Having some good, Irish craic

Here we are in the middle of February (non ci posso credere. where is time going?) and yet another horrible packing job is now under my belt.  I seriously thought that by this point in my travels... oh six months and six countries later... I would be a master packer.  

Audrey, Lauren, the rain, and the Irish Harp bridge

Clearly, I was mistaken. Packing for my trip to Ireland, this past weekend, was yet another immense struggle.  Poor, little, Vera carryall is mighty sick of my overpacking tendencies. Things I’m glad I packed? A raincoat.  People do not lie when they say that it rains in Ireland. It rains like a lot like.  

Nope, that extra “like” on the end of that last sentence was not a mistake.  In fact, it was placed there on purpose.  Did you know that, along with their lovely accents and priceless phrases, the Irish--for some godforsaken reason--add the word “like” to the end of phrases that certainly don’t necessitate a “like?”  I’m sitting there, anticipating a good, old simile... The roads were so slick because of the rain like.  Like what? Don’t go leaving me hangin‘ there, Irishfolk... like what?  

We spent the weekend with Lauren’s friend Laura, a Dubliner, and the perfect, stereotypical, ginger, Irish girl.  Unfortunately for her, she was stuck touring around a group of Americans who found her accent and choice-words to be unbelievably entertaining.  Among my favorites: 

*pickles = gherkins

*bathing suit = togs

*having fun = having some good craic. Because the word “craic” is pronounced “crack” this phrase became particularly confusing.  Here we are, imagining innocent Laura drugging with coke-out addicts somewhere in back alleys.

*tutoring = giving the grind. What?! People of Ireland, you do speak English, therefore you should understand how completely absurd this sounds. Laura had to leave us yesterday to give a boy a math grind. C’mon. That’s just wrong.  

Anyhow, we trekked all around Ireland with Laura on Saturday in her teeny, blue shoe of a car in which we were all wildly thrown-off by the fact that they drive on the wrong side of the road.  (This is also a bit dangerous for foolish, American pedestrians when it comes to crossing the street.  Fun fact: warnings are painted on the ground, telling walkers which way to look. Ridic.)  

We saw the ocean which was quite reminiscent of the waterfront towns near Boston.  Though the water looked particularly frigid... I mean, it’s February in Dublin, of course it’s cold...we watched an elderly man wade carelessly around in the bay for a few moments sporting only a speedo.  Yummy.  

The next morning, we made our journey cross-country in search of my friend Audrey who’s studying with Holy Cross in Galway.  She greeted us with homemade cookies.  Can she be any cuter? Lauren and I ate 85% of the plate.  Can we be any fatter? 

Later on, Audrey and Emily--yet another Crusader!--toted us around the quaint, coastal town for a hearty, Irish meal and a night on the town.  I ordered a shepherd’s pie (trying to be Irish, ya know?) and was not hungry for the rest of the trip.  Think that stopped me from eating? You’d be wrong if ya did.  

We spent the rest of our night studying Irish pub-life.  Oh don’t let my month of aimless European travels fool you, of course I’m studying...  We plopped ourselves at a table, directly in front of the live band, while analyzing the pure, drunken happiness that all Irish people seem to omit.  The Irish folk songs were great and when we left at the end of the night, we absolutely took a picture with the folk band.  When the sixty-five-year-old-guitarist told me that I could wear a pair of jeans, I knew it was time to leave...

The rest of the trip was spent driving deep into the countryside.  In reality, Laura drove and I slept essentially the entire time.  (Mom, can you say “return rides to Holy Cross?” Haha.) Put me in a moving car and I’m an instant goner.  We could be drive to the moon and back amidst a meteor shower and this girl wouldn’t stand a chance.  

However, I was awake long enough to note that Ireland is truly something else.  It’s beautiful in all of the ways that you would imagine it to be.  Dad, I now see where you developed your green-lawn obsession--Ireland is so unbelievably green. It’s really a fine aspiration for good, old 36 Chestnut. (One day...)  We passed a trillion wide, open fields, however, it never ceased to amaze me how truly breathtaking they are and how badly I want to adopt one of the black-faced, longhaired sheep!

Yup... that's how I feel about (Irish) beer. Ew.

In other news, the Polish side of the family will be happy to know that in today's Italian cooking class I learned to make cenci.  What's that? Only the Florentine equivalent of chrusciki, those out-of-this-world, fried, powder cookies. Nom!  I snagged about 27 of them before calling it a night.  I hope you guys are ready for a cenci-filled future because, secondo me, they will be invited to every forthcoming family event.


Countdown to Mom and Auntie Linda: 7 days Woo hooooo!

Prepare for picture overload

Hmmm... Not much is new in my Florentine life.  At the moment, it is freezing outside so I am snuggled beneath the covers of my bed, reading and listening to possibly one of the worst sounds in the world.  What’s that?  The sound of pennarelle (markers) scratching quickly and carelessly against paper. Ugh. To me, the equivalent of finger nails scratching the chalkboard... I am such a marker snob.  

I cannot even imagine the baby-face I gave Nina when she asked to borrow my pennarelle because she left the ones that I gave her for Christmas--fine, American Crayola’s for the primary purpose of deterring her from using my Sharpies--at school.  

I couldn’t say “no.”  She needed to finish an art project. 

I couldn’t lie. They were sitting quite visibly on my desk from my afternoon of coffee-shop-doodling with Adair. 

So now, I sit helplessly, like my third-grade self... a prissy, marker princess who would only lend markers to eight-year-old boys that swore on their lives that they would not “press down too hard on the tips.” Seriously, it’s as if these are the last markers on the face of the earth or something. I’m ridiculous. 

Anyhow, this week is essentially purgatory--as have become all of my weekdays over the past month since my exam--because my friends and I are traveling like maniacs.  

My schedule: unpack, speak some Italian, eat some pasta, learn some new verb tenses, repack.  What a life!  

Last Thursday, Adair, Lauren, and I set out for Switzerland:  home of some pretty famous chocolate and mountain-ranges.

Instead of traveling to random Slovakian cities in order to arrive at our final destination, we signed ourselves up for a packaged tour designed especially for study abroad students.

  

There were two, essentially-monotonous hostel options.  Being the breakfast-fiends that we are, we chose one over the other merely for its breakfast options. Nom nom, That’s enough for me.  We woke, bright and early, for the day of snow-trekking ahead of us and headed downstairs for a breakfast-of-champions.  What was awaiting us? None other than some bread, jam, and yogurt.  All I have to say is that the hotel administrator is one lucky duck that I am the yogurt-enthusiast that I am.

The three of us were all ready for snow-trekking--What’s up spandex, sporty shades, and Holy Cross gear from head-to-toe?  Disappointingly, when the van arrived, the driver asked us if we were snow-trekking that day, waited for our affirmative response, and then told us that we were not, in fact, snow-trekking that day.  Apparently, of the two-hundred students traveling with our group, only three signed-up for snow-trekking.  Which three? Us three. Um cool.  

The thoughts running through my head at this point: We are earthy-crunchy-hippy-weirdos... who else would ever sign up for something like this?  Luckily, we got the snow-trekking date switched to the next day so that we were able to find out.

In the meantime, our paragliding appointment was moved up... giving me zero time whatsoever to process the fact that I would soon be running off a cliff with merely a parachute and a man attached to my back.  

During a thirty-minute drive up the Swiss Alps, three daredevil guides listened to three, jumpy, twenty-year-old girls freaking out about the mountainscapes and the idea of parachuting off a cliff.  At the top of the mountain, we were decked out in red-jumpsuits, helmets (size Large for this girl. Anyone surprised?), and ridiculous backpacks that transform immaculately into seats.

Before!

Here, I expect rigorous paragliding lessons.  

Flashback:  Surf lessons, Coronado California, circa August 2008.  Kyle, can you recall how many times we paddled into sand and leapt onto the beached-surfboards before actually hitting the waves?  Yeah, like 300. 

All of a sudden, I’m standing on the side of mountain, in the Swiss Alps, strapped to a strange, Swiss man, watching my friends run off a mountain.  After a few seconds, I was running too... running...running...and POOF... flying, like a bird, like a plane, floating somewhere far above Switzerland.

I skipped away from the field we landed on, and was on an adrenaline high for the rest of the day.

Fortunately for us, our adventures did not end there.  The next day, our snow-shoe-trekking-dreams were realized after all.  And you know what? I am SO glad that they were.  Ronny--a big, German-speaking, lumberjack-type who learned to ski before learning to walk--toured the three of us, in addition to a sweet, Swiss couple, all around the mountains via snow-shoe.  

We hiked up.  

We ran down.  

We went too fast.  

We fell down.

What a workout!  ...And better yet, what a background...

Fluff'n'go with a random, Bernese Mountain dog? I think so.

That night, we returned to the mountains for night-sledding.  When I hear “night-sledding,” I picture a bunny hill:  One big, wide, bunny hill--illuminated by stadium-lights for all to see.  The Interlaken-idea of night-sledding, however, is about 100 doses more extreme than that.  

We arrived at the top of the mountain in the pitch black where we were gifted with tall, plastic sleds that require steering... not quite the blow-up tube edition to which I’m accustomed.  Our only hint as to where the trails ended and where the mountains dropped down thousands of feet, was the hardly-visible, white of the snow.  Our only lights were the green glow-sticks laced around our necks and the sparkling stars above.  (I am fully aware of how incredibly cheesy that sounds, but this was by far the most unbelievable sky I have ever seen in my entire life.)  

Look at those perfect bunches of stars!

For the rest of the night, the three of us referred to the sky as a “Lion King Sky” (If you don’t know what that means, we cannot be friends) and to the other sledders as “bugs” because we all looked like little, green fireflies.  Yeah, we’re weird.

At the end of the hour-long, sled-run we were greeted by a traditional, Swiss, fondue dinner.  It was delicious... though we didn’t receive anywhere near enough cheese fondue.  We ended our Switzerland adventure excursion with a tame day that consisted of a mug of Swiss hot-chocolate atop the tallest hotel in Interlaken and a search for some fine, Swiss chocolate for those chocoholics back home.  We’ll see if it’s still so good in June, but the chocolate bar I’m eating at the moment is pretty, darn tasty.  

Some Italy, Some Austria, Some...Slovakia?

I love traveling. Traveling as a poor college student, however, is something that I can certainly live with out.  In fact, I am praying to the heavens that after this year, the words “hostel” and “Ryan Air” will vanish forever from my vocabulary.  

In order to hustle the super-low fares that Ryan Air offers, one must zigzag all across the universe before arriving at the final destination.  Case in point, we live in Florence.  We flew out of Milan.  If you’re unfamiliar with Italian geography, allow me to fill you in--Florence and Milan are separated by a 2 hour train ride... on the fast train.  

Thus, we made a few pitstops along the way.  Why not, right? Adair and I explored Verona, Italy--the setting of William Shakespeare’s “Romeo and Juliet.”  Verona is a quaint, little town, accessible via a perfect, little footbridge. 

We explored the main piazze during our two-hour-long-leg-stretching-period.  Juliet’s residence... not too impressive.  For some reason, it was much shorter than I had imagined it.  In my eyes, Romeo, you’re no longer such a stud--Who can’t scale a wall and jump to the courtyard from a balcony 2 feet above the ground? C’mon, man. 

Just chilling with Juliet

The courtyard is otherwise filled with romantic graffiti and love letters, left behind since the dawn of time.  Apparently, people do in fact leave love letters to Juliet.  In fact, I found a letter that was left there decades ago and never found... I then hunted down the letter-writer (a sweet, elderly woman) and managed to fall in love with her dashing, young grandson, while in the meantime reuniting the letter-writer with her long, lost love. TIME-OUT. Unfortunately, I’m pretty sure that those things only happen to characters like Amanda Seyfried’s in “Letters to Juliet” and not to this girl... Sad face.  Still worth the visit though... you never know.

"Letters to Juliet"

After another epic train ride--yup, at this point, we’re still trying to get to our point of departure--we arrived in Milan where Adair and I spent the evening window-shopping on Via Montenapoleone, the home of Milan’s famed fashion district.  We awed at the window displays at Fendi and Louis Vuitton; we cried at our inability to make a purchase.  My 21st birthday is coming up--family, friends, wealthy and good-hearted strangers--I am in love with these blue, sparkly heels. They’re quite modest and would make for a fairly practical purchase, if you ask me. 

And so the travels continue... after departing from Milan we arrived in Bratislava.  No, I do not mean Vienna; I mean Bratislava. Upon arrival, we made many a ridiculous joke about landing in Bulgaria, Botswana, essentially any geographical name beginning with a “B.” All the while, none of us realized how idiotic we actually were for not knowing that Bratislava is, in fact, the capital of Slovakia.  (And to think that I was once the queen of geography and map-making.  Gosh I hope my knowledge of the countries and capitals did not reach its peak in seventh grade. Depressing.)  

Eventually, however, we did reach Vienna:  home to sweet Austrian people, Mozart, long stretches of ostentatious architecture, Swarovski crystal super-stores, and--most importantly--strudel.  We were greeted with (I do not joke) a parade.  Yes, a motley crew of Viennese, equipped with instruments, and decked from head-to-toe in lederhosen and plumed hats, welcomed us to their fair city.  It was honestly too-perfect.   

The rest of our day was spent in the Haus der Musik.  What’s that? Only the greatest museum ever. Yes, the three of us essentially digressed ten years a piece the moment we walked through the door of this interactive museum--filled with hands-on music games and lessons about famous composers.  Pretty entertaining and highly recommended.  I even got to conduct the Vienna Philharmonic!  

We began our next day in Vienna with a hearty, Viennese breakfast at a swanky, little cafe frequented by the likes of Sigmund Freud.  Vienna, you know how to make a mean breakfast.  Other things you know how to make well: Strudel.  We stopped in a bakery cafe later in the day for a taste... a little cherry strudel blanketed in a coat of creamy, vanilla sauce? Please and thank you.   

We needed all of the energy we could muster in order to explore all the rest that Vienna has to offer.  For example, we spent hours strolling around the ring, Vienna’s central boulevard filled with its government buildings, churches, and monuments.  Hofburg, the imperial palace, is quite a sight to see--especially in its current state, dusted beneath a light flurry of January snowfall. Too pretty.  We even got to gaze on as ice skaters circled the rink, directly in front of one of the gorgeous churches.  Sadly, the famous, white, Lipizzaner horses were nowhere to be seen... apparently, they’re far too busy touring South Carolina for some unknown reason.  Guys, if you lived in Vienna, why would you ever leave?  Anyhow, we also peaked inside the marvelous theater in the city center and explored the Belvedere palace--just a little somethin-somethin Prince Eugene used as his summer residence... no biggie.

All the while, the three of us found the German language incredibly entertaining.  The signs, the metro stops, the street names... all made for an amusing, little game of pronunciation.  A street named GasGasse--Really, Austria?

At this point, I think Vienna may be topping the charts.  It’s absolutely gorgeous and if you haven’t been yet, I’d add it to the bucket-list.  Points for people. Points for museums.  Points for pastries. Points for public transportation. Points for architecture. Sadly, Vienna, you are undoubtedly losing points for this frightening sign. Not okay:

So it's been a month...

I take it back.  

Snow and Florence Italy are two things never to be mixed.  

Let’s face it, Florentines, you don’t even own shovels.  No wonder my flights scheduled for Saturday, Sunday, and Tuesday--after Friday’s whopping three inches of powder--were all cancelled!  What exactly did it take for me to finally make it home?  

-3 flight cancellations

-4 hours waiting in line at the airport, hoping for the next ticket home

-2 days in the Florence Hilton watching Italian cartoons

-1 ridiculously over-priced sliver of chocolate cake from room service

-1 date request from the hotel’s over-friendly, concierge. Oh yes, he called my hotel room phone. Casual.

Hey Adair, where you at? Sorry we kidnapped your family!

-1 extravagant excuse as to why I could not attend said-date with hotel’s over-friendly, concierge.

-1 train ride to Rome

-2 delicious Roman dinners with Adair’s adorable family

-1 night spent “sleeping” in Rome’s freezing cold, train station with Lauren

-An excessive amount of money spent on WiFi internet 

-10 hours on an airplane that actually left the country

-5 extra, never-ending days in Europe

Anyhow, I made it home in time for Christmas and spent two, gorgeous weeks reveling in the likes of American Coca-Cola, “Say Yes to the Dress” marathons, shoe-shopping missions, a cell phone with a keyboard, and many wonderful days spent with my family and friends.  

Sadly, I must report that not everything about being home was a positive experience.  In fact, putting on my favorite, JCrew jeans after their first time in the dryer in five months was an incredibly depressing moment of realization.  (Receiving Victoria’s Secret’s catalogue of 2011 bathing suits, while home, did not help matters either.)  

Thus, I set out two weeks ago intent on returning to Italy as a new, healthy girl on a mission to ditch my unhealthy obsessions (Hey there, Gelato, I’m talking to you).  

I’m a pretty determined person.  

I have a pretty high level of willpower.  

Theoretically, these things should work in my favor, yes?

Things that do not work in my favor:

(In other words, reasons why dieting in Italy is impractical and foolish)

-Nina’s 9th birthday party  

Oh what’s up, birthday cake... that is actually Boston Creme Pie.  Sure, the cake was minuscule in comparison to big, fluffy American birthday cakes covered in basketfuls of sugar flowers, but I’m sure it was still good for a few thousand calories.  But hey--- I did play pallone with Nina and Oscar for hours over the course of the week.  Shouldn’t that help matters? "What’s pallone?" you ask... Only the greatest game in the universe.  A pallone is a balloon. Therefore, I’m talking about the balloon game, people.  You know-- “Keep it up” as Kyle and I would refer to it--when you cannot let the balloon touch the ground.  Clearly, this game knows no borders. If anyone is up for a challenge, the record in the Pinto household was 136 bounces. Yeah, compete with that.

-My Italian host-famiglia 

“Why aren’t you drinking wine?” “Why didn’t you finish that pasta?” “Here, have this slice of bread covered in oily and extremely caloric nonsense that I promise is good for you.” 

Must I continue...?

-Holy Cross deciding to pay for things  

For example, paying for lunch at an expensive restaurant that we, as students, could never afford.  It would have been a waste of money, a sin, and just plain rude to have left anything on my plate when chocolate-apricot tort cake and ricotta/pear ravioli were involved.

-Final exams  

I have no idea who would ever consider final exams, after the holidays, to be a good idea.  Anyhow, my friends and I returned to Italy at the start of January for the sole purpose of studying.

No. 

Really.

I do not kid, or exaggerate.

Besides, eating and sleeping, I can assure you that I have done nothing else but flip through my 6 pound stack of flashcards, attend tutoring sessions, and revisit the eleven Florentine museums that I now know by heart for the past two weeks.  

Friday night? Studied. 

Saturday night? Studied.


My host family must think I am a complete wack-o for miserably and unwillingly peeling myself off the living-room couch after five minutes of Italian Grey’s Anatomy.  Anyhow, please accept my pathetic complaints about exams as proof that “studying abroad,” at least in the case of good, old College of the Holy Cross, is in fact studying abroad. Thank you.

At this point, I’d like to offer all of my millions of dyer blog-followers the opportunity to give me a call regarding any questions about museology, museography, opening dates, architects, masterpieces, and curators.  (Look at it as a special gift from me to you.) 

Uffizi. Opened in 1584. Duh.

My friends and I are good students...we’re smart and extremely hardworking kids...BUT this exam was nothing like anything any of us has ever done before.  First off, our entire semester of learning, of readings, of museum visits was whittled down to a ten minute oral exam with our professor--a little, Italian woman whom we refer to as QE2 because of her extreme resemblance to Queen Elizabeth.  QE has never spoken a word to me, personally, in my life and has 100 other students to test.  In these ten minutes, she has the opportunity to ask me anything in the world about the subject. In Italian. As if this weren’t terrifying enough, our tutor casually informed us, the day before the test that exams in Italy are a public event.  Therefore, it is nothing out-of-the-ordinary for a student to sit at the front of the classroom, being tested by the professor, as the rest of the students in the class watch, listen to her questions, the answers, and the grade. Horrifying.  It goes without saying that the four of us were nervous-wrecks.

The scene of the crime.

Before.

However, we were all extremely prepared and I am proud to report that not only did we all pass the exam, but we also passed with flying colors.  How cool is it to think that I took an exam yesterday, in a different language, and actually speaking Italian was the least of my worries?  A’s on an exam taken in a language other than my mother-tongue? Not too shabby. I will admit I was a bit obsessive with the flashcards...Now, even after finishing the exam, random words in conversations will trigger the names of art historians and the dates of museum-openings in my head. 
I. am. a. joke.

Directly after receiving our grades, we are all actually this ecstatic. Such a great day, such a great feeling!

At this point, I am ready for a little break!

Where to?!!

The Bachelor Season 14 winner.

Vienna blog coming soon!

The infamous cookie.