i loathe professionalism...and networking.

Okay, maybe I don't entirely disdain professional behavior. However, interviewing for jobs can be so draining.

So, I had an in-person interview at Delta Headquarters in Atlanta, Georgia on this fine December day. This was not a simply thirty-to-forty-five-minute "tell me about yourself and qualifications" pow wow, but a five hour process, in which 55 applicants and about thirty flight attendants were forced to smile, mingle and prove they could be the face of Delta Airlines. By golly, upon entering the lounge we had to shake and greet every flight attendant involved in the interviews. It felt like the world's longest Mormon-style wedding reception. We were broken into groups and completed different tasks (the actual interview, a fit test, and a "day in the life of a flight attendant" seminar), and between rotations would chill in the lounge. But it felt as though every aspect of our behavior was being scrutinized. The flight attendants would regale us with tales of their adventures, and we were asking each other, "Now, where are you from?" All day long, as this was a five-hour affair.

There was so much mingling and forced friendliness (Although, I did make two real friends, Nicole from New Hampshire and some girl from Logan, Utah whose name escaped my mind after she removed her nametag. We had a nice dinner at the airport TGIFridays, and while waiting for our plane to Salt Lake Logan, Utah and I shared a bowl of fried okra.) I think I am a friendly person, but ugh, when so much of your gregariousness is geared toward being ostentatious, you tire quickly. And there were plenty of really genuine people, but there were some whose outgoing bubbliness felt contrived.

Several applicants got a job offer tonight (at least that's why we think they weren't excused with the rest of us), but I was not among them. Not that I am too downtrodden. I told myself I didn't even want this job. I didn't need an upgrade from ground waitress to "waitress in the sky." However, it is a bummer not to be begged to take a job that you feel more than qualified for. However, I could still be offered a position, and then I would be facing the more gut-wrenching realization that I would have to decide whether I wanted to live the jet-setting life of a flight attendant.

I want to conclude with some powerful confession about how I have no idea what I want, or that sometimes I am very content to be complacent. But I feel like everything I write ends up on that tangent, so it is getting a bit trite on this blog.

My father's long-lost brother, Zack Galifianakis

Beardism is rampant in our society. Any sturdy man with a dark beard is told that he is Billy Mays', Al Borland's, or Jack Black's doppleganger. However, I have a feeling that Zack Galifianakis and my father share more than just the ability to grow a mane of hair on the lower part of the face.

They share the same face.

Other pictures probably do the similarity more justice, but if my dad didn't have 6 inches on Zack, I would worry about being unable to distinguish the two.

Choose Your Own Adventure

Recently, I've been ever-so-slightly lamenting the course of study I've pursued in my collegiate education. It seems it would have been a lot more practical if I had just chosen some sort of professional track that led to a specific career. This dawned on me with particular umph as I realized I was jealous of those friends and relatives of mine who are in the first years of teaching. They are somewhere. Their education has yielded certain fruits. Specifically, a classroom over which they have dominion.

I guess I sort of had that professional-track thing going on when I was an aspiring journalist tearing up the editorial scene at BYU (by tearing it up I mean writing mediocre pieces and getting people's names wrong, that's a GFE, my friends, a gross factual error). But I didn't like that, I truly didn't. And I don't really look back on withdrawing from all my journalism classes part way through the semester with regret. In fact, I am kind of proud of those W's marring my transcript. Because for me, it took new insight and courage to realize that a piece of paper didn't matter as much as doing what really felt right for me. Blah, blah, blah. It was really profound stuff.

But now, I find myself with diploma in hand, thinking it will give me direction and realizing that it is not actually a map. Career counselors like to tell you that there is a wide berth of opportunities for enterprising young humanities majors to seize. But I remember the only employer advertising on the "Opportunities in Humanities" bulletin board the one time I looked at it was Enterprise Rent-a-Car, which is a nice company, my uncle works for them, but he was a business major. It was sort of a taunting flier; it seemed to be saying "So you looked at your paintings and read your stories, now come to the real world."

I'm sure a number of people who got their elementary education degree feel a bit like I do, like they don't know where they're going (despite their degree did provide some sort of linear progression, with a clear objective). I feel like I am in a choose your own adventure book. I read a couple of those back in the day, or maybe I just read one a couple of times. It's hard to be sure. I remember being a Japanese schoolgirl caught in the middle of some kind of samurai feud or something. But I remember dying prematurely, probably on a machete blade. I wasn't a good decision-maker. Or I just made dangerous decisions. But I don't regret them, it was just a book.

I guess this is just life. It's not quite as dramatic as samurai vendettas. So making the more adventurous decision, the one that strikes my fancy the most, won't be my death. And I mean, if I really want to see what life would be like being the supreme ruler of 30' by 30' space in some high school, I could go back and see how that storyline would progress. But for now, I'll continue to trudge through this because, despite that I have no idea where it is going to take me, I'm still thinking it will yield a better story.

red revival

Communism is alive and well in my heart as a beautiful ideal. This Halloween I costumed myself in the garb of a soviet-era Russian spy. The outfit was replete with accessories ranging from my bright purple bob wig (which inspired a deep love for wigs and an impulsive desire to chop of my hair and dye it a neon hue, but reasonableness continues to overpower my whims when I realize I am not a rockstar, nor do I live a rock-and-roll lifestyle) to my soviet-era soldier's cap. But I am not staving off sleep to blog about my Halloween costume.

No, the topic which inspired this burst of writing is even more--how should I put this--oh, right, vain.

As I compiled the pieces of my Halloween ensemble I thought nothing would say, "I want to seduce you, James Bond, so I can steal your government's secrets" like bright red lipstick. Thus, moments before I was due to work I ran into the grocery store to pick up some red lipstick.

The shade dubbed Red Revival.

I coated my lips with the stuff as part of my costume, and figured, "Well there's $5 frivolously spent, as I have no designs to make my lips so ostentatious on regular occasion." But I left the stuff in my apron pocket and my co-worker Mary convinced me to try it on again on November 1st. I mainly put it on to show how ridiculous it looked for everyday wear, but she told me she liked it. Moments later, my boss walked by and told me she was fond of my lipstick. My sister was also thought it looked quite good on me. So, I wore it again today.

I kind of feel like that Junior High girl that is finally allowed to wear make-up, so she makes sure the world knows it by ignoring the neutral tones and going for shades that make it obvious she is accenting her natural beauty with gobs of glittery blue eye-shadow and crazy lipstick.

But it doesn't look as good on the 14-year-old as it does on me, right?

Perhaps later I'll blog about the environment, or how female veterans are really passed over when it comes to care in VA hospitals, or how I am not mad at Barack Obama. But this is what you get today. Lipstick.

i own an accordion

Ignore the unmade bed in the background and feast your eyes on this Chinese-made beauty.


Sure, the best-made accordions are manufactured in villages nestled along the rolling hills of Italia, but a girl swimming in student debt can barely justify purchasing this little 48-bass accordion. At least the Chinese manufacturer gave it a little Italian flare by prominently displaying that the instrument is to be called Stella.

I purchased this beauty from a Hans Braun, upon learning his name I knew this was legit. He had an accordion school in his past life, before he relocated to the suburban subdivisions of Spanish Fork. He tried to teach me the basics, and spoke of music theory stuff like the "circle of fifths" and I nodded to pretend I wasn't a music idiot. (However, I have this little theory that the more you nod the less you know. It's an over-compensation thing. I wonder if Hans Braun subscribes to a similar theory and saw right through my charade.) I took it home and just pushed all the buttons and pretended I had skillz. I just liked making all the noises.

But I have had Stella since Labor Day. I was pretty devoted in my online research about how to handle her for about a week. I almost mastered "Mary had a Little Lamb" and was simultaneously learning "When the Saints Come Marching In." But the novelty wore off and practice fell by the wayside. But I broke out the old girl tonight, and she smells so good. I think instruments just have this smell (I think it is the scent of wood, to be honest...the accordion makes the noise because you push air through wooden reeds). I love that smell. I want to collect instruments or become a luthier so I can be surrounded by that scent. Seriously, I love it so much.

But, if I don't become a luthier, I want to play my accordion at subway stations with a the case at my feet where those entertained by my musical stylings can drop some change.

I joke not; I would love to be a street musician. At least for a week of so. Or in my freetime. I probably wouldn't quit my day job. Probably.

oh, look. roni posted some nonsense

Leave me alone on the internet for too long and I will inevitably devise a new life plan for myself. I have applications pending with Americorps, the University of Louisville's Pre-Med Post-Bacc Certificate program, Columbia's Graduate School of Arts and Sciences (I haven't completed that one, however, because of the hefty application fee), and most recently, nigh an hour ago to be imprecisely exact, I completed an application to be an Italian/English-speaking flight attendant with Delta Airlines.

I had left the blogging world because I was no longer strolling along the narrow sidewalks dodging the compact cars and scooters of Italy, and it didn't seem like the day-to-day routine of my more mundane life working as a waitress was as appealing to document. And as my life is devoid of children, or a romance worth publicly touting, and that for the most part, I am among those who would care to hear about my exploits, so they can be regaled by tales of my mishaps with with words flowing from my mouth, rather than strain their eyes trying to read those words so strongly backlit on their computer screens, I discontinued detailing my life in a public forum.

But I am back, baby.

Mainly, I think because I want to write. It is a good way to work through problems, and while blogs are basically the epitome of self-indulgence, I've had people's word give me entertainment, solace, or voice exactly some of the things I am feeling [little plug to Katie, who I haven't seen since high school, but whose recent blog posts just felt so beautiful, honest, and spot-on that I said, "Hey, maybe some of my thoughts and ideas are worth
blogging about also."].

So, back to my opening. I haven't felt this unsure about my future since...ever. I always knew where I was going in high school [college], but suddenly, I have no idea what I am doing or what I want. Today, I want to be a flight attendant. Probably not forever, but I could put a few good years in see the world, collect interesting experiences for a memoir, whatever. I could actually put some of my Italian language skills to use. They're just rusting here in Utah; although, I could be resourceful and look for some conversation partners.

But listing my pending applications makes me feel pretty flighty, so perhaps a career in aviation is for me!

arrivederci italia

In my head I can hear "the final countdown" playing.

I am not a very organized person, and I haven't been able to bring myself to pack my belongings. This is not because I do not want to go home--I want to go home--I just do not want to leave Italy. Unfortunately, I cannot have both. And even more unfortunately, the time has come to pack, and I must fit all of my worldly possessions into two suitcases, and I do not have the patience for playing tetris with my books and socks.

And my packing has given me a little headache. And I am not prone to headaches.

However, having all of my clothing untidily shoved into a suitcase that is sitting on the foot of my bed the realization that I am going home has dawned full-force. I am really excited. It will be so good to see everybody.

But, man I am going to miss this place.

Cute Kids

When I first spent a Saturday morning at Casa San Michele, the hours dragged by. I was so worried I would do something wrong, and I could not remember anyone's name. I assumed that I would have to get by with the Italian equivalent of "Hey you" when I needed to get the attention of someone specific.

I never thought the kids would really like me. I figured I would just watch to make sure they did not swallow any marbles or hit each other.

I never thought they would actually run over to me with their arms outstretched, wanting my attention, or insist on giving me good-bye kisses before I left.

But now that it is almost over I think, what will these kids grow up to be? Will I ever see them again? Would I recognize them if I did? I don't expect three-year-olds to remember a girl who spent four hours with them on Saturdays for 8 months, but am I going to search the faces of any Iris, Michele, Fabbian, Luna I meetfor a glimpse of the kids I played with in Florence?

Probably.

***Buona Pasqua***

Easter Bunny Cake 2008--We didn't buy all the appropriate decorations beforehand and had to improvise Easter Sunday.

I have not been a diligent blogger. I attribute this to my life being a little mundane. I know, I know, I am in Italy, life should not be mundane. Everyday of my life I am living this exotic adventure (well, exotic may be a bit of a stretch, it is not like I'm in the jungles of the Amazon), la dolce vita. And it is the sweet life, but after a while living in Florence just feels a lot like living anywhere else, which makes me want to more fully appreciate the beauty and significance of any place I reside.

But, I do things besides attempt to research (attempt because I am lured from legitimate study by the wiles of the internet too often). I should elaborate on the amazing adventure I had with my grandma and her siblings and their significant others over spring break and my trip to Lucca with my church chum the lovely Liz, but my fingers only have the tenacity to write about one event at a time. Hence, I have chosen Easter.

It rained a lot. April Showers, eh?

I had a lovely dinner with some of my fellow Master's students.

And for the dinner, I made this fantastic cake, modelled after the traditional Scheidler Family Easter Bunny Cake. It doesn't seem like Easter without this masterwork of cake-making. It would perhaps be more indulgent of the spiritual side of Easter if we made a nice cross cake, or if we were really ambitious, we coud recreate Christ emerging from the tomb. However, I can imagine I'd be less comfortable eating that. (But such a cake would put an interesting apin on historical debate on whether communion is symbolically or literally the body of Christ). All cake discussion aside, I do appreciate the spiritual side of Easter and love that typically we celebrate the resurrection of Christ and the hope that it brings just as spring is dawning after winter's bleakness.

I just love hope.

Now...for a picture of the Bunny Cake 2010--Its Italian Debut

2010 was another year for improvising. The bowtie is frosted with nutella, the eyes are made from cookies, where I might have used pink frosting I used strawberries, and I thought some white chocoate buck teeth would be a nice touch. And it didn't taste too bad either (and if you're dying to know...I made the cake from scratch...without a recipe. I just may be amazing.)

My apartment has a smell

After seven nights in hotels, I have come to recognize the distinct scent of my Florentine home. If I were to describe the odor, I would say it smells like overripe fruit. But not in a disconcerting way, like there's something rotting somewhere, its just an oddly sweet yet natural smell.

Now that I have identified this scent, whenever my nose catches a whiff of it, I will think of Via Doni. Just like I can recognize that St. George-y smell of my Grandma Jodie's house.

At last, a very rudimentary translation

Translation, especially of poetry, truly is an art...one that I can't say I've mastered. Do you preserve the syntax, do you adapt it to a more colloquial tone, or does that rob the poeticness? Gah. But here's a go:


Vita by Davide Ceccione

Have you haver seen how fleeting is the life
of a droplet?
Has one ever told you with how much love and joy it battles for
its independence? It forces with divinity to liberate itself
from the yoke of the edge.
It falls and rejoices, dying.
Have you never seen and understood this?
And don't come to me to speak of life.

I may have taken slight liberties, and I'm not 100% sure of the best way to translate the last line, but I love the droplet; it sort of causes me to reflect on the eternities and how are lives are short and precious. But I won't elaborate on all my musings about the poem and enter into a lengthy and self-indulgent memoir-style composition on why I love this poem. You can enjoy it and take from it what you will.

Vita
Hai mai visto quanto breve e'
la vita di una goccia?
Ti ha mai detto con quanto amore e gioia lotta per
l'indipendenza? Sforzo divino il
suo, per liberarsi dal giogo del bordo.
Cade e gioisce morendo.
Hai mai visto e capito cio'?
E non venirmi a parlare di vita

Davide Ceccione

when i have time, i'll translate it.

La Cucina Italiana...Roni Style.

I thought I looked like a pretty classy cook, so I took a picture of what has become my typical fare: a handful of some cheap pasta (I get a 500 gram bag for 37 cents) and some red onion, garlic, and basil (fresh basil in this pic...I stole some off of Angela's basil plant on the terazza. Oh, no. I'm the moochy roommmate) sauteed over olive oil and then mixed with some tomato sauce and spiced up with a little pepperoncino. Sounds tasty, and it is incredibly cheap to make. But after months of this entree, pasta in tomato sauce has become almost as unappetizing as mushrooms smothered in bleu cheese dressing (that is about the grossest sounding thing I can personally think of). So, I've been venturing beyond.
Tonight, I made a little stir fry thing! Mmmm, looking at this picure makes me want to whip-up another helping.

Just for the world's information: I can cook rice! I remember hearing my Aunt Cindy lamenting the sad state of domesticity by complaining that girls these days don't even know how to cook rice. I thought to myself, "Pshaw, I can cook that non-glutenous grain. You just read the directions on the MinuteRice box." Ha! overconfident past-self, it's not so easy! I've scalded rice to the bottom of the pan many times here in Italy (and still do occasionally) but through trial and error I have become a rice-cooking woman. (Marry me!) In fact, rice pudding is my new favorite treat.

Today, I ventured out into entirely new terrain and tried some cupcakes from scratch. I've actually never made a cake without a Betty Crocker mix, so this really was trail-blazing for me. You can tell from the pics above I was less-than pleased with the result. Aestetically, these cupcakes are not appealing, but I assure you they taste delicious. It's just hard to cook things here because the ingredients have different names, I don't have the appropriate measuring tools, and, the big one, my oven does not have any markings to tell me how hot it is. So I just guess where 350 degrees Fahrenheit (or 180 degrees Celcius) and I think I guessed to high because my cupcake tops were browning while the inside was still a very gelatinous mass.

And besides cooking and eating, I do go to school, but who wants to hear about that?

Forza Viola!

Truly, I was born to be a Fiorentina fan. Look at how dazzlingly purple their uniforms are.

For those not in the know, La Fiorentina is Florence's series A soccer team. Last night, they battled against AC Milan, whose team boasts notorious soccer divos (the masculine form of diva, just fyi) David Beckham (as in Bend it Like Beckham my peeps! I honestly don't know if I would know who he was were it not for that delightful flick, and the fact that he married Posh Spice) and Brazil's own Ronaldinho (I think I heard of him because his name was tossed around a lot during the World Cup). In the face of such formidable competition Fiorentina held its own, scoring its first goal before I even managed to make it through the gate (the bus from my house to the stadium took an hour and a half; I could have walked in half the time). However, Milan scored a goal fifteen minutes before the game was up and then scored ANOTHER about two minutes before the clock ran out. 2-1 for Milan. Despite the soccer royalty gracing Milan, I cheered passionately for my local boys, and shouted "Dai!" with the rest of the crowd as our chances of being declared victors dissipated.

I hear they are playing Juventus on March 6th, and I may have to see if Rosalinda is willing to go to another game with me!

I felt particularly young because when I bought my ticket I qualified for a "ridotto giovani" a "youth discount." You only have to be under 23 to qualify for it, but it filled me with youthful vigor. Which is good, since I keep deluding myself into thinking that 21.5 is old.

Things I've learned from "Felicity"

So, when I found out I'd been admitted to NYU, discussion of this college drama happened to come up a time or two. The series ran between 1998 and 2002, while I was 5th-8th grade. I remember that my mom watched it; I can't remember if she was a real devotee, but I do remember her pointing out to me that one of Felicity's friends is the pink power ranger, with whom I was mildly obsessed, back when the power rangers were cool.

Well, last summer I started watching Felicity and the snobby parts of me criticized its melodrama, but the guilty-indulgence side of me kept watching. I also started thinking that watching Felicity could help me solve my real-life problems. For example, how Felicity is going to finance her education in the city is a recurring issue in the first few episodes. I watched and listened intently hoping that the ten-year old T.V. show would enlighten me on how to avoid student debt. It didn't. Her parents choose to support her decision to attend such a high-priced institution and foot her tuition bill.

Anyway, when I don't feel compelled to do homework, which is all-too-often, I entertain myself with Felicity, and right now she is in her last semester and realizes all her education (and the dollars she, or rather, her parents, spent obtaining it) hasn't really provided her with a life map. She seems to have no definite future outside of college, and the "real" real world beckons. So, I've felt sort of a kinship with this fictional Felicity Porter.

I still don't know how the series ends yet, but despite that the show is pretty trite and that a lot of the drama hinges on love triangles and unwanted pregnancies, I feel that I have gleaned some insights.

#1) So, the 'tagline' of the show is "She went to college to find love* and instead found herself." Cheesy to the extreme. But I think if I had a tagline for my college drama it would be, "She went to college so she could prove that she was doing something with her life but instead realized that she needed to find herself." Maybe college, and the other crazy situations we put ourselves in as we try to race down the fast-track to success aren't always about how many marketable skills we obtain, but how we get to know ourselves. I guess that any college freshman learns this, but I feel that I am learning it with a new profundity.

#2) The show is a self-titled "college drama" but I swear those kids hardly ever do homework. Sometimes they complain about homework and sometimes they get bad grades, but it's not really about school. I think I know why this is: school is not the most important thing in life (also it wouldn't be the most interesting thing to portray on television, and ratings mater...). The relationships we have with other people will matter a lot more than whether we got an A in organic chemistry (even though Ben did) and will also bring us a lot more personal fulfillment.

#3) Student debt is burdensome and horrible, but if you are becoming the person you want to be it is worth it. Although some routes to self-fulfillment are cheaper than others, but could you ever imagine taking back the experiences you are having in the place you are?

So, I suppose if I meditated on this more, I could come up with more life lessons, but three is enough for one sitting.

*She drastically changed her college plans after this boy she'd loved from afar happened to write the most perfect thing in her yearbook.

So, the 411 on Roni

Well, I thought I would just publicly announce that I failed my exam in letteratura italiana moderna e contemporanea; I should have known that with such a long course title it was going to be difficult. And it might be a misnomer to say I "failed" the professore didn't even deign to fail me (or my 4 cohorts with whom I took the class). A typical oral exam (didn't mention this--almost all Italian university exams are oral) lasts, oh, maybe 15 to thirty minutes. We we're all kicked out after 5-8 minutes. The thing is, all of us studied pretty hard.

But, the silver lining.

The Italian university system is much different from the American one. A lot of students don't even attend class. They are called nonfrequentati and they just study the materials then take the exam with the professor, if they fail or get a subpar grade they just retake the exam on the next testing date. There is absolutely no limit to how many times you can take an exam. Hypothetically, I could retake this exam I failed 5 years from now (perhaps, I would be able to dazzle the professor by then). I think that this system probably makes the professors have pretty high standards. An F is not the end, just the beginning of improvement, which though I am frustrated da morire by my failure, sounds like a good attitude to have.

Anyway, as a consolation me and my fellow flunkies went out to this fab-o ristorante called Aqua al Due, with a location in Florence, and one in San Diego, incidentally. They have this steak in blueblerry sauce, which is a suprisingly delicious flavor combination.

Tasting the world's most delicious drink was not even the best part of my day

So, there's this artisan chocolatier festival going on in in Piazza Santa Croce, so my cohorts and I took a break from studying the poets of the novecento to check it out.

And that's when my sense of taste fulfilled its destiny.

I had a cup of hot chocolate, but let me tell you now, ciocolato caldo is not chocolate flavored water (although, I really do like Stephen's mint truffle water flavoring). It is like drinking a cup of warm melted chocolate. I had a cup of a hot white chocolate (even though I'm a little bit anal about the term white chocolate. There is no cocoa in white chocolate and therefore it cannot be classified as chocolate; it's just a bar of hardened and flavored sugar that melts deliciously in your mouth.) This ambrosial drink was not just artisan white chocolate (I cringe at the terminology, again), it was enhanced with traces of ginger, cinnamon and (wait for it...) pepperoncino (basically, the little dried red pepper flakes that some people--like me--enjoy putting on pizza). Oh, and it was topped off with a hearty helping of panna, a.k.a. wonderfully creamy whipped cream.

But, get this, that wasn't the best part of my day.

So I volunteer at a sort of women's shelter operated by the diocese of Florence. I usually keep an eye on the kids while the moms are at work or about their daily tasks. Sometimes I help cook lunch or tidy up, but usually I'm with the kids. I love kids, and I usually have a fairly decent relationship with youngsters, but I don't always make fast friends of them. Sometimes I over think kid-dom. I don't want to talk to them in baby talk and offend their intellect (I hated being treated like a baby when I was a kid. Around the age of 10 or so, I would seethe inside when I was handed a kid's menu at a restuarant), but I don't want to engage in a discussion about the principles of nihilism, which would probably be over their heads, and a little heavy. Plus here, I can't always say all the things I want to say to then because I am mutilating the language of the fine country of Italy.

But anyway, today I spent most of my time playing with Michele and Sunray, and when you get into playtime, you forget all your worries about how to interact with little ones. But playing with Michele and Sunray meant I spent considerable time attempting to discipline. Here's some vocab:

Fermatevi!................Stop it you guys!
Basta!.......................Enough!
Cosa stai facendo?!..What are you doing?
Non buttare!.............Don't throw [things]!
Non mordere!...........Don't bite!

Yeah, you get the gist. But so it is with 3-year-old boys. But anyway, the good part--the best part of my day-- is that as I was leaving, they said "Vieni" (Come here) and insisted on giving me kisses good-bye, the good ol wet ones that little kids give leaving a residue of saliva on your cheek.

It was just really sweet.

Dream Car

Okay, so I am not typically one to use slang terminology that relates to prostitution, but in my searching to find the appropriate adjective to describe my feelings about this vehicle, the only one that comes to mind is pimpin' (Although, one would have to be a pretty flamboyant pimp to cruise around in this pale pink beauty. I'm not sure if you can tell that it is pink from the photos (I apologize for my shoddy camera work), but it is this really pretty shade.)

I saw this in a car show in the Piazza della Repubblica back in December, and just stumbled across the shots going through my files. I also took a picture of the tiniest car I had ever seen, but there isn't anybody standing by it so you can't really gauge how small it is from the snapshot.

But the pink baby is my new dream car (usurping the position of a Jeep Wrangler (from 2-12 I lived in the 90's so it was only natural that my car tastes reflect those of the characters in Clueless). Curse that it probably gets 5 miles to the gallon, and probably costs somewhere in the six-digit range. Guess, I'll just settle for a Geo Metro when I can afford to buy a car.

Mastering the Art of the Scarf

So, here in Italy, scarves aren't just a fashion statement, they're a necessity. Everyone wears them men, women, children, dogs. I felt distinctly un-Italian not tying a piece of fabric around my neck. So, I've started to get into the habit wearing the adorable scarf pictured above. Initially, I wasn't sure exactly how to wear the thing, and I toyed with tying it around my whole head which resulting in me looking like a Russian grandma (though, a stylish Russian grandma nonetheless.)

But anyway, it turns out scarves are insanely functional. I stay so much warmer with this baby around my neck, although I still don't really know how to make it look exceptionally cute.

Week 1/Settimana Uno

School has begun, but I am still warming up my drive to become academically motivated.

Here's a quick day-by-day rundown of this first week:

Monday: I believe I slept a hearty amount, then went to campus (aka 'The Villa'), where I intended to do some much needed studying for my oral exam in Letteratura italiana moderna e contemporanea, but devoted too much time to reading Time magazine cover to cover. Then I went to my Italian Politics class, which should be a breeze...(overconfident? we shall see!) I also bought groceries.

Tuesday: Big day. I got to meet the god of Italian Studies (at least that is how his colleagues talked about him), the new Works in Progress coordinator in Florence, John Freccero. We had all these crazy ideas of him, Jane Tylus, sort of the go-to professor about concerns or questions with the Florence program, talked about how he was really old and he'd probably need someone to physically support him as he wandered the campus. She also emphasized a little too much that he just loves to be surrounded by pretty intellectual girls. Turns out he is not at all lecherous, and though he is nigh 80, and has some trouble getting around, he's much more alert than that dear old Mr. Shuler at Payson Middle School. Also, heard a lecture on why Michelangelo's architecture still matters.

Wednesday: This day is sort of lost to me. I slept in good and long (after waking up at the unholy hour of 8 a.m. the day before--pathetic that 8 a.m. has become the 'early morning' in my estimation, I know.) I remember doing some homework, but I don't think I ever left my apartment. And truth be told, I didn't get a lot of homework done.

Thursday: Had a class on the Italian Novel.

Friday: Took a tour of the Villa in hopes of getting a job as a docent.

Saturday: Volunteered at Casa San Michele and that night went out for Apertivo and to the movie Baciami ancora. A sequel to the much-loved romantic comedy L'ultimo bacio. Though the plot was laughingly over-dramatic, I shed a few tears.

Sunday: I thought I would die if I had to get out of bed, so I missed church. But I researched a bit of the spring break trip I am planning for Grandma, Uncle Jerry, and Aunt Cindy in March.

Hopefully, the next week will bring something more interesting to write about, and pictures.

Behold, Siena

So, I got my camera back, but it is acting a little funky. Most of my pictures are strangely and inexplicably bright, as if God was descending on Siena the day of my first visit, but I don't think he was. If He did, he was laying low; I didn't see Him. But can understand why He might like to hang out there.

Anyway, I just sort of wandered around on both trips, though on the Mission: Camera Retrieval journey, I did buy a jacket that was 70% off, because even though I had a jacket, I was cold and having two jackets seemed sort of practical. I also bought the prettiest stationary in the history of paper.

So, there are the pictures, I didn't feel like captioning them with lengthy descriptions, even though I could clue you in to all sort of little Siena fun-facts, but this isn't Roni's lecture hour, and the pictures will say a thousand words each and attest to how lovable Siena is without my intervention. (Even though I don't know why the light is washing everything out!)

Buona Notizia!

My camera is in the custody of the biglietteria in Siena!

This is wonderful on two counts:
a-I get to go back to Siena
b-I get my camera back

I couldn't withhold this information from all of you desperately concerned. And I'm just so happy!

(and I don't think I sounded like an idiot on the phone, though I did have to ask what in custodia meant, though in retrospect, it is kind of obvious it means "in custody." But that does make it sound like they've arrested my camera.)

C'est la vie

Or rather, C'e' la vita, but it really doesn't have the same ring in Italian.


Anyway, today for the first time since I arrived in Italy, I woke before the hours were in the P.M. range. I consider this quite an accomplishment, it was only my third sleep since I got back and it is tremendously hard to fall asleep at night. And, I was well away from the "P.M."s; it was 7:50 when I arose from my bed. Since I was finally awake at a reasonable time to have a productive day, I decided to go to Siena, the town I would choose to be from if I was born to be Italian. The city has a certain Medieval grandeur with a lot of spunk. This post was to contain all the lovely photos I snapped (New Year's Resolution to take more pictures, check. I'm like, "I have a camera, so why don't I use it (besides for taking pictures of myself from an arm's length away. In the 2+ years I've owned a digital picture I've garnered thousands (I kid you not; I'm vain.) of self-portraits))<--(I used three sets of parenthesis in that little bit. My next goal will be four.) These pictures included some lovely panoramas, glorious architecture, and an action shot of my one-legged, or rather one-footed--he still had his leg, pigeon friend.

But there are no pictures, so what gives?

(This is a multiple choice question; I'm not saying all of these things happened.)
a. Roni left her camera on the bus on the way home, even after she'd had a little inkling that she should double check her seat.
b. After being so careful for so long, Roni made a mistake and blew out her camera with the high-voltage Italian electricity.
c. Un ladro di tasche! A pickpocket! pickpocketed Roni!
d. Roni with her incredible propensity to wreak havoc with her clumsiness and destroy indestructible things (she could be a super villain, they seem to be the destroyer types) dropped it from the Torre del Mangia, and there's no hope for even the most indestructible when it speeds toward the hard ground from 102 meters.

I don't want anyone to skim ahead and accidentally cheat, so I'll go like this (like all those email forwards do when you are suppose to be making a wish...it's annoying, so I'm sorry, but remember, I'm the one coping with the loss of a piece of photographic technology!)

**************
************
**********

*****
***
**
*
*
**
***
****
*****
******
*******
********
*********
**************
**********

Okay, that was boring. The answer is a. Though, it would have been quite a story if I'd dropped it from the Torre del Mangia. I left it on the bus back from Siena, at least, I'm pretty sure that's what happened. I thought, I should double check my seat, then didn't! So now I am left to call the bus companies and do a very scary thing....talk on the phone in Italian (it's especially hard to understand a language you don't quite understand when the words are deprived of their physical cues!)

I marched down to the station as soon as I couldn't find my camera and the guy at the office gave me the number for the offices of missing objects for both bus companies that run through that base. I called both places; one said they'd found no cameras, the other that the office of missing objects was closed and that I'd rang through to the main office (That lady was a little bit mean though, but I did sort of freeze up with my Italian...that's why we should always be nice to foreigners, they are always more scared and embarrassed than you are unnerved).

But even if this is the end, I can be grateful for the time I had with my camera. If my parents hadn't sprung for a nearly indestructible model, I would have had to lay my camera to rest years ago. Now it is just missing, and I'll hold out hope. Just like I still hope that I may one day again see the SLR camera of mine that strangely disappeared in Park City that Christmas, that year when Ches and Brooke swear they saw Lance Bass.

Laura Pausini, Singing Diva Extraordinaire

Laura Pausini, folks. She sang a tribute to the late great king of pop by covering "We are the World." She has a real strong voice, meaning she belts it, baby. She belongs among the ranks of Whitney Houston, but indulges in fewer eighties-style "Ohs" from the gut.

My friend and fellow Master's student, Rosalinda, is a devoted follower of Italian music, but she tends to like the real poppy stuff, which my roommates Angela and Arianna scorn. Laura Pausini does not merit their artistic approval. However, my roommate Laura loooooves Laura Pausini. Maybe there is some unwritten code that you cannot detest someone of the same name. That's why I am such a devoted fan of Ronnie Milsap. Just Kidding. Though, truth be told, I don't really know who Ronnie Milsap is. Maybe I could be a fan.

Anyway, the concert was actually December 7th, but I figured now is as good a time as any share some pics with you and list my observations of the concert:
1. No openning act. Rosalinda told me that this is standard for Italian concerts.
2. She drew a very diverse crowd to senior citizens to twelve-year olds. Men and women; althought, it seemed many of the men had been dragged by their wives and/or lovers or were fathers chaperoning the twelve year olds.
3.Concert merchandise is a rip-off, counterfeit merchandise available just outside is your best deal. Although, you don't have to be in Italy to learn this.
4.Everybody loves MJ, and I don't mean Michael Jordan. Though, it seems a lot of people like him, too.

What?! Christmas is Over?

Yes, Baby Kaylee. No more need to don ridiculous hats that scare you, but that may be the only plus side. Because it is back to school and back to work!

After having about a week-and-a-half long crisis during which there was a point when I was almost committed to dropping this Master's degree nonsense, it seems like sort of a big deal to be back in Florence. During the crisis, I weighed the longing for home, the hefty price of tuition, and the fact that my field of study isn't a particularly practical one against the option of staying home with la famiglia, avoiding debt, and being able to attend the Sundance Film Festival. (Adam Brody promised to make an appearance, and though I mocked The O.C. while it ran, I couldn't get enough of the show once I started watching it on DVD and have made up for my error in judgement by having a very girlish fantasy crush on Adam Brody, who really carried the whole show. It would have suffocated under the weight of its own over-wraught drama were it not for Seth Cohen's biting wit and sarcasm.) But I decided not seeing my family again until May wasn't all that long, debt was manageable, and that I could find another time to stalk Adam Brody.

So, ci incontriamo di nuovo Italia.

I intend to make this semester better than the last. I did the adjusting thing last August, so I don't have to waste a month acclimatizing. I can jump right in. I want to visit more places, study harder, use better grammar when I blog, and maybe blog more. Although my writing always slips into parenthetical ramblings (see my proclamation of love to Adam Brody above), it makes me feel productive. Oh, and another thing I should do, take more pictures. This is a New Year's resolution of mine, and maybe if I promise to my public to deliver them more Italian imagery I will better keep this goal.

So a bacione to you all from Florence!