Buon appetito

September 7, 2010


Last night, Attilio and I ate pizza together.  My first pizza since arriving! Though a total cliche, Italian pizza is truly phenom: super thin, super sweet, super delicious.

Unfortunately, because the pizza is so thin, the Italian custom is to eat an entire pizza da solo.  Those who know me know that I am only ever good for two slices.  Thus, it goes without saying that I was not able to finish the entire pie...

This afternoon, during my first week in Italy, I did a big, Italian ‘no-no.’  I wrapped the few remaining slices of pizza in a roll of tin foil and brought them to school for lunch. 

Dear Italy,

     Even though my pizza was made yesterday, it was still SO delightful for lunch today.  When I cannot finish an entire meal, it is not because I do not like it, but merely because there is no room in my stomach for another particle of anything. It’s that simple. That said, make a little space in your fridges and stop hating on leftovers.

   xoxo Love, Jenna

La mia amica, Angiolina

September 6, 2010


Clearly, I consider myself a “dog person.”  Cats, on the other hand, I can tolerate from a distance.  I have tried to explain this to Angiolina, the family cat, on many occasions--in English, in Italian, with gestures. Sadly, she just does not want to believe it.

Everyday when I come back from school, she sashays joyfully to the door.  From there, she trails me all the way around the house.  She has now tried 3 or 4 times to follow me into the bathroom, in which case, each time I have to trick her into thinking that I am leaving the bathroom before quickly slamming the door shut (with her on the other side).  I need some space, girlfriend!

Her newest, disgusting fetish is licking my feet and legs.  Ange, I just do not want to be this friendly with you.  It’s a bit too much, too fast. Hopefully when Oscar--my Italian fratellino and the person that she apparently loves the most--returns, this Angiolina-clinginess will come to an abrupt stop.

No mo' Yo-Mo

September 4, 2010


Attilio (my Italian host-dad) offered me a yogurt when I first woke up from my post-flight nap and of course I accepted.  After all, a-yogurt-a-day since kindergarten has made me quite the yogurt connossieur.  

Shoveling spoonful after spoonful of Yo-Mo into my mouth, however, I couldn't manage to name the flavor. It was bizarre to say the least and nothing like anything I’d ever had before.

Host-dad later informed me that it was ‘wheat flavor.’ UM. WHAT?! Well that explains that. 

Since then, I’ve purchased my own super fruit variation, thank you very much.

Why you so obsessed with me?

September 1, 2010


At this point, it is Wednesday which means that I have only been in Europe for a total of four days. Sadly, I am already suffering from severe, Pearl-separation-anxiety.  Pearl, my five-year-old, maltese is my baby girl.  I openly admit to being completely and utterly obsessed with her... and fluffy, cuddly dogs in general, for that matter.  My best friend often jokes that I talk about my dogs as if they have human characteristics.  I cannot even deny this.

Pearl Girl

Anyhow, Firenze is bopping with dogs! Native dogs. Tourist dogs. Dogs in bike baskets. Dogs with earthy-crunchy-painter-types.

Lauren (a fellow Crusader abroad with me) and I, frequently bombard these Italian dogs--cooing and cawing at them while receiving creeped-out stares from both their owners and random frightened onlookers.

Today, while chowing down on panini, we shrieked at the sight of “Emu,” a curly, gray wolfhound from Holland.  He LOVED the attention and his owners must have found us truly hilarious because they most definitely took embarrassing pictures of us obsessing over him...

Pronto?

August 30, 2010


I arrived in Italy without a phone or any idea what I would use as a phone.  Though I do not consider myself addicted to my adorable, little env2, I have become quite accustomed to having it whenever I need it.  Thus, one night in a foreign country with a family that I just met and no way of contacting my HC counterparts at all, was enough for me!

The next day, I ventured over to Vodafone when it first opened at the bright and early hour of 3 pm. Welcome to Italy, hello Italian-Time!  

There, my very friendly, round, Italian salesperson introduced me to my precious, new telefonino.  Sure it’s lacking the full keypad and no, there is no time display on the outside of it.  But my “Extreme Simplicity” flip-phone would surely be the object of any seventh grader’s desire...maybe ten years ago.

Possibly even better than my cool, new cell was the reaction I received from my Italian salesperson when I pulled out my credit card to pay.  (Background: My Bank of America card sports a super-girly depiction of ‘Hello Kitty.’)

This image is from GOOGLE. Therefore, it is NOT my own card. I'm not that silly :)

The salesperson-- unlike my Ho Cro friends who constantly make fun of me for my sparkly, pink card-- was OBSESSED with it.  After squealing “Ello Keeety” in his Italian accent and prancing around the store, showing it off to all of the other salespeople, he proceeded to take a photo of it.  Yeah, I’m pretty sure that it’s now the background of his phone.

Ridiculous day 1? I think yes.

Struggle #1

August 29, 2010


2 suitcases, 1 clothes-whore. Need I say more?  

Is it even humanly possible to pack for an entire year?  There are different seasons, different occasions, different headbands to match different sweaters. If you ask me, there is simply no way.

If you ask Lufthansa Airlines, however, you would probably receive a different response. I thought that they’d cut me some slack for paying for a flight to Italy.  And I guess if you count an extra “ski bag”--which, of course, I do not own-- then, in a way, they do.  

Lufthansa, I understand that your employees are all so fabulously German... And sure, you do splurge for the heated towelettes and free vino, but 44 pounds for a bag of luggage? That’s just plain cruel, man.*

Luckily, with one packing-master (Thanks Mom), four days of sadly/angrily/painstakingly ditching coveted items,** and one-hundred trials on the bathroom scale, my two suitcases passed under the limit with flying colors.  

Now that I’m here, let’s hope that I can happily live with the same clothes for the rest of the year! 

*My Nana would disagree that the weight restriction is cruel. After I described to her my epic battle with this weight limit, she convinced me that 44 pounds is actually very possible. After all, with a little work, she was able to keep her suitcase underweight.  Wait a minute Nana, you went to Europe for 10 days. I don’t know if your luggage is a fair comparison here...

** Dear Black, Patent-Leather, Peep-Toe Pumps, 

          I miss you terribly and every time I wear a skirt or dress or even my jeans that you would flatter so perfectly, I regret leaving you behind. But let’s be truthful, you wouldn’t want to take on these rickety, cobblestoned streets anyway. 

   xoxo Love, Jenna