Last Few Days...

It's been a fantastic couple days, and I'm going to say a prayer to good old St. John the Baptist for being the patron saint of such a wonderful little town. It's hard for me even to keep my eyes on the computer to type - there is a slight breeze across the ocean from Vernazza, and the water is perfectly still, swallowing up the golden setting sun. Even at almost 8 at night, kids are still splashing by the shore, kicking a soccer ball around, and sunbathers lay out, dead asleep and happily frying.
I cannot say enough good things about this place. I should work for the Tourist Information. Minimum, they should let me stay here forever. Not too much to ask.
Friday night I went to eat at Il Pozzo, the restaurant my cousin Valentina's mother's brother used to own. It's funny, explaining that odd relation to Italians makes sense. "Ahhhh", they see. It's not strange to call everyone older then you Aunt, Uncle, Zia, Zio, Godmother, even when you have no idea how they are even related.
I had my first introduction to raw anchovies that were significantly pricier then the marinated or lemon drenched kind, but tasted like you were eating the sweet sea. Olive oil, lemon, parsley - again, simple and not killing the fish with a million flavors. For my secondi, I had wild mushrooms sauteed in white wine, lemon, garlic and parsley. It may not seem that mushrooms could be enough to make up a main course that must hold its own against beef and huge cauldrons of mussels, but these mushrooms were potentially one of the best things I've ever eaten. They don't have them every night, my waiter informed me, for like all good things, it depends solely on how many are picked that day from the woods. Meaty, firm, and cooked lightly - almost al dente- bathed in everything wonderful in the world. Wine, garlic, oil. Again, I may have set a record in food ingestion.
After, I went to the beach disco with some girls I know from TCNJ who happened to be in Monterosso. The wonders of Facebook. We lost each other in the madness of dancing and bad 80's music (DJ's are another thing apparently we have one up on Italy with), but I found my friends Steffania and Manuela and spent a good amount of the night observing a beach full of dancing fools of literally every age.
Yesterday, more beach with Steffi, reading, and being lazy with a long break to eat a fantastic panino with soft, warm mozzarella, olive tapenade, fresh basil and tomatoes. [Sidenote: a panino is one single sandwich. Panini is more then one. Cappucino is one. Cappucini is more then one. And I will save my rant on the pronunciation of certain words ('gal-a-mad' and 'marr-scah-pon', anyone?) for another time. America, get it together.] The focaccia was crunchy and had olive oil spotting the napkin, oozing off the bread and signifying perfection. After more beach and a nap that may have been too long to actually constitute a nap, I ate a simple anchovy dinner and watched the USA lose. Drunk Americans started to stumble in to the bar, and I easily pretended I didn't understand their ranting. Needless to say, they closed the bar early to head off any other messy Americans. "Friends of yours?" Emma teased.
We then piled into Manuel's porsche (obviously. What else would he drive?) and drove the winding hilly roads of Cinque Terre to the next town, Levanto, which local boy Andrea warned me was "the best town in the world, ever". "I don't know if anyone told you, Cri, but the sun kisses Levanto. The moon, it kisses it too", he sighed out the window of the car, dramatically clutching his heart. "Ayyy, only Levanto, Madonna mia," Manuel objected, rolling his eyes, slowing the car to wave his hands in a classic Italian objection. "It kisses Monterosso too". Then the conversation turned to what I can only assume was a friendly rivalry of the two towns that the guys must have been having for years. Silvia, Steffi and I laughed. Silvia, in her charming, terrible English tapped my shoulder - I turn around and she shrugs, brushing a stray dark bang out of her jet black eyes.
"Men."
I'm beginning to understand that such a sentiment can be felt by women in any language.
In Levanto, we went to a beach party and a birratca owned by a friend of the group. Silvia and Andrea are from Levanto, and with every four steps, we had to stop for a few minutes of catching up with whoever happened to walk by. The birrateca, however, was fantastic. They had a huge selection of over 100 bottles of Italian and imported beers, and their friend was enthusiastically explaining the merits of this hop or that style to me as though he hadn't met a girl interested in beer in his whole life. Maybe he hasn't, but it was a great time and on the ride home, blasting U2, laughing at my friends butcher the words in their broken English ("one love, one life" became "one pizza, one knife"), I realized for the trillionth time how incredibly lucky I am and how much I'm going to miss this place. It even makes me comfortable to trip and stumble over my Italian, as I see how carefree they all are about slaughtering English. "I smell like a pork," Andrea lamented, as Silvia playfully smacked his arm. I then tried to explain the difference between saying you smell like a pig, ande you smell like a roast pork, but I think it was lost by then. And don't even get them started on the ridiculousness of the words "chicken and kitchen", or "falls and false". "Price and prize" nearly started a fight. Ah, Italia. Cri #1 made me swear I would be better at Italian next time I come back, and is insisting I come back in August. "Why no?" she asks, worried. "You no like it here?" I explained jobs and school and the responsibilities that come with my life, and she was still confused. Gesturing to the ocean, the sky the mountains, she looked at me seriously, her eyes wide. "Cri cri, it's MONTEROSSO".
Without explanation, I knew what she meant. Sure, the sun and moon may kiss Levanto (I'm sorry Andrea), but they clearly shine only on Monterosso.
Anyone for a few days in Italy in August? :)

The Ocean Was On Fire

There is so much that can be said for Italian hospitality. It really puts Americans to shame. Of course, we have Italy beat on clothes dryers, water pressure and bathtubs, but they really are steps beyond us in treating perfect strangers like they're family, and acting astounded that we take it with such surprise.
I'm back in Monterosso, and staying at one of the B&B's that my friend's family owns. They absolutely would not accept payment, and the room is beautiful - overlooking the sea, breezy, and huge. They brushed off my attempts to pay, saying how glad they were to have me back. The sentiment is returned tenfold - Monterosso is a world away from Malta. And it certainly felt like that after my travel marathon yesterday. As I lugged my suitcases through every possible form of transportation, I arrived in town at dinnertime. Bringing my tired, plane exhausted self to the restaurant my friends work at, they had a huge plate of pasta whipped up, which I inhaled in under five minutes. It was spicy, salty, and very Calabrian - pepperoncini, anchovies, capers, pine nuts, soft cherry tomatoes and whole smashed cloves of garlic. My quality of life skyrocketed after just a few bites. I had little idea of how much better the night could get.
June 24th is the feast day of St. John the Baptist, Monterosso's patron saint, and after the anchovy festival (which I sadly missed), the celebration continued through the night - and for the rest of the weekend. The moon was full and silver, glimmering across the dark, twinkling ocean. As if that wasn't a beautiful enough picture, to celebrate the holiday, all the children set candles out to sea on little paper boats. The sea looked like it was on fire with hundreds of little candles, burning red orange and cutting through the inky darkness. Then the fireworks began - booming thunder and streaks of light and color over the ocean, so close to the cliffs I winced a few times thinking they were sure to fizzle down onto our heads. The streets were packed for the display - fireworks have that effect of immediately making everyone revert back to childhood. With each pop and whistle, everyone can't help but grin, awestruck - eyes glued to the vivid streaks in the sky.
Today was another perfect day. The beach was like I have never seen it, and I understand why my friends, spoiled by its perfection, were complaining about it when the weather wasn't as good earlier in the season. The water was without waves, still and clear, like a plate of glass. You could see through the aquarium water to the colorful rocks lining the bottom, and it seemed like everyone in Cinque Terre was floating along peacefully, bobbing in blissful happiness in the bathtub water. This is my kind of ocean.
I spent a good deal of time reading, but even more time just thinking and watching the children playing, counting the sailboats drifting by on the horizon. My solitude was occasionally interrupted by Emma and her family, a few lounge chairs down, gearing up for the Chile football/soccer match tonight. "Chi-Chi-Chi! Le-Le-Le!" erupted every few minutes, and their enthusiasm was a nice break from the morbid soccer depression that had moved over Italy like a dark cloud after the poor World Cup ending yesterday. My friends even went to far as to throw their Italy shirts out, cursing, kicking the garbage can. My pitiful reassurances that they at least did better then France certainly did not help. Lesson learned.
Aside from sport related issues, If you are in a bad mood in Monterosso, I cannot help you. You must have done something terrible in a former life that you will never be able to atone to. - I couldn't help but think, like a broken record, that this is the happiest I've ever been. I squinted in the warm sun, smiling, occasionally getting up to dip in the water and show off my world famous dog paddle or eat a piece of bruscette. The ocean was filled with fire last night - of candles, saints and fireworks, but today, blissfully oblivious to anywhere else in the world, it truly sparkled again, just in a different way.

Saħħa, Malta

Ironically, after all of the "technical difficulties" I stumbled through in Malta, there is wonderful, functioning, FREE wifi at the Malta Airport (the only airport in Malta, so it does not merit a fancier name). The past few days have been rather relaxing. I spend one day in Mehellia Bay, laying by the beach and reapplying sunscreen obsessively, scared to death of the unhealthy red color of many of my other beach goers. I think it's easy to forget that Malta lies at a further south latitude then north Africa. You certainly wouldn't run around Northern Africa with SPF 15, would you?
I did some more shopping in Sliema after the beach - its hard, after this long away and with limited access to a clothes washer, everything I brought seems to have lost its luster. I'm attempting to restrain myself, but I am doing much better then I thought I would have. Ah, well. That's what vacation is for.
I dined at the Avenue, the restaurant owned by my hotel in Paceville. It was strongly recommended by some British tourists, and breaking my own culinary rule to never trust British restaurant recommendations (I'm sorry, but it's true. Fool me once, shame on you, food me twice...) I ate there and picked some safe bets - bruscette, mixed salad, sauteed mushrooms. All of it was fine, but not noteworthy. The clientele seemed to enjoy the huge portions of mostly fried food and the odd curry dish or two - again, mostly British.
Yesterday I took another long, bumpy bus ride to the north of the island to Gozo, then to Paradise Bay, a secluded beach a 1-2 km hike behind the ferry dock. It was worth the hike and the million stairs. There were fewer then twenty people on the beach, and the beachside restaurant actually served some really good, traditional Maltese food. I had juicy, chargrilled chicken breast with honey, lemon zest and fresh thyme with a salad, but I was impressed that a small beach grill would be so ambitious to serve Maltese favorites, like fried rabbit.
England won the game last night, and as a cab driver remarked to me, the Maltese cheer so strongly for the British because their fledgling soccer team isn't any good. People were, literally, dancing in the streets and creating such a fuss that it took my little bus about an hour to go what is normally about a 15 minute ride. And they say the Americans create spectacles.
Dinner last night was at a sub par Maltese restaurant in St. Julians. The only thing of note was a soup called "widow's soup", consisting of spices, cauliflower, hard boiled egg, peas, tomatoes, carrots, vinegar, honey, and beautiful chunks of Maltese goats cheese, peppery and with a tang and texture like feta, that slightly melted in, giving the soup a silky mouth feel. The soup I was served wasn't fantastic. The tomato base was too acidic, too much like a jarred tomato paste consistency, but it piqued my interest enough to know that it has the right ingredients to be a winner - one I will certainly try and recreate when I get home. I can never resist a good soup.
Now, its the Malta airport, then a transfer in Rome, a flight to Genoa, a bus to the train station, and a train to Monterosso. I'm pretty sure there is not a form of transportation that I will not cover today (camel?) and I have read my way through all of my books. The Maltese bookstore pretty much carries only American romance novels a la Danielle Steel, but I did manage to scrounge up a copy of the "best of" Hemingway. And though I'm running around the Mediterranean today, no single trip is longer then an hour - plane, train, etc, which makes it more bearable.
Saħħa, Malta e Ciao Italia!

Caponata, Churches and Cumin. Ah, Malta.

Often, when we travel, we try and relate places to other place we've already been, even if we are really reaching in our attempts to see something familiar. It's not a good or a bad habit, I think it's only natural. A dreary city surrounded by lush green can remind me of Ireland, the same way that an archway that catches a shadow just so can remind me of Rome - even in Princeton.
Malta, however, defies all recognition or region. The best way I could explain it is to say it looks like a rockier, dustier Sicily with the architecture of a Catholic Northern Africa. I'm aware that this makes little sense, but I've spent the better part of the day trying to wrap my head around what Malta really is, and how to best describe it. Even before I arrived here, it was hard. "So, is it part of Italy?" "Is it French or something?" No, it's its own independent little country, one that threw the EU into a tumble when it joined, for almost no one speaks Maltese. They use the Euro, but only recently, and they certainly do not recharge Italian cell phones, a topic still riling my blood. I traded my perfectly functioning cell phone for a slow wifi connection and zero cell phone. That's what I get for complaining.
The cities are dirty and dusty, but, like many Middle Eastern and African cities - bright. Whitewashed from the sun that beats down, unapologetic, showing every crack, crevice and chip. The color of the sand and rock matches the buildings that seem to dangerously sprout out of nowhere as they lean on each other precariously, like adobe houses curiously peering down to a roaring sea. The water here is clear, and the usual one million shades of blue, but the waves on the Northeast of the island, by Paceville (pronounced PAH-CHAY-VILLE)and St. Julian's, are vicious, and the current looks strong even from a distance. Sunbathers lay on smooth rock, like Nevada desert stone, instead of sand, dipping into tidal pools to escape the currents.
The language, both written and spoken, is mind blowing. Similar to Arabic, but not Arabian at all. Signs written with words that have no rhyme or reason to our eyes. The letters are familiar, but the words could simply be the creative scratchings of a child.
The people are dark eyed and curious. They will follow you for blocks, selling the usual market wares, speaking in a disturbingly British accented English before stepping back into the shadows of their quiet Maltese. Black, white, tan - Maltese is a designation that has no color barrier. A man, glistening obsidian, walks arm in arm with a alabaster pale woman with inky eyes and curly golden hair that seems to follow no rules or order, laughing and joking in their secret language. Churches hide on every block, the same colors of the sand and the rock but intricately, lovingly and delicately carved. Malta, for whatever its influences, is a strongly Catholic nation. From almost every part of the capital city of Valletta and its neighbor across the bay, Sliema, you can see a glimmer of the sapphire sea behind a fort or a yacht or a bustling market that makes you think of Aladdin.
The buses are charming and quirky leftovers from 1950, packed with tourists, locals, chickens, babies, fruit and bad Hawaiian shirts as they careen down narrow roads twisting over the ever present sea. A woman carries something on her head, African style, as a couple in Dolce and Gabbana follow. Malta is truly a mystery, and it's food is as entrancing puzzle, like the culture surrounding it.
I knew going here that the food would be the most interesting thing, and I was surprised that several people I asked about it (Maltese people, to boot) significantly downplayed the Middle Eastern - Turkish -Greek- Northern African influences in their cuisine. "It's like Italian food," my cab driver insisted, his dark eyes fixed to mine in the rear view mirror. "We are not African". Pride? Prejudice? Americans don't like African dishes do they? We had better not let the secret out.
Say what they will, but their food tells a different story.
Lunch was at Rubino in Valletta, serving traditional Maltese food since 1904, which was my first good sign. Second, they have no menu. It is completely based on what is fresh that day. Another wonderful sign. The mixed appetizer plate confused my taste buds so much I actually laughed out loud. Pumpkin, cubed, in what I could best surmise to be a play on the Sicilian "agrodolce" - sweet and sour. Cous cous with sumac, capers and carrots. Caponata with prunes and vinegar- jammy, sour and addictive. Pepperonata, Calabrian style, with cumin and garlic. Salted anchovies with parsley, lemon and garlic. Bread, served crusty and warm with a ricotta cheese that was as sweet and rich as a mascarpone, with a hint of cinnamon. A black bean dip drizzled with honey and fresh garlic. My main was local pork, cut thin and marinated in fresh honey and thyme, grilled, and served with a generous squeeze of lemon.
Dinner, at I Malta in Paceville. Rabbit, braised and stuffed with wine and currants - good, but slightly annoyed at the concessions made to the hordes of British tourists that invade this quiet, beautiful rock. When I am to get a side of potatoes, I do not want french fries.
However, in terms of what is "Maltese", all of it is mind blowing.
Food, like travel, can sometimes lead you to try and label it, or compare it to something familiar. You squint your eyes and try and see through a lens to focus on what it tastes like, looks like, or reminds you of. Your head twists around new flavors and ideas as you realize a place and a cuisine like this cannot be described easily, though you try and try in vain. It's beautifully complex and simply effortless - a natural fusion of cultures and ingredients before such a cooking style became fashionable. Unique from the region, but of it. Once you accept that fact, it gets easier. You don't need to adjust your focus.
You just need to see Malta with a different set of eyes.

Fricco, Friuli and Fathers

It's always been odd to me how one can - and frequently does - say that they love "Italian" food. It's like saying, "I love green things" or "My favorite food is chewable". Nonsensical. Italian food, as Friuli has shown me, can be more varied then I even imagined. Of course I noticed the dramatic difference in the offal of Rome and the fried, spicy oil of Calabria - the beans, steak and unsalted bread of Florence and the wild boar salami of Chianti. I've eaten the light, flaky fish and dark greens of Salerno, and the mouthwatering pesto of Liguria. And I have certainly had more then my share of prosciutto in Parma, and buffalo mozzarella, still warm and fresher then I could have imagined possible. The idea that Italian food cannot be lumped into a category simply defined is an idea not lost to me, and the importance of locality, seasonality and simplicity are the only things that these cuisines seem to have in common.
But nothing prepared me for wurst in rice salad. Or "cotto", cooked ham dressed with spicy brown mustard. And my favorite - fricco. A fried potato and cheese "latke" which is the most typical dish of Friuli, the most Northeastern part of Italy. Pastries that look suspiciously like rugalach. Udine is an old city, with architecture that mirrors Venice but a language that mirrors Slovenia and Austria, both only 15 km away. The local dialect is full of "j's" and words ending with "c's", and looking up at the gray, chipping marble and the even grayer, drizzling sky, its not an imagination that Eastern Europe is, literally, a stone's throw away. The people are blonde and pale, light eyes and strong noses, with lilting dialects and hearty mountain food that would amusingly confuse someone who says they "love Italian food". A rice salad, lovingly prepared by Valentina's father, with olives, capers, peas, wurst, cheese and oil - dressed with, of all things, mayonnaise - was delicious, but threw even me for a loop. Fricco, though addictive as all cheese and potato fried things are, sits in your stomach as and good Eastern European food could. Valentina's parents put together a feast for us, of all the local dishes with a few Calabrian ones thrown in belying their origins, though the family has been in Udine for over 60 years. Fried peppers in oil brought back a familiar childhood smell, but the spedini, marinated pork and skewered sausage in red wine, was a new and addictive way to prepare an old "American barbeque" favorite.
Valentina and her family are incredibly gracious. I slept in her room while she took the guest room, and this morning she took me to Cividale, a small Medieval town on the Slovenian border founded by Ceasar and home to a fantastic Celtic tomb down a harrowing flight of stairs. The town was beautiful in the "spitting" (as she put it) rain, and though Valentina lamented the poor weather, for me it seemed strangely appropriate to the region. She says that Friuli should but up a canopy over the whole region, and after maybe a third of they year of straight rain, I would think so too. However, as a tourist, its perfect and even a little romantic mixed with a touch of creepy. A graying Medieval town, overlooking a rushing river - it wasn't just the Celtic tomb that made me think of Ireland. Street vendors, opening up, frying pans of fricco and the beautiful smells wafting down the narrow alleyways as the Church bells rang deafening in my ear. A reminder, to everyone, that it is Sunday, and you should be somewhere else...not huffing fricco aromas in the streets adjacent to a bridge aptly titled "ponte diavolo".
After a quick tour of Treviso via public transit, I now sit at the Malta airport, as of yet unscathed from my first Ryanair adventure. On a side note about Italian trains, buses and the like - if you cannot manage them, you are an idiot. It is the easiest thing I have ever seen, and I'm floored by everyone who told me it was difficult. I will exchange words with all of you when I get home.
I really did enjoy Udine, and even more, I enjoyed Valentina and her family. She is incredibly smart - speaks 4 languages perfectly - and her family, with their open arms and insistence on more (and more) food really reminded me of my own. There is something so soothing about mothers and fathers, especially when I haven't seen my own in so long.
Oh, and Happy Father's Day to my wonderful, amazing father who would have had a field day at the Celtic tombs today :) Thank you for teaching me the respect for cultures and diversity that made me want to go out and see this whole wide world. Love you.

**I left my heart in Monterosso...and my luggage

Finally in Udine after an insanely long train ride that was made significantly less stressful thanks to my friends in Monterosso and my cousin in Udine. I use the term cousin loosely, because I think it comes down to being a 3rd cousin 75 times removed or something else geneologically awkward, so cousin is simply easier. I left all my heavy things in Monterosso so Ryanair (who I fly to Malta) will not bleed me dry on overweight baggage fees, and my friends helped me get a ticket on the new, super fast train to Udine. Then Valentina picked me up at the station in Udine, and I'm staying in her house til Sunday, when I go to Treviso then fly to Malta. I'm already getting ecstatic at the thought of free wifi. It's not hot showers or huge coffee I miss, but wifi. Coming from somoeone as technologically inept as I am, this is a groundbreaking statement.
So, my last night in Monterosso was spent running around town at a terrible reggae party on the beach, and packing up my things to leave my windowless, oddly scented room yesterday. I asked Cristina and Emma about where I should stay when I come back the 24th, and they told me they would have to find me somewhere since I clearly cannot do it myself. One less thing to do, thankfully.
After getting to Udine, I went to see my cousin's friend sing in his metal band at an outdoor festival in the town park. It was certainly interesting, and I was actually thrilled at seeing something totally new. Churches, gelato, museums- been there. Even an organic honey farm and the Fort Knox of cheese. Italian death metal? Now I can happily check that off my list.
Valentina's parents are so sweet and in keeping with a tradition I am more then familiar with, keep trying to feed me. Her father, at breakfast this morning, decided to show me all the foods he wants to feed me for lunch, proudly taking out raw marinating meat and chopped vegetables, explaining how we will eat them. He even excitedly informed me that he had looked up the score of the Lakers-Celtics game for me (I'm not a basketball fan to that extent), so I could know who won in American sports. And it's comforting to know my family isn't the only one that would vacuum the floor every night.
Also, the sweet dessert wine from Monterosso I presented her family with as a "thank you" was a huge hit. Apparently, my "aunt" has a brother who lives in Monterosso, and actually owns the restaurant where I ate the salt crusted bronzini. It's reassuring how the more I seem to travel to expand my view of the world, to see different cultures and meet different people, the smaller the world actually gets, the more people and places I have in common with the others I meet.
We shall see how this theory holds up in Malta...

I left my heart in Monterosso...

I'm never leaving Monterosso. I canceled Venice, for a multitude of reasons, the biggest being a strike of the water taxi drivers, leaving the only transportation option as private gondolas, which can be insanely expensive. This means I have an 8 hour, 4 train trip to Udine on Friday morning, and then fly to Malta Sunday night. However, my friends here said to just leave my obscenely heavy collection of Italian specialty foods with them and then come back after Malta to get them and spend a few more days here. Kind of their way of guaranteeing I come back - like I need any forcing.
The game was fantastic the other night, even if Italy tied. I was sitting at a table surrounded in a torrent of Italian, cheering, singing - blissfully playing along in my Italia shirt. They broke open a huge bottle of prosecco, and we all signed it to display on the restaurant shelves. The street party went on well itno the night. Last night, a group of us went to dinner, and Cristina and I attempted to communicate better - she said after she drank more prosecco, her English would be fine. It didn't improve dramatically, but she was certainly funnier. We ordered a huge bronzino, crusted in sea salt and baked - the flesh was moist and drizzled with olive oil. At Manuels urging, I ate the flesh by the head - it was so delicious, and he insisted it was the best part of the fish.
Fish is pretty much it here. A cafe by my restaurant has my lifelong loyalty for serving the only mixed seafood antipasto plate I have ever been able to eat. Smoked salmon, tuna and swordfish carpaccio, lemon anchovies, salted anchovies, anchovies and capers stuffed in sundried tomatoes, and tuna stuffed in small cherry tomatoes. Lemon, olive oil and cinque terre white wine. Perfection.
Also the bruschette here is out of this world. Fresh tomatoes, pesto, lardo - all on bread rubbed lightly with garlic, charred and drizzled generously with green oil until they practically shimmer. Not much more is needed for an ideal lunch.
After dinner last night we went to Fast Bar for a drink, and Manuel bought Cristina and I (the due Cristina's, or "Cree's", which is the adorable nickname for Cristina) roses from a man who came in selling them. Cristina and I then attempted to resell them to American tourists for a 100% profit, and started concocting ridiculous life stories when they asked. I'm now a painter from Soho with two dogs who has been living here for 6 years. It was really priceless.
There is not so much to write here. My days literally consist of waking up, coming to Pasticceria Laura to have a cafe and torta, checking email, strolling around, eating lunch, sitting on the beach, swimming, reading, napping, calling friends and family, showering, eating dinner, sitting at the Cantina and watching football and laughing with my new friends, then going over to Damien's after the Cantina closes and watching football recaps as everyone tries to teach me Italian so I'm not as lost in the rapid torrent of language surrounding me. Google imaging New York City, and showing everyone the streets I love. Cristina offered to switch lives for a month. I have no problem with that.
Today I did something different, though - I watched Love Boat dubbed in Italian. I'm hoping I learn it through osmosis.
I have really fallen in love with this town. Though I've been here before, seeing it like a local is a whole new world. I would move here in a second, imagining my life, waking up and smiling, spending my days working and swimming. Even the rain isn't bothering me - it's like saying that you won the lottery, but it wasn't enough money. Ridiculous. I'm in one of the most beautiful places in the world. Complaining about rain is just being ungrateful for what I'm experiencing here. As much as I can logically say that Italy isn't a fantasy, and that there are problems and a history that lie underneath the beautiful exterior, as I wake up and inhale the sea water and squint at the sun over the rooftops, it's hard to keep that thought in mind. Here, everything seems absolutely perfect.