruised along on the Adriatic and Sea enjoyed the breezes as they c

ame.

Murano was beyond gorgeous. The turquoise waters, the whitewashed buildings and the winding streets made me feel like I was somewhere in another time. We meandered to find lunch and little glass things made by the famous Murano glass-blowers. Then we found the best little Gelato shop and enjoyed the cold treat.

Soon, it was time to head back to San Lucia to catch our train home.

Euphoria

I just want to stay this happy forever. Italy makes me so happy. I look back and wonder about the last time I was this happy and I can't remember. I just want to dance and sing. I want to stay this happy person that I've always wanted to be. I want to outrun, outdance and outdrink my sadness forever. Why can't life always be like this?

Italian class today was fantastic, as always, we joke with our adorable professor and she lets us take breaks for cappuccinos at the cafe across the street.

Luini's panzerotti is a lunch time staple, we hadn't had it in like 5 days so we (9 of us) headed over and chowed down.

Tonight was the fantastic and cheap bar at our favorite piazza (di San Lorenzo).

Life is good.

Milanese Calibrase

I have no idea what the Italian policy is for public sleeping, but whatever the case, my nap in the library was much needed. These past few days have been a whirlwind of emotion. I love this city. From the gritty sidewalks and lack of traffic laws to the unexpected rain storms, but, it exhausts me.

Milan reminds me so much of myself, or rather, what I would like to become. This weekend, I went to a rehearsal at the famed La Scala Opera house. The building was destroyed several times during WWII, yet they dug through the ruin and began again, making the opera house a monument to the Italian love of beauty.

Unlike Americans, the Italians often keep the ruin along with the new renovation. It is a constant reminder of where they have been and where they are going. It is a constant part of them that they acknowledge and move beyond.

Alas, I'm rambling.

Ciao ciao.

Panzerotti on the Piazza

Here in Italy, the Americans are starving. The Italians eat rich sweets for breakfast, “brioche con marmalada e capppucino”. The croissants are flaky and sweet and the coffee is robust, but we miss our eggs and potatoes. “Asperatte,” they tell us. By noon, we’re too hungry to observe the Italian lunch hour. My newfound friends and I hop on the metro and ride from San Ambrosio to Cadorna, where we switch from the green line to the red and head towards il Duomo.

Yesterday, when we were lead by our community assistants, we politely ate the Italian amount. Today, we are greedy, hungry and armed with new Italian.

Posso avere...

Prendo...

Luini’s is the best place for the cheesy tomato goodness known as panzerotti. In the heart of Milan's historic district, the place is always busy. Today is no exception, the line is already out the door. While others turn around and find other lunches, we've already learned that their's is the best, so we wait.

Here in the land where the customer is always wrong, the lady behind the counter is annoyed with my classmate's fumbling Italian. I practice the words in my head over and over. So far, I've never ordered for myself.

Posso avere due panzerotti normale perfavore.

I order for my friend and feel like a champion. We take our cheesy spoils and sit on the steps of a 500 year old church. I am too happy to be here.

Mi Casa

Pink Flamingo in Poland

Polanczenia Transferowe

Okay, what the hell did that sign just say?

Odbior bagazu i Wyjscie

Excuse me, how can that even be a word with so many consonants in a row?

I've left my American friends from the Chicago-Warsaw flight, so now I wander. I have no idea what any of these signs say and the English translations are few and far between. The ever-friendly Chris and sleepy Deanna or Leanna have run off to catch their flight to Vienna, so here I am, actually alone and kind of dizzy.

Alas, I have found customs. They check me over and I try not to be too alarmed when the Polish guard yanks my passport from my hands. He nods curtly and hands it back.

Stamp.

Here I am, Warsaw, Poland.

Everywhere I go, the Polish stare at me. I am the lone pink flamingo in this homogenous duck pond. It’s strange being watched, so I ham it up. I hijack a handicapped bathroom and change entirely. I’m going to need some fashion confidence to take on this situation. The girl in the mirror is not as much of a disaster as I expected. My makeup appears to have lasted, though my hair is untamed and threatening to take over Warsaw. I reach into my bag and pull out my favorite green dress. In a flash, the makeup is reapplied, the hair beast is tamed and I’m finally out of my heavy and too-hot travel clothes. Am I brave enough to wear this outside?

I barrel through the door before I can change my mind or dress. Once again, the Polish stare.

Clack.

Clack.

Clack.

Why are my heels so loud?

I’m suddenly so aware of every move I make. I tell myself that I can’t be as conspicuous as I feel. Each step proves me wrong.

I search for vegetarian breakfast and give up, settling for a frappe. Everything in Poland has sausage.

I panic when I pay, Poland doesn’t use the Euro. I swipe my card hesitantly.

What is a zloty?

The coffee boy is nice, I realize I’m terrible for not learning how to say thank you in Polish. I say it in English anyways, more for myself than anything. He smiles. He understood. I think.

Thank God.

I sit and drink my frappe in the open café. I hear little Polish children speaking quickly in a language that sounds more like an exhalation than anything else.

Here I am, alone, on the other side of the world. A pink flamingo in a duck pond.