La Baguette

Before I came to France, bread was just the means to an end, a vehicle to transport other, more delicious foodstuffs into my mouth. But in the past six months I have learned to appreciate the joys of a plain piece of bread.

And there's no shortage of it in Paris. The city has pain of every variety, but the ultimate symbol of French culture is undoubtedly la baguette. These delicious carbohydrate sticks can be seen in the window of every boulangerie and, yes, French people really do buy one or two every day for dinner.

My love affair with baguettes began when I checked my bank balance and realized that my pastry habit was hurting more than just my BMI. Since then I've been substituting 0.85€ baguettes for 3€ sandwiches. Most people in the U.S. associate French bread with the traditional plain baguette, but they come in different varieties. My favorite is the baguette aux graines from the boulangerie near my program center. It's crusty on the outside, but soft on the inside, and studded with grains and seeds that give it just the right crunch. I order one almost every day (warm, if I time it right) and tote it off to eat it on my program's rooftop terrace.

Consuming a baguette is a blood sport (you think I'm kidding, but I needed a Band-Aid after an encounter with a particularly crusty speciman next week). The first option is to gnaw off giant hunks like some sort of ravenous animal, leaving nothing but a cloud of crumbs and dust. This method is best employed when you are alone, although it will get you lots of entertaining looks on the Metro. The second method is a more civilized dissection process, which involves finding and pulling apart the softer veins of bread amidst the crusty ridges. And if you want to be really French, adopt method #3 and eat your baguette with a knife and fork (no, I've never seen anyone do this. But considering they eat their hamburgers with silverware, it's not that far-fetched.)

Whatever your method of choice, popping into a Parisian boulangerie is a must for anyone who wants to understand a little more about French daily life. After all, happiness is a warm baguette.

Mythbusters: French Edition

Stereotypes are bad, boys and girls. They reduce entire groups of people to simplistic and often inaccurate generalizations. And yet...stereotypes are sometimes true. At least, that's the conclusion I've come to after spending five months in France. (Disclaimer: Not all of these stereotypes are negative. And sometimes it's stereotypes about Americans that have been proven true. A lot of us are obnoxiously loud.) It's not like every French person walks around in berets belting out "La Marseillaise," but they have confirmed some of my preconceived notions about them. Here's an examination of five common stereotypes about the French, and my take on their veracity:

1) Scarves are a mandatory fashion accessory.

When I was younger, there was an anthology of scary stories that my parents dragged out every Halloween. One of these stories told of a young man named Alfred who fell in love with a girl named Jenny. Jenny had the whimsical habit of wearing a green ribbon around her neck, a ribbon which she instructed Alfred never to untie. The two eventually got married, had children, and lived a long and happy life together, during which Jenny never undid the ribbon. Finally, as an elderly Jenny lay on her deathbed, she told Alfred to untie the ribbon. He did so, and the last sentence of the story reads: "And Jenny's head fell off."

I am now convinced that this story--besides being severely traumatic--was written by a French person. Because in Paris scarves are not just fashion accessories; they might as well be surgically fused to the wearer's neck. The type and color are immaterial, as is the fashion of tying them. What is important is that Parisian men, women and children never leave the house without a protective piece of fabric wrapped around their necks.


2) They love black.

Paris is a city that lends itself to descriptions such as "classic," "elegant" and "timeless." And they have the color palette to match. Parisians do wear color, but generally as an accent to a black, gray or beige ensemble.

Parisians in general are very fashionable people and I accepted long before my arrival here that I would never fit in style-wise. So I refused to make any concessions when it came to de-colorizing my wardrobe. I walk the streets every day dressed in a green jacket and bright blue or yellow scarves, carrying a green purse. If I want to be kind to the people on the Metro, I wear my black shoes. If I want to give someone an aneurysm, it's either leopard-print or blue snakeskin flats.

These choices often cause French people to stare at me and say things like: "What ees wrong with you, you walking kaleidoscope? Are you color-blind? Deed a shamrock throw up on you zees morning?" But I will not be deterred. I agree that black is classic, timeless and slimming (important in a city with so many pastries). But why restrict yourself to one shade when there are so many other colors to be worn? Sorry France. You are classy, but I'm not assimilating on this one.

3) They are fueled by a powerful combination of bread, coffee, cheese and wine.

One of my favorite things about Paris is that, despite being a big city, it is full of independent businesses and people who love to patronize them. Sure, there's a McDonald's, Subway and (inexplicably) KFC within one block of my apartment. And the local Monoprix is always packed. But there are also at least three boulangeries, a butcher shop and countless cafes within the same area.

I honestly do not understand how there are enough Parisians to fill all of the 52 million cafes in the city, but they're always full. And every evening at about 6:00, there is a line of people out the door of every boulangerie, all waiting to buy their evening baguettes. My host family eats a cheese course every night at dinner. And wine is incredibly cheap; you can get a decent bottle for under 2 euros (not that I would know anything about that, Mom and Dad).

I think this adherence to certain food staples, just like a devotion to black, reflects some central tendency of the French. At some point 800 years ago, they found the foods, colors and architecture that work for them, and they've spent the rest of their history perfecting them. So while they are not quite the cultural melting pot that the U.S. is, no one can beat them when it comes to a perfectly browned baguette, or a wheel of camembert.

4) They all smoke.

This is largely true. Of course there are exceptions (my host mother doesn't, and my 13-year-old host sister has, thus far, resisted temptation), but I've met many more smokers here than in the U.S. Walking past any Parisian high school at lunch hour involves navigating through the clouds of smoke produced by French 14-year-olds.

It's not that Parisians don't understand the consequences of smoking. Au contraire. Packets of cigarettes are labeled with bold, black proclamations of "Fumer tue" (smoking kills). And smoking is not allowed in restaurants and other public places. And yet, I would give most of my professors about three seconds after the end of class before they are outside on our center's terrace, lighting up a cigarette.

5) They are rude, Communist, cheese-eating surrender monkeys.

Absolutely true.

No, actually I think that the French get an unfair rap from the rest of the world. It's true that many people here are not overtly friendly. But I attribute this to reservedness, not rudeness. Privacy is highly valued here, and there is not the same sense of general cheeriness that pervades American society. And it is worth remembering that Paris is not France (in fact, even many French people hate Parisians). Paris is a big city and just like any big city, the people are stressed out, busy and not in the mood to smile on the Metro.

I have had a few encounters with brusque or unfriendly people. But many more of my experiences have been positive. And I haven't seen much evidence of anti-American sentiment. When people find out I'm American, they are often very interested in talking to me about our health care system and political process. They ask my opinion of Paris and Parisians. They compliment my French, and thank me for coming to study in their country. A friend and I were once even called "adorables americaines," two words many would be surprised to hear spoken by a French person.

I realize that my experience has probably been made considerably easier by the fact that I speak French. And I don't discount stories of rudeness or snobbery experienced by past tourists. But the French are pretty much like any other group of people: some are friendly, some are jerks and most are a little bit of both.

They do eat a lot of cheese, though.

La Carte de Sejour

I know what you're thinking. If Paris is such a magical place, full of lights and pastries, why doesn't everyone just move there? Unfortunately, the French have anticipated this and taken the necessary precautions.

If you are staying in France for longer than three months (most study abroad programs are 3 1/2...coincidence?), you need to register with the immigration office upon arrival in Paris. One of the nice things about being on a study abroad program is that they tell you what paperwork to bring and then submit it for you. We handed in said paperwork during our orientation in Tours, and were assured that the immigration office would have our cards ready within two months, and that we were not technically allowed to travel outside of France before then.

I'm glad I did not obey said technicality, because five months later, our program director informed me that I was scheduled to go in for the last step in the visa process, the mandatory medical exam. Of course, after six weeks of free time, this appointment fell on the first day at my new internship. When I informed her of this problem, she suggested I take a late lunch break, as "Once you get there, they're very efficient. It shouldn't take more than 20 minutes." Foolishly, I believed her. After five months spent in this wondrously inefficient country, I believed her.

And so, I arrived at the office on Monday afternoon at precisely 2:00, only to find that the X-ray machine was broken, and things were running about 40 minutes behind. First, they collected several of my documents, as well as a stamp I had purchased prior to the appointment for 55 euros. This stamp had nothing to distinguish it from regular postage, which was highly disappointing. Because if I'm going to buy a 75 DOLLAR STAMP, it had better be made of solid gold and Berthillon ice cream.

I finally got into an exam room for an eye test, followed by more waiting. Then I was called into another room, where I was informed that I needed a chest X-ray. Since X-rays cannot see through clothes, or hospital gowns, and since nudity is second only to Camembert in French hearts, I was informed that I would need to take my top off for the doctors. Being a prudish American, I yelled something like, "What do you think will happen to your economy if I leave? DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY MACARONS I BOUGHT LAST WEEK??" Surprisingly, they remained unswayed by my pleas. So I was forced to expose myself. On the plus side, I know that I do not have tuberculosis. Because that was really keeping me up at night.

After that, it was back to the waiting room, then in to a third office. Here I was asked to provide my vaccination records, which, I might add, were not listed on any checklists I had received. I had brought along three other "required" documents which the office had specifically requested. But no, no one even wanted to look at those. They wanted my vaccination records, and it was only after I conveniently forgot how to speak French that they took pity on my confused, pathetic American self and signed off on my form anyway. Finally, it was back to the waiting room, where I was given a parting gift of a French-English healthcare handbook which told me not to drink more than two glasses of wine a day, to beware of pastries and to never leave my child in a room with an open window (whoops on all three counts).

So, to sum up, my morning consisted of:
-1 $75 dollar stamp
-3 doctors
-90 minutes in delays
and
-1 striptease

Why don't more people move to France?

We're Halfway There...

Actually, we're more than halfway there at this point. Today marks the five-month anniversary of my stay in France, with four months to go. Just a warning for any of you who may talk to me in the coming months: Please do not make any reference to the fact that my time in France is passing quickly. I literally do not know how I will survive without my beloved pastries, the warm baguettes aux graines from my neighborhood boulangerie, or a public transit system that actually gets you places in less than 3 hours. So my strategy at this point is hardcore denial, and I would appreciate it if everyone else helped me maintain that illusion. With that said, here are some highlights of the past months:

Countries Visited: 6 (Poland, Belgium, Ireland, Germany, Italy and Vatican City)

Best Pick-up Line*: This one comes courtesy of our Italian friends. Although French guys are not above skeeziness, they lack in originality. Their come-ons are generally limited to: "Would you like to get coffee with me?" or "I'm looking to practice my English."* They could learn a lot from the table of Italian guys sitting next to me and Eunice. After trying to get our attention for the entire meal, they finally saw an opening when we were getting up to leave. The conversation went something like this:

Italian Guy (to me): So are you Irish?
Me: No...Well, Irish-American.
Italian Guy: But you're so white!
Pause
Me: Yes. Yes I am.

I'll spare you their poorly-phrased, reasonably offensive remarks about Eunice's Korean eyes. The point is, we were seduced into going home with them. Because you just can't resist those lines.

*After writing this segment, I was subjected to another come-on while walking to a friend's apartment. I won't copy it here, as it was rather vulgar. But it rhymed. Needless to say, I slept with him as well.

Least Effective Way to Get Money:

There are a lot of panhandlers in Paris. Some of them sort of earn their money by serenading tourists with "La Vie en Rose" or "I Love Paris." But a lot of them just jump onto Metro cars, recite a litany of misfortunes and unspeakable tragedies and then walk down the aisle with their hat held out.

Sometimes these speeches are so pitiable that even the flinty-hearted Parisians are moved to give a few centimes. But I heard one the other day that was earning the speaker no money. It went something like this:

"Hello ladies and gentlemen. I am German but I have lived in France for 20 years. It has become my home country. I am currently out of work and homeless. I don't even have a room or a closet to call my own. If you were in my situation, you would have killed yourselves. Yes, killed yourselves ladies and gentlemen, because we all know that French people are not very hearty..."

He continued on with statistics about poverty in France, and the observation that such statistics were shameful for a country that calls itself a developed Western nation. But he wasn't making much headway. Tip for getting money from French people: Do not call them weak. Especially if you are a German.

Weirdest Metro Poster:

In addition to panhandlers, there are also advertisements on the walls and ceilings of Metro cars. Most of these are pretty standard ads for phone services, English language lessons or real estate agencies. A few months ago, however, some strange ads started popping up in numerous trains.

It took me a while to really realize what these posters were. On one particularly long ride, I finally realized that they depicted a sad-eyed horse named Caramel standing next to a menacing cleaver. Apparently Caramel and many of her equine brethren daily fall prey to Parisian gourmands. I don't know if you are aware (I wasn't), but horse meat is still a reasonably popular food in France. I've never seen it on a menu, but there are apparently boucheries chevaline, special horse butchers, where you can buy the meat. It caught on during several revolutions, when people were desperate for food and too poor to buy anything else. It is still eaten, probably because you can buy an entire horse for the price of one Laduree macaron.

I can't be too judgmental, considering the number of hamburgers that I've ordered over the past 20 years, but I am sympathetic to Caramel. Still, I couldn't help laughing at the dramatic posters, and their insistence that I visit jenemangepasdecheval.com (idonteathorse.com).

(Do not visit said site. It's gross.)

Anniversary Present to Myself: So guess what I did to commemorate the 5-month mark? I went to THE LOUVRE for the first time this trip. That's right. I no longer have to live under a cloud of shame, no longer do I have to confess: "My name is Alanna Byrne, and I am a Louvre-phobic."I will now not be expelled from the country for my astonishing lack of culture and refinement.

To be completely honest, I went because I was obligated to for the new art history class I'm taking. But I think now that the floodgates have been opened, many more self-motivated visits lie ahead.

Buon Anno!

By the time we arrived in Venice, we had been traveling for 12 days. And while it's not really a punishment to travel around Italy for 2 1/2 weeks, we were both pretty exhausted. Thankfully, Venice is not a city that demands a lot of exertion. We had nearly a week for sight-seeing, which was more than enough to hit up the main sights (really, way more than enough). So we spent a few days doing nothing but sitting in cafes and restaurants, talking to one another and to new friends. More than the sights, Venice was about the people.

5) The islands


As geographically-inclined readers will know, Venice is actually a city made up of 118 small islands. Individually, these islands are not known for anything besides giving people something to walk on. The more famous islands--Murano, Burano and Torcello--are actually about 40 minutes away by water taxi. Eunice and I took an afternoon to see the first two, which ended up being a nice break from the city.

Murano is world-famous for its glassmakers. The island is small, but it's packed with glass showrooms and workshops. We visited on a Sunday, so things were pretty quiet, but we did manage to tour the Museo del Vetro (Glass Museum) which showcased some truly amazing glasswork done by Murano craftsmen over the years. If I had carried a bigger purse, you would all be getting Murano glass chandeliers as souvenirs.

Next we headed over to Burano, known for being the most adorable island in the world. Well, it's actually known for the lace manufactured there, but that was of secondary importance to us. Which was a good thing, because upon arrival we discovered that the lace museum was closed for renovations meaning that we had literally nothing to do on the island. So we wandered around, admiring the brightly-painted houses (each one is a different color) before taking refuge from the cold in a cafe.

It was a pretty laid-back day, which was exactly what we needed, considering that it was our last full day and we were both falling asleep on the water taxi ride over.

4) Peggy Guggenheim Collection

By the time we hit Venice we were pretty art-museumed out. But our guidebook peer pressured us into one final visit, by informing us that we would be terrible tourists and inadequate human beings if we did not visit the Peggy Guggenheim Collection.

The museum is named for Peggy Guggenheim (yes, those Guggenheims), who spent her last 30 years living in Venice. She amassed a substantial modern art collection that is now displayed in her former home and garden. I've mentioned before that I have a love-hate relationship with modern art, but I had a love-love relationship with this museum. It has a perfect location on the Grand Canal, and is full of beautiful paintings from the likes of Picasso, Pollack and Magritte. And (a big plus for me) it's very manageable. The main building still feels like a home, complete with tables and sofas for visitors to relax in. Across the garden is another building, where we toured two special exhibitions: one on Maurice Prendergast and one on Italian futurist artists. It was a great way to spend an afternoon, and a nice change from the Renaissance works we'd gotten accustomed to.

3) Vitruvian Man

In the months I've spent in Europe, I feel as though I've seen more famous works of art than I can count. Mona Lisa? Check. School of Athens? Seen it. The Thinker? Yep. Birth of Venus? Got it. But there's one iconic piece of art whose location I had never bothered to research: Leonardo da Vinci's Vitruvian Man. It's one of the most famous images in the world and in case you were wondering, it's in Venice.

But you should probably wait a few years before rushing off to Italy. Since the drawing is ink on paper, it's too delicate for permanent display. The week we were in Venice it happened to be on display for the first time in seven years. We never would have figured this out on our own, as the sketch wasn't mentioned in our guidebooks and there was very little promotion. But while eating lunch one day, we happened to hear it mentioned by two American women sitting at the next table. They told us that it was the last week of the exposition, and that not many people knew that it was even going on. So we immediately headed over to the Galleria dell'Accademmia, bought our tickets and--five minutes later--were standing in front of the Vitruvian Man.

I didn't expect the sketch to be as fascinating as it was. It was only slightly bigger than a sheet of notebook paper, but it is one of the best art experiences I've had in Europe. One of my favorite things about artwork is the historical aspect, the idea that at some point in time Leonardo da Vinci was sitting in front of the same canvas. It's the thought that saves the Mona Lisa from being completely overrated, and it was especially apparent in this sketch. You could see da Vinci's handwriting, every line he drew and every crease in the paper. Incredibly, there were only two other people in the room when we first got there, so we managed to get a great look free of flash photography and jostling crowds.

2) New Year's



I'm not exactly a party animal. On a Friday night, you're more likely to find me in bed with a book than downing shots at a club. And my New Year's celebrations were always pretty consistent with this, especially considering that they were spent at my grandparent's house. At midnight we would go out in the street, my great-aunt would bang some pot lids together and we were all asleep by 12:02. So this was the first New Year's Eve where my plans did not consist of watching replays of the ball dropping in Times Square.

In Venice, the main celebrations were going on in St. Mark's Square. Now I don't know if you know this, but Venice has a lot of water. And sometimes, especially when it's been raining, the water does not like to stay in the canals. I fortunately had brought my pair of waterproof boots. Others were less fortunate and had to shell out 9 euros for glorified plastic sacks. Let's take a one of those poor noobs.



Anyway on New Year's Eve, a mere twelve hours before celebrations were due to start, the square looked like this:

Luckily, the water drained quickly and the entire place was dry by 1:00 in the afternoon. We thought we had dodged a bullet, stupidly forgetting that the tide comes in twice a day (this is why we are journalism majors). So when we returned at 11:30 PM, we realized that nothing short of Noah's Ark would get us in front of the stage without getting completely soaked. Eunice and I were accidentally separated at this point, and she decided to stay dry as I ventured out into the deluge. My reward for doing this was a spot close to the stage, and a good view of the emcee...



a seeming friendly but somewhat sadistic man who spoke in a mix of Italian and English and would say things like, "I will never forget this night with all of you beautiful people. We are all here together...except you are in the water. Haha!" Or, "The water is all around. It is so beautiful!...but so very cold. Haha!"

The theme of the night was "Love 2010," so there was a lot of random making-out and cheesy romantic songs. But the real fun started after the countdown. I was with three other girls from our hostel, one American and two hyper-friendly Australians who could (and did) strike up conversations with anything that moved. So we ended up wandering Venice, meeting a parade of characters, from an adorable, newly-engaged British couple to a fellow Aussie teenager to a group of locals out for the night. For hours after midnight, music was blaring in the square while people splashed and danced and rode inflatable rafts through the water.

It was a completely random night, but that was what made it great. There was something exciting about wandering the city, making new friends and exchanging "Buon Anno!" with every stranger we passed. Not a bad way to kick off a new decade.

1) The people

There aren't a whole lot of advantages to staying hostels (unless you consider noisy roommates and moldy showers advantages). But they are cheap and they theoretically provide an opportunity to meet fellow impoverished travelers from around the world. Up until this trip, however, I really hadn't made many friends while staying at hostels. This is partly my fault: I'm not the most social person even on the best of days, and after a day crammed full of sight-seeing it's easier to fall into bed than go mingle with strangers.

At our Venice hostel, mingling was pretty much mandatory, as the hostel gave us free breakfast and dinner. So twice a day, between shoveling our faces with pasta, we made several new friends. Among them were two New Yorkers, one Washingtonian and the two previously mentioned Aussies. We eventually formed our own little group. Sometimes we explored new sections of the city. One day (New Year's) we spent the entire afternoon talking in a restaurant. We bonded over the strangeness of our hostel, where it was literally impossible to sleep past 9:30, without having your bed taken apart and sprayed with god-knows-what kind of chemicals. We talked about different expectations put on American and Australian students, compared impressions of European cities and learned that Australians have some not-so-nice names for red-heads...

And of course, the most important person on the trip was Eunice. It's always a little scary traveling alone with someone for the first time, as there's no buffer if you get irritated with one another. But things could not have worked out better. It was the first time we'd been on our own in seven months, and we compensated by letting loose our own brand of unfettered, neurotic craziness. We spent 18 days talking about everything. And I mean everything. Happy subjects, sad subjects, weird subjects. We had disagreements, but we also had identical reactions to certain experiences (Most of these moments tended to be a bit morbid, such as our strange glee at discovering the serial killer museum in Florence, or our discussion of Little Mermaid songs while walking to the catacombs. Perhaps it was best that we were not around other people).

I love, love, love living in Paris and have made some great friends over the past months. But there's nothing like spending time with someone who knows you as well as Eunice and I know each other. Of course the fact that we were traversing Italy helped, but I am convinced we would have had almost as much fun had we spent our vacation in a cardboard box. So thanks Eunice. All of your personalities were greatly appreciated on this trip.
------------------------
So that's it: Italy in three entries. It was a great trip from start to finish, but after 18 days away from home I can't say I was sorry to get back to Paris, where the showers are warm and the pastries are fattening.

All Roads Lead to Rome

After Florence, it was off to Rome. I had my doubts about the Eternal City, as many people had told me that it was a crowded, dirty city full of pickpockets and tourist traps. But it ended up being my favorite of the three cities we visited. As with Florence, we had a lot of time to wander around, so I couldn't begin to list everything that we did. But here, again, are my top five moments:

5) Tartuffos at Tre Scalini

If you're going to eat as much as I do, you have to be serious about it. That means researching, reading reviews and remembering every restaurant recommendation you ever hear. Case in point: Four years ago, my Italian French teacher mentioned what (in his words) was "the best gelato in Rome." His words could not have fallen on more attentive ears. Four years later, I finally got the opportunity to visit Tre Scalini, a crowded gelato shop overlooking the Piazza Navona.

We discovered that the restaurant isn't famous for just any gelato, but for a creation known as the tartufo. This most genius of desserts consists of dark chocolate gelato, covered in chocolate and whipped cream, hiding a maraschino cherry at its center. Needless to say, they were delicious, and cured whatever pastry withdrawal I was going through.

(I swear, they were the same size. Mine is just closer to the camera).

4) The creepiest church in the world

Eunice and I each had certain responsibilities during the trip. I somehow ended up with the map, but it was Eunice who asked for directions whenever we got lost. She had brought along a handy guidebook, but I was the only one with a purse, so I was responsible for carrying it around. While perusing the book one afternoon, I noticed a short but strange entry about a Capuchin church decorated with the bones of dead monks. I didn't think much of it until my mom mentioned that she and my dad had visited the church on their honeymoon. In her words, it was "kind of weird." The Lonely Planet guidebook promised that we would be "gobsmacked."These descriptions did not prepare me for the sights that confronted us when we descended into the five-room crypt. Here are some photos (stolen from Eunice) to illustrate my point:

Yes, my friends. Those are indeed bones. Real bones, taken from 4,000 dead monks, and arranged over almost 400 years. But it gets worse:

SKELETONS. Entire skeletons. And these aren't even the worst ones. Some of them still had SKIN ON THEM. And in the last room, we were greeted with the following cheerful message: "What you are now we used to be; what we are now you will be." Lonely Planet, you need to check your dictionary. Because the word you are looking for is "terrifying," or maybe "horrible." But certainly not "gobsmacked."

3) Wandering

Some people were shocked when they found out that Eunice and I were only visiting three cities, even though we had over two weeks to travel. We certainly could have seen more, but we made the decision to see fewer cities--but to really see them--rather than rushing through Italy with no time to absorb anything. Since we had 5 to 6 days in each city, we were able to hit the main tourist attractions as well as some of the lesser known neighborhoods.

Of course, one of the great things about city life is that there's always something going on, plays or movies to see, museums to visit, restaurants to try. But what I love most are the moments when you turn a corner and see a completely empty street before you. Even in the biggest, busiest capitals, you can find small snatches of quiet, when you're alone with the whole city. We got a taste of that in Rome. Whether it was walking the deserted streets to Vatican City on Christmas morning, or wandering the residential Trastavere area, Eunice and I were able to experience a Rome stripped of distractions. And it was beautiful.

2) Colosseum/Palatine Hill

The Colosseum is possibly the most iconic symbol of Rome. So Eunice and I braved a rather rainy day, and many middle-aged, pot-bellied faux gladiators to take a combined tour of the arena and the Palatine Hill. Even though the Colosseum has been pretty badly treated over the years (even the popes used it as a quarry to construct St. Peter's), it's still impressive. What made the visit especially memorable was our tour guide, aka "the most philosophical man in the world." He spent about 30% of the tour telling us concrete facts about the Colosseum, and 70% of the time trying to convince us that although we may think of the Romans as bloodthirsty and barbaric (thanks a lot Russell Crowe), we are actually just like them. He asked us to contemplate a return to the Roman system of justice, under which the CEOs of AIG and Merrill Lynch would be forced to fight to the death. The tour ended with life advice from Seneca, after which we were free to wander around the arena on our own.



After a lunch break, we headed over to Palatine Hill, where Rome started. Our new tour guide offered less in the way of philosophy, but made up for it with a voice that was evidently modeled on Robin Leach. The site is beautiful, a secluded green space in the middle of Rome. And it's full of ruins that are about eight times older than the United States. I'm a bit of a history nerd, so I love walking across a 2,000 floor, or seeing the interior decorating choices of ancient emperors. There's one ancient temple in the Forum that has the original door, lock and key, all of which (incredibly) still work.The idea that these ruins have existed for so many years makes you think about the civilization that constructed them, and whether we'll leave behind anything half as interesting for future fanny pack-toting tourists to snap pictures of.



1) Christmas Day



As I've mentioned before, I really like planning trips to coincide with celebrations. Some of my favorite memories from first semester were event-specific: All Saint's Day in Krakow, the Christmas markets in Munich. When scheduling our trip, Eunice and I knew that we wanted to be in Rome on Christmas Day. Obviously most tourist attractions were closed. But there was one experience we weren't leaving Rome without, and that was seeing the Pope's address on Christmas Day. Christmas itself was a stunning day, 60 and sunny, with the bluest sky I'd seen in months. There were no crowds when we arrived at 10:00 (the address was scheduled to start at noon), so we went to stand against the barricade separating the balcony from the rest of the square. About an hour before the address, the police moved the barricade directly in front of us, so we were able to snag two chairs about 10 rows from the balcony.

The atmosphere is what I imagine a Super Bowl or World Cup must be like. There were crowds of people, waving flags and holding up signs. There were bands and military troops marching past. A particularly loud group of schoolgirls were seated to our left. They spent a good 30 minutes yelling out "We are here to see the Pope!" and singing their own modified version of the Remember the Titans chant.

Now I'm not the best Catholic in the world, and I wouldn't say that the Pope's teachings have a huge impact on my daily consciousness. But the excitement was contagious, and by the time 11:59 rolled around I was watching the curtain as intently as everyone else in the square.

So how excited were we?

That excited.

When Benedict XVI (whom Eunice very reverently named "Benny") finally emerged, he did not disappoint. I'm not sure we were as solemn as we could have been, since we couldn't stop rhapsodizing about how adorable he was, and how cheerful he seemed even after a rough night. But both of us realized how privileged we were to be having this experience.

(I really wanted a picture of him with the pope arms).

We finished our day off with a stroll around the Jewish quarter, and nighttime visits to the Trevi Fountain and Spanish Steps. I didn't miss home for the simple reason that it felt nothing like Christmas to me. There were no presents, no carols, no egg nog or stockings. I guess in some ways I was robbed of a Christmas, but I don't regret it in the slightest. It was an experience that most people will never have, that I will never have again, and that will always remain one of the highlights of my year abroad. Plus, I think there must be some sort of holy rule that you are guaranteed a great year if the Pope blesses you in person.

Bonus: I fulfilled a life-long dream of seeing the Swiss Guard in person. And yes, they do look even more ridiculous in real life.

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As I said, Rome was my favorite of the three cities we visited, and possibly my favorite European city outside of Paris. Great food, tons of history, and the adorable earthly representative of God, what's not to like? At the end of six days I was eager to board our Venice-bound train, but I'm glad there are two coins in the Trevi Fountain guaranteeing my return visit.

Under the Tuscan Snow

Those of you who check this blog three times a day (don't be embarrassed...I know you're all doing it) may realize that I've been M.I.A. for a while. My excuse is that I was in Italy for my winter break, traveling to Florence, Rome and Venice with my college roommate Eunice. It was my first time in Italy and it ended up being a pretty incredible vacation.

It would be impossible to write about everything that happened in 18 days and--more importantly--it would be really boring for you. So I'm splitting the trip up into three entries, one for each of the three cities that we visited. First up, Florence.

The trip got off to a rocky start when Paris and London came under a crippling attack from that most brutal of all nature's forces: snow. Two whole inches of it. I know. Clearly enough to delay my flight for two hours and to cancel Eunice's flight completely. Luckily, after two days of solo wandering Eunice arrived and the trip took a turn for the better. Florence is a small enough city that most of the major sights can be seen within a day or too (especially without the long lines of summer tourists), so we managed to pack a lot in in the 5 1/2 days we were there. Here are some of the highlights:

5) Tripe sandwich

Of course my first favorite experience would involve food. But one of the best things about living in Europe has been the opportunity to expand my culinary horizons. Not that I'm not adventurous back in the States. I have eaten a cheeseburger in almost every one of the 50 states. Sometimes I can be persuaded to try chunky peanut butter. Still, there's a little room for improvement.

We became unwittingly adventurous when we went to visit Dante's house and noticed a line of locals ordering lunch on the opposite side of the alley. The place was a literal hole-in-the-wall, with a menu written only in Italian. Eunice and I adopted the point-and-mime method of ordering, while the woman behind the counter sprinkled unknown spices onto some mystery meat. Sometime after we had placed our orders, but before the food was in our hands, she conveyed in her limited English that our unknown order was, in fact, tripe. At that point it was too late to turn back. And so it was that we found ourselves eating cow's stomach in an Italian alleyway. Yay for adventure.

4) The Salvatore Ferragamo Museum

Italy is a fashion capital. This normally would mean nothing to me, considering that if a designer has not had a guest spot on Project Runway, I probably don't know who they are. Eunice, however, actually knows her fashion, and one of the few names that she has managed to ingrain in my memory is that of Florentine shoe designer to the stars, Salvatore Ferragamo.

Now, for God knows what reason, I was put in charge of navigating around Florence. This meant I could put my prodigious sense of direction to use by giving helpful directions like: "I feel if we just head in this direction for a while, we might end up somewhere. Maybe." Needless to say, we got lost looking for a market, and somehow ended up standing in front of the Salvatore Ferragamo Museum (it is also possible that Eunice's internal shoe detector was more to blame). Either way, it was an unexpected stop, but one that was really interesting. Even I can appreciate a great pair of heels, and there were a lot of them here, along with wooden molds Ferragamo made of many starlet's feet (think Marilyn Monroe and both Hepburns, among others).

Ferragamo also divided women into three categories based on their shoe size. I discovered that I am an "aristocrat," which is Italian shoe designer code for "Sasquatch." Apparently my whopping size 7 feet make me "sensitive, rather moody but understanding." So maybe he's not a great psychologist, but he does make beautiful shoes.

3) The views

If I hoped to escape a Parisian winter with a warm Italian vacation, those hopes were dashed upon arrival in Florence, where a hostel employee told me, "It hasn't snowed like this in Florence for ten years." Great.

But the advantage of freezing weather (besides being an excuse to drink lots of caffe lattes) is that I got some rare views of the city under snow. The best came from the Piazza Michelangelo, situated on a hill across the Arno to the south of the city center. I was left breathless at the top, and not just because I am a bundle of butter-clogged arteries.

See for yourself:



2) Teatro del Sale

Yet another food experience, but this one was pretty epic. In fact, I like to think that my four previous months in Europe were training for this new level of gluttony. We found the restaurant thanks to Eunice's guide book, otherwise I'm sure we'd have passed it by, as it's a pretty unassuming storefront in a quiet part of Florence. Before entering, though, we had to sign up for a year-long membership the restaurant's club (only 5 euro, and totally worth it).

Upon entering, we found that wasn't a typical restaurant. For one thing, there didn't seem to be any other English-speakers. For another, there was no menu. Instead, everyone seated themselves and waited expectantly for a few minutes. Then, this guy emerged from a door in the side of the room and yelled at for a while in Italian. After which, platters of food began to emerge and everyone converged to serve themselves. And oh, the food. Course after course of beef, tripe, potatoes, polenta with nutmeg, flaky white fish, breadsticks, perfectly seasoned pasta. We ate. And ate. And ate and ate and ate. For two and a half hours.

At first, the conversation was normal, if interrupted by frequent mouthfuls. After the first hour and a half, however, it began to sound like this:

Eunice: How long have we been eating for?
Alanna: I don't know, but I don't know if I can keep this up.
Eunice: Wait, is he coming out again? I'm so scared.
Alanna: I may die.
Eunice: No! We have to try every course Alanna!

Finally, just as we were on the brink of our very own Mr. Creosote moment, dinner came to a close. Final verdict: One of the best meals I've ever had, but I almost had to roll back to the hostel. The next time you're in Florence, head over to Teatro del Sale, but make sure you fast first.

1) David

I did not expect this to be the high point of the trip to Florence. Don't get me wrong, I think Michelangelo is pretty impressive. But this particular sculpture has been copied and parodied so many times that I didn't expect to be surprised by the original. But what everyone had neglected to tell me is just how tall this guy is.

I'd just assumed that he was life-sized, so I was shocked to turn a corner in the Galleria dell'Accademia and see him looming over the tourists. I know this probably doesn't sound that impressive in blog form, and they didn't allow pictures inside the museum. But trust me, he was tall. Really tall. I promise it was cool.

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So there you have it, my favorite things about Florence: shoes, food and a 13-foot tall naked man. How can Rome top that?