A much-needed vacation

Things that are new in my life:

• I got my nails painted for the first time by an Italian manicurist. It may have involved safeguarding my hands with a funky aerosol-spray. Italians, you are bizarre.

• The family hamster Alvin is now a suicide jumper, spending his spare time (usually consumed by spinning in his wheel, eating rotten apples, hiding from Angiolina the cat) plummeting from the highest part of his cage. The poor kid is miserable.

• We bought Adair a new bicycle for her 21st birthday (her old one was not exactly mobile) and she reacted with shrieks and smiles as every good 5-year-old should.

• On my walk home from school, I was passed by a parade of black, cars with flags and tinted windows, enveloped in a sea of police motorcycles. Berlusconi, Italy’s 74 year old, womanizing, prime minister has arrived in Florence. Mom, don’t worry.  He kept on driving and didn’t even offer me a ride. Guess my tousled hair and American flip flops don’t quite scream political prostitute.

• I attended a seminar on gelato-making and am now making preparations for my Stateside gelato franchise. Anyone interested in investing in my future (in the form of a 15,000 Euro gelato-machine) can make checks payable to yours truly.

I know that after reading this blog over the past few months, you’re all extremely concerned about my well-being.  It’s clear that I am overworked--Some might even say that I’m stressed beyond belief. 

Don’t worry though... this past weekend, Anna, Lauren, and I took a much-needed vay-kay from the trauma-filled lives that we lead in Florence. 

On Thursday, we boarded a ship destined for Split, Croatia.  After stamping our passports, we realized that we were the only passengers onboard under the age of 65.  Hello, elderly cruise ship.  Commence, geriatric adventure!  

Sure we got stares...  

Sure we felt out of place... 

Sure we closed down the ship’s restaurant when we paid the bill at 9:15. However, at this point, the elderly crowd should be used to us.  We’re certainly used to them. Take a quick peek at the Italian kids studying Modern History with us at the University of Florence...

Someone got dressed-up for class!

   

Just your average undergrads

Anyhow, come Friday morning, we awoke on the other side of the Adriatic!  I’ve said it before, and I can’t guarantee that I won’t say it again: Croatia was one of the most beautiful places that I have ever seen.

You’ve probably never thought of Croatia in that light.  When I told my brother I was going there he cringed and asked why.  Why? Maybe because this is what Croatia looks like! 

A view of Split from the ship

Old town, Split

The beach where we spent our last day

From this point on, you’re going to think that I’m writing an article for a travel magazine, encouraging tourists to visit Croatia.  It’s going to sound ridiculous. Repetitive. Fabricated. Too good to be true. 

But I’m not going to stop.

Soooo accept this as my pre-apology. 

It’s actually impossible to do Croatia justice in words and photos alone... I’ll try my best, but let’s be clear-- my friends and I spent the weekend swimming in the clearest of emerald green waters and sleeping within Diocletian’s palace. My life is not real.

Sometimes people tie their dogs to poles when they
run into the grocery store...?

Friday was a day for sun, sand, and trashy beach novels.  (I could also try to sell you the Kindle, while advertising for the country of Croatia, because in case you are unaware, I’m ob.zessed. with my kindle.)  Anyhow, the only thing missing from our beach day was a cabana boy to serve us our strawberry daq’s at the ring of a bell. Just kidding. That would be overboard. Wait, would it be though? The day was perfect... though it did result in some awkward, below-bathing-suit burns and tomato-colored-faces.

On Saturday, we opted for a bit of adventure! Alongside Ivan (our Croatian tour guide) and Martin (a middle-aged Polish cook) we took on Croatia’s finest, white-water rapids! 

Is Lauren looking a little cozy with Martin, or is that just me?

"We just climbed through a cave!"

After reading about how FINE my study-abroad-bod looks after a happy 8-month-long relationship with Italian food, you can only imagine how well a full-body wetsuit and I meshed. Use your imagination... Yup. That well. Throw in some helmets (we christened ourselves “Eggheads”) and Crocs (Oh dear God, I thought I would never see the day) and we were ready for the river!  At one point, we jumped beneath a waterfall, swam through a frigid pond, and climbed through the stalactites of the cave. I do not joke. Also, why in the world has the word “stalacite” appeared twice in the span of this blog? Not real life.

Yeah. That's a real, live scream. 

After resting our burnt skin for a day beneath the aforementioned rafting-gear, we reapplied our sunblock (60+ baby lotion, Aunt Linda!) and hit the beach yet again.  This time, we explored the other side of Split, thanks to Anna’s champion map-reading-skills, and arrived at a beautiful rock beach: sparse in sun-tanners, plentiful in sun. 

It's a green screen background.

Speedo alert.

Our weather was unbelievable... Not once did I need a sweater. (And hey, that’s saying a lot.)  Fortunately, this week, Florence is fighting back with its own sunshine.  Things that I love? Sunny springtime Florence.  Things that I cannot believe? My bellissima vita italiana ends in less than one month.  

I returned from Croatia Monday afternoon and tomorrow, bright and early, the Florence Crew and I are road-trippin’ down the Amalfi Coast.

Hopefully the sun is finding you too, wherever you may be!  

Eating my body weight, per usual

I just got in from my last. cooking lesson. ever.

Yeah, you probably didn’t even know I was taking one.  It kind of irritates me that it’s now over and I hardly blogged about it. Jumble together 3 American college girls, Mamma Elena, and 3 hours of cooking (& eating) every Thursday and you have yourself quite the pahhr-tay. Yes, we call our cooking teacher Mamma Elena. No, we’re not related to her.  It’s weird. Whatever.

Anyhooo, the 4 of us prance around her fabulous, emerald-green kitchen (honestly, it’s like the Land of Oz in there) in our aprons and little, chef hats every week.  Okay, so 3 out of 4 do that.  My hat looks more like a Little Bo Peep bonnet because the velcro flaps refuse to succumb to my giant head. (It’s deceivingly large...I’ll blame the thickness of my hair until the day I die.)  

Today was a parmigiano di melanzane-kind-of-night with cheesecake for dessert.  I’m not sure how Italian we can pretend cheesecake is, but it was phenomenal nonetheless.  Key ingredients? Cream cheese and whipped cream.  If you had any prior doubts, you can now rest assured that cheesecake is without a doubt the dessert-of-choice for diet freaks and health nuts. Not. 

Panna Montata

Why even pretend that
there are other brands?

Things that are hilarious: The Italian translation for “cream cheese” is actually “Philadelphia” (as in the cream cheese brand).  I kid you not. There is literally no other word for it. Whipped cream is “panna montata” which sounds a lot like Hannah Montana when uttered with a good enough American accent.

So what if I creepily sought
out this pic of him
on an Archaeology website?

Unfortunately, while the three of us groaned and grimaced over how horribly delicious the cheesecake was (Darn you and your homemade, mixed berry jam, Mamma Elena!) Mamma Elena had to take a phone call.  Fortunately, we were joined by her husband, a retired archaeologist who now travels the world giving lectures.  I’m slightly obsessed with him. At this point, I’ve asked Mamma Elena on various occasions whether he will be attending our “final dinner.” I’m trying to steal her man.  He’s so adorable with his funny Italian mannerisms and dress suits. I should probably give it up quick.  He’s in his eighties. More importantly, I think she’s onto me.

Family and friends, expect some Italian cooking alla Jenna this summer because I will definitely be testing out some recipes.  (After first devouring 34928374 chicken finger baskets at Supreme’s. Duh.)  Before you get too excited, I should probably warn you that Mamma Elena specifically asked me to clean off the the table today while Girl 1 was dicing and Girl 2 was stirring. I’m not so sure if that’s a stab at my poor cooking or a way of complimenting my mean cleaning $k!LLz. Let’s pretend it’s the latter.

Jamie visits!

In other news, there have been an outrageous number of visitors to Florence over the past 2 weeks--Jamie, a friend from high school; Adair’s mom & her friend; and Lauren’s entire family!  In other words, I was spoiled rotten all week long with fabulously delicious, family dinners. Tragically, Lady Gaga and the Easter Bunny were not among the visitors.  [Side note: Europe’s TRL Awards were in Piazza Santa Croce in Florence and there were rumors that Lady Gaga would be performing. Just talk. All lies. So upsetting.]

Boboliii

Mom, ya cute.

As for the Easter bunny... apparently it doesn’t exist in Italy. Like whaaa? I just got a view of my friend Shannon’s perfect, American, Easter basket via Skype and I cannot understand why Italy wouldn’t want to offer its children an overwhelming supply of Peeps and Reeses Eggs fluffed in a pound of shiny, tinsel-y goodness.  Don’t even try to defend Italians with the whole “religion” thing. That’s baloney: Instead of an Easter basket, I received a giant chocolate egg the size of Nina's head... with a prize inside.

Signorina Nina, with the egg she picked out for me!
Things to note:
 A) her adorable, Hello Kitty sweatshirt that I got for her birthday
B) how super girly and pink my egg is
and C) this egg was half the size of the one that she ate

I was lucky enough to spend Easter (which also happened to be Adair’s 21st birthday!) with Adair, her mom, and her mom’s friend.  In my little easter dress and bonnet (okay maybe not a bonnet) I made my way to Easter mass at the Duomo which was lovely.  

Art historians & restorers around the world, start cringing at the
proximity of those fireworks to the Duomo 

After mass, we watched an insane celebration called the “Explosion of the Cart,” in which a cart (see pictures) is hit by a rocket in the shape of a dove and then exerts fireworks from all directions while the bells from Giotto’s Tower ring out for the whole city to hear.  

Florence's red, white, and purple pride!

The 4 of us had a lovely lunch and then regrouped later on for more food and Easter/birthday festivities.  Adair and I experienced the Florentine steak for the first time and it was ahh-maaaz-ingggg. 

Dad & Uncle Ray, envy me.

I hope that every at home had a Happy Easter and a chance to watch the Royal Wedding! I twisted my hair into a bun, and frosted myself in a bedazzled headband... The woman at my fave pasticerria told me that I looked like Kate with my tiara on. Thank God someone understands me.  Congrats, William and Kate, we watched you from all angles, in two languages, accompanied by brunch! Harry, get ready--we’re next! 

The real princess. Sorry, she's not sorry, Kate!

The good, the bad, & the ridiculous

Hello, mid-April.  Where did you come from?

I’ve been told, time and time again, that this year would absolutely fly.  But somehow, the arrival of April’s flavor of the month at Grom gelateria (inevitably something involving hazelnuts and therefore off-limits) hit me like a speeding vespa.  Don’t get me wrong, the seventy-degree sunshine is more than welcome to hang out... but April? I repeat...Aaaapril?

Other things that call for celebration? 

The good

This week we closed the grammar books and bid forever farewell to our language school!  No more early mornings spent battling prepositions or listening to hilarious recordings with our sassy fashionista of an Italian teacher.  I’ll miss how much the language school teachers adore us, constantly baking us Funfetti cupcakes and complimenting our open-toed sandals. Oh wait... that last sentence is a complete fabrication. Soooo I guess I’m just a tad ecstatic to be finished. Donezo. Fatto.

Last weekend, Adair and I went jet-setting--I mean, bus riding--throughout the South of France.  Nice was possibly one of the prettiest cities that I have ever seen.  There are colorful, glowing Buddha sculptures (not usually my style, but entertaining nonetheless) standing tall above the old, architectural paradise.  The city is exactly as it appears in a Matisse painting.  After perusing the streets and stocking up on fresh strawberries from the open-air market, we plopped ourselves down on the beach where we sunbathed like goddesses.  Adair left the sand as a bronzed beauty and I called it quits with a shin-burn and near sun-poisoning experience. Typical.

Dad, an art gallery in the
South of France?
Who knew?!

The crazy in the water is Adair. Have fun--My feet and I will watch you from here!

Oh so that's why people take Organic Chem!

In Eze, we battled a bit of fog by touring Galimard, a famous 
French perfumery.  I learned that I do not have what it takes to be a “nose” ... my sense of smell is just not strong enough for that. On the up-side, I can cross that off my list of possible career paths!  Even better, I now know what Leonardo DiCaprio smells like. Smokin’ h-o-t. As if I didn’t already know that...

A little foggy!

Eze

The new wheels.

In Monaco, Adair and I set out in search of our future hubbies/suga daddies. Consequently, I spent a significant amount of time people-watching outside of the Monte Carlo Casino. The cars that are parked out front are strategically placed based on maker.  Mercedes and Ferrari were certainly favored.  


And the big-spenders were easy targets. 

Key words: 

Male. 

60+. 

Balding. 

Sweater vest.
Leggy, model-like, good luck charm  

In front of the casino, on the hunt for 90-year-old kabillionaires.

Bird of paradise, my fave flower, duh!

On our final day in the French Riviera, we explored the beach-village of Antibes where I ate a divine lavender-flavored gelato (lavender’s a flower. i don’t know how that works, but when in Antibes, give it a shot) and put down the initial deposit for my yacht.  Ky, we're going half-sies, right?

The bad

Unfortunately, the week after my lavish, lifestyles-of-the-rich-and-famous vacation, rapidly became a "Coke week." 

Meaning?

Sweater-weather, moodiness, tattle-tales, senior class schedules, language exams, bike-bell thieves, and no time at all to run off my stress! As hard as I try to avoid the sugary goodness of a good, Coca-cola, there is nothing that can raise my spirits like a glass of the bubbly stuff.  So a coke week it was.

The ridiculous

(1) A cultural trip to the Opera with Holy Cross. Which Opera? La Divina Commedia.  I read the English translation of Dante’s Inferno during high school, so I figured that I would at least have a solid background before the show.  


However, after seeing this advertisement (and immediately sending it to my fellow AP English nerds) I had my doubts. Things I don’t doubt? How appalled Dante Alghieri would be to see his poem recounted with fog machines, electric guitars, and provocative dancers adorned in sequined-diapers.




(2) I am at the apartment alone with Oscar and Lorenzo.  Lorenzo is Oscar’s super polite, round, freckle-faced friend.  I make the mistake of leaving the safety and serenity of my room for a glass of orange juice in the kitchen.  Unfortunately, this requires crossing the living room where the boys are watching a movie.  Oh wait. They’re not watching a movie. The movie... "American Pie"... is currently frozen on a scene where the pretty, blonde is standing there topless.  The pair of thirteen-year-olds are similarly frozen, eyes glued to the twins. 

Needless to say, all parties were embarrassed. I returned to my room, donned a turtleneck, wrapped a scarf around my neck, and hid under the covers of my blanket, where only Zac Efron could console me. Okay, maybe it was a Zac Efron movie, but still. Those blue eyes and rock-hard-abs can comfort me any day of the week.

(3) I’m sweating like a maniac on the elliptical machine, jamming out to this awesome new workout mix.  I have twenty minutes to go and nothing better to do so I'm people-watching... Gotta check out the silly workout-wear that the Italians have decided to show up in today.  


Down in front of me, however, there’s something far more outrageous going on. A woman is sleeping... head tilted, mouth open, sleeping...on the bike-machine.  You have to wonder what has prompted her to do this. Miss, go home. There’s no need for you to sit in the gym if you’re too tired to bike. Those foot pedals don’t look particularly conducive to a sound sleep anyway! Next time, I promise to be camera-ready!


Until then, mi mancate!  Baci <3

In like a leone; out like an agnello

Aside from a few more textbooks and a few less layers of clothing, my ridiculous life is pretty much the same.  

Today, Nina and I opted to read our schoolbooks on the picnic table outside after lunch because it was far too nice to be cooped up indoors.  We donned our sunglasses, plopped ourselves side-by-side, and started in on what had to be done.  She finished her geography within 3 minutes and could not understand for the life of her why I wasn’t done yet.  I had to show her the number of pages that Boccaccio was forcing me to read for the day and she responded with a near heart attack... Oh to have the homework of a third grader again...

Me & Signor Bangi

But let’s be honest, I can’t complain.

 Last weekend I did something that I’ve been dying to do since arriving in Italy: a horseback-riding and wine-tasting trip in Chianti.  Anna, Lauren, Rosemary (who studies in Bologna) and I hit the horses, bright and early, Saturday morning. 

The combo of me and Bangi the horse, must have screamed “riding experience” because the two of us comprised the caboose of the group.  Oh Bangi.  Anyhow, we made a great pair and, speaking on behalf of good, old Bangi, I’d say we had a pretty awesome time together--me, gazing deep beyond the Tuscan hills with the click-clack of horseshoes below, and he, wondering why the hell he got stuck with the chick that eats a gelato a day.

Holdin' up the rear!

(Side note: The doubters won. I may have given up gelato for lent, but after a few weeks, I had to give up lent for gelato.)

Donata, the horse trainer was quite impressed with my ability to deter Bangi from chowing down on the grass (Sorry pal) and to speed him up when the going got rough.  Refusing to believe that I never took lessons, she made me feel glorious. Adding to my self-confidence, she told me that I should definitely return for private lessons for the next few months. Yup, look at me. I’m that good at horseback riding. Can you say “on top of the world?” That is, until Lauren burst my bubble and told me that Donata gave her the exact same spiel while she was riding. What a cruel trick, Donata, that’s just plain rude.

This one's for you, Uncle Ken!

This past weekend I returned to Cinque Terre, this time for some intense, off-road hiking. Trails? No need. We charged over rocks, jumped down hills, shimmied around gates, and enjoyed some pretty impressive views before drowning our scratched-up legs in the Mediterranean for some antiseptic alla Mother Nature. 

That’s all for now!  I’ll try my hardest to send this springtime weather home.  To make things fair, however, anyone with access to a CVS should probably send bucketfuls of chocolate cadbury eggs to those less fortunate! Baci <3