La Depressione

My life is like a box of rotten chocolates. 
With each one, you’ll just get sicker and sicker.

Better to throw the box away.

 

GMH

I might’ve ended that last post a bit dramatically. 

I’m not starving for those who were concerned. Thank you <3 

…

The irony in my life is beginning to be too much. 

After we left the police station in Vienna, and while we were “waiting” for our bus, (which of course we actually had missed by this point), we decided to go to another café.  

While the rest of them talked about one thing or another, I was replaying the stolen moment over and over again in my head and of course pondering the inevitable, “why me?” 

Why is it that whenever something bad happens to us, we respond with shock and demand a reason?  
And yet whenever something good happens, we take it in stride, we accept it, and never ever then ask: why?
I kept saying to the rest of them, and once they stopped listening, to myself, that it was my fault. I had left my purse unzipped. I wasn’t paying attention when we were in such a crowded place. I shouldn’t have had that much cash on me, etc., etc., etc..
They all shut me up immediately saying it wasn’t my fault, there was nothing I could’ve done, I couldn’t have anticipated it, I didn’t deserve it, blah blah.
But the truth is, I did deserve it.

The first step, and admittedly the biggest hurdle in accepting Christianity, is not overcoming the incredulity that a man rose from the dead, or a man could be the son of God, or that there is a heaven and a hell. But rather, the first and most difficult step in turning to faith is admitting that you are a sinner – that you are, in fact, a bad person.

As my time in Prague progressed post-robbery, I started recounting all the other terrible travel stories that have occurred and frequented my blog posts. The time in Florence when I missed both trains and lost 100 euro, the time in Parma when we got stranded in Piacenza for five hours, and now this. Through it all, I realized that everytime something bad happened, I always tossed it to bad luck.

Sharon has bad luck with money, receipts, parking tickets, speeding tickets, cops in general, traveling, trains, anything that has to do with time – but really, as Christians we don’t believe in luck. We believe in sovereignty. 

I wasn’t meant to get the speeding ticket, I wasn’t meant to lock myself out, I wasn’t meant to get stolen from. As if what is only meant for us is good because all we deserve is good. 

The truth is, I am no better than that man who stole my wallet. How many times have I turned away a beggar? How many times have I hated on a friend, a sister, an enemy? And He says, as we all can recite so well: Whoever hates his brother is a murderer. And here, the greatest humbling moment, when I said, but I never stole! Not even a pack of gum! Yet the Bible tells me otherwise: “Will a man rob God? Yet you have robbed Me! But you say, ‘In what way have we robbed You?’ In tithes and offerings.” 

So humbling to say at the least. I may not have “deserved it.” But what gifts have God given me that I did deserve? I somehow have deluded myself into thinking that I deserved all the gifts that God had given to me thus far. That when I asked for bread, it was my right to have it. And I forgot, that all that I have is His. Instead I hoarded it, and fell lust to it.

In the beginning of the trip, I prayed to God to teach me to be generous.

I really should be careful with what I pray for.

“So, you’re not going to be generous voluntarily?”
“No, God. That’s asking for too much. Do you know how much a euro is? It’s $1.50! I’ll be generous when a dollar is back to being a dollar.”

I didn’t realize that I had my $300 emergency cash with me until I got to Prague. I forgot that it was in my wallet. But when I found it there I felt a rush of security and happiness from that security. 

My security was no longer from God. It was from money. 

My fear was no longer of God, but of man. 

Here’s the irony kicker. I wasn’t generous. And yet since then, I’ve been forced to rely on the generosity of others.
Erin gave me 2000 Czech money before leaving Prague so that I could get back to Milan. I ran out of that Czech so fast thanks to the wretchedness of Easy Jet and was stranded at the Milan airport 2 euro short of a bus ticket back home. The 2 euro was given to me by a grandpa who worked at the airport. After hearing what happened, the program of my director lent me 100 euro straight from his pocket via my roommate. And my food supply is now solely from Hannah’s previously mailed box of korean food.

I am and always have been an avid believer that everything happens for a reason – a good reason. That through it all, no matter what, God will be glorified. 

And even in this, God is.

 

FML

It was the start of a beautiful December break. On Thursday I skipped all my classes to get a headstart on my final eurotrip to Prague, the city best known for their untouched castles, Christmas markets, and hot alcohol found on every corner and vendor to warm you up amidst the freezing, freezing cold. Prague is the capital of the Czech Republic, which has only been a republic for the last twenty years. The original Czeckoslovachia was invaded by Hitler’s army in 1939 and was part of his Iron Curtain through WWII and the Cold War. It was only emancipated with the Velvet Revolution and the fall of the Berlin wall in 1989. It is incredible to me how history here is so new. 1989 is only two years after I was born, and thus Prague was free from communism for just the expanse of many of my friends’ entire lifetime.

Still Prague was quicker to becoming westernized than Milan, primarily for being the sixth most visited city in the world. Almost everybody speaks English and many of the restaurants have English menus. It’s such a shock really because you can’t find a fried chicken wing in Milan for your life, yet not only did Prague have such but also had a KFC on every major square along with a Subway.

There’s so much detail to what we saw and did and ate, it’s overwhelming to list it all. And besides all the details get washed over with what happened on the following day in Vienna.

After our first night in Prague we decided to take an overnight bus to Vienna, Austria, just 5 hours away and costs $27 round trip. We would arrive at 5 am, camp out somewhere until the markets opened, spend a fabulous day in Vienna, then catch the midnight bus back to Prague with no harm done.

That was the plan.

What actually happened was quite the contrary.

We arrived at 5 am. That part was true. But we had nowhere to go and it was FREEZING. The temperature in Vienna had to be lower than 40°F. So we became one of those – we slept on the metro floor in front of the door of a bakery that was closed. I lied down on that freezing cold floor completely and utterly miserable.

Two things I cannot stand: being cold and being tired.

This was the beginning of our day in Vienna.

…

Four hours later we found our way to a Starbucks. Thank God for a Starbucks. It was beautiful and warm and comfortable just as life should be. There we recouped, flushed hot caffeinated goodness into our bloodstream and mapped out the rest of our day.

Vienna was beautiful. The Christmas Markets were amazing and had the best hot alcoholic beverage in the world. It was a hot red wine punch with berries, chocolates and whipped cream. It was fabulous. That one cup really sums up the best that Vienna had to offer. Because the worst cost me everything.

We finished our drinks at a cafè to venture back out to the outdoor market. Without thinking I realized I wore my coat over my purse, so I re-wore it to place the purse strap over my jacket.

After buying a postcard, we decided to go to the metro,  and head back towards our bus when I wanted to buy sausages.

With the sausages in hand, we walked to the metro. The other guys in the group stopped to look at directions and I lagged behind, eating the stupid sausages.

All of a sudden I felt my purse lift. I turned my head and stared right at a man who with open eyes and mouth pointed towards the entrance of the metro station. My wallet was gone.

Within that one moment, I lost €250 euro and, of course, my emergency American cash of $300 dollars. Along with the €8 euro stamps I just bought to send postcards, my receipt from the Forexchange that ensured a free buyback when exchanging my Czech Crowns back to Euros, and my drycleaner ticket. Not to mention, all my credit cards, my debit card and every single last penny I had was gone. In total I lost $700 in cash and my $300 Marc Jacobs wallet, which is now probably lying in some trash can in Vienna.

All. Gone.

I literally had nothing left. Scratch that. I literally have nothing left.

After calling WaMu, which is now Chase, to cancel my debit card they inform me that it will take them THREE weeks to reissue a new card because I have an international address. Three weeks?! Bank of America has rush delivery in 3 to 5 days. Within three weeks I’ll be back home in LA.

The first thing I’m doing when I get back home is cancelling my Chase account.

After going to the police station who laughed when I told them my story and gave me a piece of paper titled “Police Report,” they sent me away without asking for a description of the wallet, or a description of the man, and said, “Maybe we’ll check the video cameras in the metro.”

Maybe.

The rest of the trip is actually too disheartening to even say. On the account of our host’s blunder, the midnight bus back to Prague was actually at 8 pm. We missed it, wasted 4 hours waiting for midnight, jumped onto a random train that took us to Bratislava, (do you know where Bratislava is? Cause I don’t.) fitfully slept in an uncomfortable metal chair for 5 hours until finally catching a train to Prague that brought us home dirty, tired and $700 poorer.
I mean you know that these things happen. You know that there are burglars, rapists, mass murderers out there. But I never thought that it would happen to me.

As I keep going through life, I’m only taught more of what to fear. Since it happened, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Running through the whole situation over and over again, changing parts where I could’ve done something, prevented it, wore the purse inside my coat, not buy the sausages, throw the sausages in his face, knee him in the balls, grab my wallet – ANYTHING. Anything, anything if I could’ve just done something, but I didn’t.

I always thought that if ever I was placed in an unfortunate situation that I would and could be able to fight. That out of nowhere these Jackie Chan kungfu moves would come and I would get the arm strength of a baseball pitcher.

But I didn’t do anything. The fear of this man who was standing in front of me could be someone horrible enough to reach into my purse and take my wallet rendered me comatose. Now I’m just scared. Constantly. In the metro, on the bus, in my sleep, I suddenly gasp when I see his face in my head again.

My mom is coming to Milan in eight days. I’ll starve till then.

 

The Italian Way

My lips are so chapped I can’t stop biting into them.

Today is December 1st! I can’t believe I have spent three months in Milan already. Today is the first of December and it was a fabulous first day. December marks Christmas and the holidays. The lights are all up throughout the city and a Christmas tree that’s supposed to be twice the size of the one in NY is up in the Duomo Piazza. My boss and my fellow intern and I are going to go see a nativity scene together tomorrow for our last day of work. 

To celebrate we invited our boss, Silvia over for dinner. Liza cooked (obviously since I managed to evacuate an entire building from microwaving a pizza), while I took care of the dessert: Tiramisu. 

The funny thing is even though we’re the ones that were cooking and hence in control of the menu, Silvia told us what we were supposed to eat with what in what order. It was nerve racking to say at the least. Thank goodness she came a bit tipsified (there was more color in her cheeks than from the cold) and brought with her two bottles of very strong red wine. 

One of the girls at the table were reaching for the salad while we just served the appetizer (or the first course, I’m not even sure anymore) of lentil soup when Silvia exclaimed in her usual way, “Ma NO! Are you going to eat that cold salad with this hot soup at the same time?!” Incredulous. Preposterous. You could’ve just suggested that you were going to go dance naked in the December air waiting for the snow to fall. 

It was the exact same air that Chiara gave to me when I was feeding her dinner. Chiara is the middle child of the three Italian kids that I babysit. The family is a very well-off Milanese household with large, spacious rooms, antique furniture and china on the kitchen walls. The oldest is Bernedetta who I tutor in English. Then there’s Chiara who yanks me around like her pet dog telling me to go away or stay or read a book depending on her mood, and finally there’s absolutely beautiful l`amore, three-year-old Bernardo. Ugh he is SO adorable I want to whisk him away forever. He’s such the player, you can tell right away. Apparently at the end of school he always blows kisses to all the girls in his classroom before leaving saying, “Ciao ciao ciao!” 

So yesterday the mother put me in charge of feeding these two dinner. They sat at their small plastic table in the kitchen and were served their appetizer: a bowl of cooked spinach. I made Bernardo say “spinach.” When they were done with the spinach, I served them their first course, which was plain risotto. It looked just like rice. It didn’t look too good. Bernardo spit it out and said, “Non mi piace!” I made him finish it though by disguising it with the second course which was slices of proscuitto and a bowl of nuts. 

Weird, right? 

I asked Chiara while trying to force-feed Bernardo if they always ate like this. 

“What? Of course? What, do you want to eat this with that?” She says pointing to her second course and then the dessert sitting on the kitchen counter, scoffing. And before I could even respond she goes, “Eh.” Like how could it be any other way, you are asking such a stupid question. 

Even at the age of 9, these Italian children have the Milanese air down. 

Liza just got yelled at for putting the olive oil into the salad dressing before the vinegar. 

“Ma dai!” (Which means, really?! C`mon!) 

There’s an old Italian saying that is in the Venetian dialect for making salad dressing.

“The salad wants: 
salt from a stingy person
vinegar from a mean person
olive oil from a generous person
while a mad person mixes it all together.”  

It sounds better in the original dialect, but anyhow, Silvia recites this to us while Liza passes around the corrected salad.

Before I used to refer to my California home with pride, but now it’s referred to as a pity. Oh, you poor California girl, you who knows no snow or season.

Poor California girl has to go back to her California home where all she does is swim all day and wear her flip flops. 

Today I got some “California love” sent in a box filled with Korean market goodies and Hot Cheetos and English Breakfast Tea.

I love Milan but I miss home. 

After another 13 hour day, I get home too exhausted to wash up, let alone read the 80 page Italian novel I’m supposed to discuss in class tomorrow.

Sigh. I’m just going to go get some gelato.

 

Remember Milan

Every Tuesday and Saturday morning streets all across Milan are closed off for the markets.

Carts line up through the streets with men screaming “un euro, un euro, tutto solo un euro! una carta solo due euro!” Vegetables, cheese, meat, make up, cashmere sweaters, and boots for €20 euro – all sold at a discount price in these open air markets. After my first week in Milan I wondered how the Milanese could afford to pay for everything at such an escalated price – there was no Target, no Wal-Mart, no Costco. Then I found out about these markets. They are packed every time.

I stood behind a grandpa who just bought literally three bags of large green apples, which the vendor dropped into his shopping cart. I bought a bag of tomatoes, garlic, pears and clementines all for €5. I love these small moments when I feel so very Italian.

After dropping off my purchases, I tossed  a few Clementines into my purse before heading out to La Scala.

La Scala is a name known worldwide. Even my uncultured self knew of it before coming to Milan. As an opera house, the theater shows ballets, operas, and classical orchestra and is home to world renowned ballet dancers and opera singers. “La Scala” literally means The Ladder, and can be found on the family crest of Regina della Scala, wife of the Duke of Milan during the 16th century, who built many of the city’s important features including a church which then took after her name, Santa Maria alla Scala.

Centuries later Milan’s theater Regio Ducale burned down after a gala and the rich box-holders clamored for a new theater. The then empress Maria Theresa of Austria decided to destroy the Santa Maria church and build the new theater there instead, which adapted its name from the church and was called La Scala.

It was much different in the 1700s. The wealthy box holders would decorate their own boxes according to their liking while a gallery was built above the boxes for the common people called the loggione. Here everyday commerce happened with horse dealings, gambling salons and kitchen foyers where servants cooked meals and refreshments for the box-holders and their guests. Since then La Scala has undergone a thousand renovations, once after the bombing of World War II, which tore through the roof and the walls. During this reconstruction, an enormous blown-glass chandelier was added that had 365 lights, one for each day of the year. They say it’s so large that a man can fit inside of it.

Because the original layout of the house didn’t have seats in the loggione or even the main floor, not all the seats in the theater actually have a view of the stage.

And as luck would have it, I bought a ticket for the loggione (where the poor people used to sit and still do, i.e. me) and was in the topmost corner of the U. The theater seats are in the shape of a U with the center being the base. From where I was sitting I had a fabulous view of the chandelier, but the stage was absolutely nowhere in sight. Like at all.

When the theater lights shut off and the doors closed at exactly 8 pm I left my seat and walked towards the center of the U. Everybody else was also standing in the back and as I was thinking how awful it would be to have to watch Giselle standing up I found a seat in the front row! Yay me!

Giselle was beautiful! I can’t underline, bold or italicize it enough. 

It’s about a girl who is sought after by two men (of course). The first is a peasant boy who leaves flowers at her window. The second suitor, however, is richer, handsome, and a better dancer (he was the male lead). As the story goes, the richer, better looking one gets the girl. They fall in love, they wish to be together. Then something terrible happens. It’s confusing, it’s dramatic, Giselle gets heartbroken and in a whirling crescendo of twirls and faints, she dies by the end of Act I. 

I nearly cried. 

The second act begins with the lover visiting her grave and is haunted by beautiful ghost ballerinas all in white dresses. The scene ends with the ghost of Giselle and her lover having one final dance together before she disappears.

This was my favorite part.

 Oh I wish I were a ballerina. 

 

Parma Day!

The day after we arrived from Paris, Jordan and I decided to go to Parma. The name should sound familiar to you. Hint: The most common cheese used to grate over pasta is from here. The American company Kraft sells this cheese pre-grated in plastic bottles.

Still don’t get it?

It’s PARMESAN! 

The town is also famous for its Parma Ham, where prosciutto is cured in its remote hills for at least 4 months. Then it is thinly sliced to produce Prosciutto Crudo, the most popular sandwich meat in Italy. 

Jordan and I were, thus, anxious to get to Parma. Unbenowst to us, however, the traveling gods were set against us and threw every possibly obstacle in our way. 

Observe: 

1. Jordan’s cellphone mysteriously turns off and refuses to turn back on, thus rendering us unable to find each other at the train station. While Jordan was downstairs, I was upstairs, then we switched, and then switched again. Five minutes before our train was supposed to leave I finally found her at the platform and we rushed to buy her ticket and get on board blessing our narrow luck.

2. Three stops from Parma, the conductor tells us to get off and switch trains. This is unexpected considering that we bought a direct ticket. Without questioning, we get off at a town called Piacenza. 

3. We realize that the next train leaving for Parma is in two hours. By this time it has started to rain. After walking around getting drenched it dawns on us that there is absolutely nothing in Piacenza but a McDonalds inside a mall that only has a supermarket. So we sat at McDonalds for two hours. I ordered a Big Mac.

4. When we return to the station the train that we were waiting for got cancelled. According to the Departure Board, all the following trains are also cancelled. Once talking to the ticket guy, we learn that there is a regional train strike. We had absolutely no idea. The strike began around 12 pm and would continue until 9. And until then we were stuck in god-forsaken Piacenza. 

5. The ticket guy, who is awfully helpful, tells us to have hope and wait for the non-regional train. It costs more but would for sure get us to Parma. It was in another two hours. 

6. After buying McFrosty’s and going a bit crazy spending another two hours in McDonalds, we finally get on the train for Parma with McDonald stickers on our faces. 

7. By the time we arrive in Parma it’s 4 pm. It starts to rain and it won’t stop. We got to Parma so late that everything was closed, except for one restaurant. 

Like a lighthouse for a drifter in an ocean, the restaurant stood as a beacon of hope for all that Parma had to offer. We sat down and had the most amazing, amazing Italian meal ever. 

We ordered Prosciutto Crudo con Pere e Mozzerella for our appetizer. It. Was. So. Good. The prosciutto couldn’t have been sliced thinner and felt so fresh and slightly peppery. We wrapped it around pieces of sweet pear and Mozzerella balls – it was the most perfect combination of tastes in one bite. 

For my entree, I ordered Zucca Ravioli, which is ravioli stuffed with pumpkin. This alone would have been fantastic, but then I doused it with Parmesan. Wow. I was never Parmesan’s biggest fan until tasting it in Parma. The taste and smell was less pungent then the Parmesan from the markets. It was lighter, yet more flavorful at the same time. I couldn’t have enough.

In the end the traveling gods tried, but we still succeeded. There is no better way to travel than with your mouth.

Our restaurant in the middle of the piazza.

Isn't the food just gorgeous?

Us and the restaurant's butcher. He cut the prosciutto right in front of us in the center of the restaurant. That machine in the front with the wheel is his cutter.

A salumeria display! If you look carefully you can see "Parma Ham" stamped into the gigantic meat.

 

 

Paris <3 moi

“Welcome aboard Ryan Air. The world’s favorite airline.”

After getting two hours of sleep studying for midterms, spending the entire day writing essays in Italian that probably ended up being in Spanish, and running to the train station to catch the bus to Ryan Air, I was finally sitting on the airplane ready to spend my fall break in Parigi.

…

One hour later, we were like a thousand kilometers in the air when all of a sudden the plane smashed onto the ground and then BOUNCED on the concrete without having decreased any speed. We were racing down the airway like some prize horse on the racetrack. It was terrifying.

But only 5 euro.

…

We arrived at our hostel at midnight and were starving. After commenting on how perfect our hostel location was and how cute our bunk beds were, we decided to walk around the neighborhood in search of an open restaurant. We were walking for ten minutes finding absolutely nothing when we saw flashing neon lights in the distance. It was mesmerizing and alluring. So we walked towards it until finding ourselves standing in front of a gigantic building covered with large windows. Each window had a girl or two inside of them dressed in black lingerie moving suggestively over a table, or bending over, or putting on a stocking. In large capital letters it said, SEXODROME at the top.

We were in the red-light district.

Turns out we were a pleasant ten-minute walk from Moulin Rouge as well.

Day 1: “Napoleon is a douche bag.”

Our first day in Parigi was breathtaking. Every time I turned my head it was another perfect picture. The city was so pretty that it was almost too pretty, as if the entire city was manicured and made out of plastic. Turns out that that was exactly what it was. When Napoleon Bonaparte came to town, he decided to rip everything out, destroy 20,000 homes and erase the city’s history in order to rebuild starting from the sewage system up. Paris was a planned city. All the wide boulevards with the gas lamps and the piazzas lined with green and yellow trees and the gorgeous limestone monuments were all done by Haussmann, Napoleon’s right hand man.

Though Napoleon conquered Venice thereby taking away their Republic, he was still referred to as The Liberator by the Venetian Jews. Then in a shocking political maneuver he handed the city over to the Austrians in the Treaty of Campo Formio, committing the Venetians to foreign rule and betrayed them all. I related this story to Jordan as we walked through the Piazza Signori in front of the beautiful Hotel de’Ville to which Jordan responded, “What a douche bag.”

The rest of the day was spent in La Saint Chapelle, a gorgeous church  made out of stained glass depicting the Bible stories starting from Genesis and the Notre Dame where we failed to find the Hunchback. We avoided the random spurts of rain by ducking into the Louvre and the Musee d`Orsay – both of which were the most enjoyable museum experiences I have ever had. According to my very pessimistic, opinionated, passionate Italian boss, the Louvre was “destroyed” when they decided to place the “stupid pyramid” in the center of the piazza, which is actually only 30 years old. I liked it. It reminded me of The Da Vinci Code. We saw the Mona Lisa, the portrait of Van Gogh by Van Gogh, my absolute favorite painter, and Dum Dum! You know, the gigantic stone statues of gum chewing heads from Easter Island who are also featured in the great family film, Night At The Museum? My fav.

Then at night I met with Hannah Cho, a high school friend who I literally haven’t seen in over three years. We went to Les Éditeurs, a library turned cafe stuffed with red lounge chairs. With wine and olives we talked for three hours straight about high school and college, boys and our respective stances on marriage, and where our post-college lives will take us.

How much time has gone. We are already 22.

Day 2: Hannah Day

So the day before I was leaving for Paris and also the day before my dreadful midterms, I Facebook messaged my dear friend Hannah Lee. She had spent the last Fall semester in Paris and so I asked her for some recommendations. I figured she would send me a few things to check out that I could research with the hostel’s internet. Two seconds before leaving for Paris I printed out her reply which ended up being three pages long filled with the numbered bests of Paris, and their respective addresses, directions and commentary. Screw Rick Steve. Hannah Lee’s Guide to Paris was an amazing gem. The hidden stores in alleys and delectable delights of the city that would have taken months to discover were all neatly listed in numbered format. Simply fabulous.

So Hannah Cho and I set off to fulfill the Hannah Lee Best of Paris List.

“8. EAT A BAGUETTE. Pop into any boulangerie (there are tons on every corner) and just order a baguette, some pretty-looking pastries, and enjoy!! Trust me when I say that you will never find as good a baguette here as you will in France.”

I met Hannah bright and early for our picnic breakfast in the Luxembourg Garden. I bought a baguette for € .90 euro. It was half my height. We coupled it with some soft garlic cheese and rose wine and had a fabulous morning eating and talking amidst the fall trees. The Garden was beautiful.

“1. FREE PSTAR. this is a must!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! i went here at least four times a week–there is ALWAYS going to be different stuff in the store because they’re constantly restocking. … it’s located in my favorite neighborhood–le marais. Le Marais is the Jewish/gay neighborhood filled with lots of art galleries, boutiques, and vintage stores and LOTS AND LOTS of hip people. i think you’ll love this area, too.”

We spent the afternoon shopping in Marsais. I think we spent over an hour inside of that tiny little store. It was literally the size of my bathroom, with a makeshift ledge that overflowed with feathery boas, purses and a hundred dead furs still with their paws and heads. It also had a tiny spiral staircase that led to an underground room lined with fur coats and dresses and blazers. The place was everything that Hannah promised and more. It was shopping heaven.

We then caught lunch at Les Philosphes, a hip Parisian cafe where I had steak tartar with a raw egg. Amazing? Yes.

“4. Laduree. This is the ultimate French patisserie that EVERYONE goes to. It is especially famous for their macaroons, which are delicious!!!”

We walked down Champs Elysee, a street comparable to LA’s Rodeo Drive, and bought nothing. =) But right when I was getting tired of walking and not shopping we found Laduree.

Laduree is the epitome of French extravagance. Though a pasticerria, the walls and tables and floors are all marble with golden statues and gilded columns. There was a restaurant upstairs and downstairs and had a bar stretching through the expanse of the room filled with tiny beautiful concoctions of colors and fruits and cremes. We ordered 4 mini macaroons each and a pot of hot chocolate.

The macaroon is a realized fantasy. Two delicate pieces of airy cookies sandwich a flavored filling: pistachio, praline, caramel, dark chocolate, raspberry – you name it. All different, all subtly flavorful and perfectly crisp. With one bite the macaroon melts in your mouth in a mix of crunchy and creamy with flavors bursting. I sound so melodramatic. Wait till I get to the orange blossom.

When I bit into the orange blossom I almost cried. It was that good. I couldn’t eat any more of it and just kept repeating over and over to Hannah how good it was. The cookie was orange with a lime green filling. It tasted strongly of oranges but then simultaneously infused with a burst of lime. I’m not even sure how to describe it. You just have to eat it for yourself. It was oh my god amazing. I can’t believe I’ve lived my life for 22 years without it.

We ended up spending two hours in there until the sun set. Then we walked to the Arc de Triomph (got in for free cause the lady thought we were EU citizens) and hiked it all the way to the top. (P.S. I hate winding staircases, you can never see how much more you have left.) The view was incredible. Afterwards we ran to catch the Eiffel Tower for its hourly lights show. So, so, so pretty.

“5. Le Pot de Terre. If you are ever hungry and want the ultimate French meal, you should go here. This is a cozy restaurant that I found while I was in Paris, and I instantly fell in love with it…”

Menu:

Soupe á l’orignon gratinée
(Onion Soup that isn’t called French Onion Soup because we were IN France!)

escargots de Bourgógne au bennre d’aul
(Escargot, better known as snails, boiled in olive oil and garlic and spices in individual slots on a pot. It was so good but the snail gave a slight bitter aftertaste.)

magret de canard au miel
(Duck with a honey glaze. It was amazing. So soft!)

And for dessert, creme brulee. Obvi.

A three course meal for only €16 euro. I was so stuffed I could barely walk to our next stop: The Frog and Princess Bar.

So the other night we were walking to the Les Editèurs Cafe when Hannah started telling me how the street we were crossing was called The Princess, and there was a bar on the street that was called The Frog and Princess Bar. That’s so cute, I said, and then I thought, wait a minute – I know that bar.

“Does that bar have coasters that are actually postcards?”
“Yea! How did you know?”

When Hannah Lee was in Paris she had sent me a postcard. I remembered thinking how odd it was that the postcard was actually a coaster she had picked up from a bar.

So that night we went to the Frog and Princess bar and I grabbed a handful of those postcards.

Day 3: Goodbye Parigi

The next morning we walked up the hill to Sacre Coure, a church that sits on the highest point of Paris and also where they filmed Amelie.

I met up with Hannah for lunch and after visited the original Shakespeare Co. It was the cutest vintage bookstore in the world. It was basically a tiny tiny house that was converted into a store. Books were flowing everywhere with armchairs and sofas tucked into corners for readers. There was a piano on the second floor that you could play if you promised to be good and a wishing well under the floor.

The last thing that I did in Paris was #10 on Hannah’s list.

“10. EAT A CREPE.”

So I ate a crepe. You could order a crepe with any flavor ranging from Nutella, to hazelnut to plain sugar or jam. We got the creme de marron, which is cream of chestnut. It was so good. The French crepe is the equivalent to Italy’s gelato. You haven’t had a gelato until you’ve had one in Italy, and you haven’t had a crepe until you’ve had one in France.

Paris was amazing. People who would return from a trip to Paris would always exclaim how much they loved it, how beautiful it was, how they vow to spend the rest of their lives there; and I always thought, “geez, what a drama queen.”

But it’s true.

I can’t wait to go back.

One of the few buildings that Haussmann didn't touch. Beautiful.

The "stupid" pyramid at the Louvre. I love it.

O.M.G. So there was a STARBUCKS in the Louvre. A STARBUCKS. SIOFEDKCGIORFKND!! I got a Venti Soy Vanilla Latte just because I could. It was bliss.

HAhaha It's Dum Dum!!

A real Van Gogh. I can't believe it.

"Marie! The baguettes! Hurry up!"

That's a lot of baguettes.

Having fun inside PSTAR.

Can you believe this is real? At Laduree.

Macaroons and hot chocolate. The pale beige one with the green filling is the orange blossom!

Hello Eiffel!

 

Bye Parigi.

 

This will be an entirely different experience for you.

Favorite Gelato Flavor of The Week: Malaga

After two failed attempts we finally got ourselves on the 12:25 train leaving for Verona, a city built like a Shakespearean stage. With an ancient Roman amphitheater as the center piece, the town is surrounded by the Adige River that is crisscrossed with beautiful stone bridges. Gas lamps light up a path covered in the yellowing leaves of fall trees that line the canal. Cliche romance novel words come to mind: idyllic, beautiful, picturesque.

We walked through the ruins of a Roman theater, remnants of Verona once as a Roman city before Napolean and Mussolini took over; bought jewelry from the open-air market in Piazza Spignola and haggled for scarves; we left love notes in the hallways of Juliet’s house, touched her right boob weathered from million others who wanted good luck; witnessed mass at the beautiful Duomo; and ate dinner at Osteria al Duca, Romeo’s Montague house now fashioned into a restaurant where we had polenta and horse meat. 

Verona is beautiful. Any two lovers meeting by chance in this town would fall in love and follow the course of Romeo and Juliet if they also were forced to separate. The city is perfect like a movie set. Who wouldn’t fall in love here?

Hello Verona!

The Roman Amphitheater

Under the Roman amphitheater

Out of nowhere a man started singing opera and it rung through the empty theater. It was amazing.

A couple. =)

My favorite orange house.

The market.

Haha. Of all the souvenirs to get from Verona.

Here were the houses of the Capulets where Juliet left of which many kind hearts cried and poets sung.

The hallway into Juliet's courtyard was covered with graffiti and love notes and gum sticking these love messages to the walls. We left our own notes too.

Juliet's balcony where Juliet and Romeo have their entangled conversation that all other love stories lust after.

The Adige River.

Beautiful.

I'm Romeo. Are you my Juliet?

 

Welcome to The House of Bordello

“What does ‘bordello‘ mean?” asked Kim.

I typed it into wordreference.com and gasped. 

“… it means whorehouse.” 

This is Plastic. Without contest, Plastic houses the most over-the-top, crazy disco nights in the city. And of all the nights to go to, Saturday night was not just Bordello night, but also happened to be “gay-friendly” night.

“Gay-friendly” was a severe understatement. 

Once we arrived we of course had another Italy-out-of-order situation, which refers to the country’s repulsion to anything orderly and efficient. Hence what should have been a line in front of the club was actually a mob. A gigantic mob filled with women in tight pink tutus waving glittery wands, and boys in nothing but a tank top, and middle-aged men in complete suits and tie pressing up a bit too close behind me. The crowd turned unpleasant in a matter of minutes – we were pressed together so close that it was no longer cold outside. During the thirty minutes of strange bodies being forcibly plastered to mine, I wondered why the hell I was enduring through this and every time I would look up and see the sign: “This is Plastic.” That’s why.

The bouncer was actually a skinny Italian man with flipped black hair, earrings, and dressed like Fidel Casto. He refused to let us in and instead held onto the hands of large men who shoved their way to the front. I couldn’t understand how he was choosing these people at random and why he was completely ignoring us when I started to see the pattern. For the first time in my clubbing life, MEN were preferred over women at the entrance. Usually a group of guys would never be able to get inside a club without some ladies, but at Plastic, the group of girls was denied and asked if they had any men. Get it? 

Once we finally got through, we got stamped as “STUFF.” To enter, you have to be plasticized and become a Barbie doll. Because inside was a world of beautiful, crazy plastic people in beautiful, crazy Barbie clothes.

A sign, “The House of Bordello” flashed in neon lights in the main room where a stage was dominated by men perfectly dolled up in make up and earrings and tight black tube tops, lip sang and danced while pulling up their tube top every time it slipped. It was crazy. 

I fell in love with a skinny boy who was dancing on a ledge wearing a thin white tank top. His hands were pressed against the ceiling while he danced. We made eye contact to which I blushed and looked away. The other boy that he was dancing with had a shaved crew cut and was wearing a green strapless dress with black silk nickers inside. I know because he frequently lifted up his dress. 

We were ignored throughout the night. We never got hit on, nobody ever approached us. They were too much into themselves, or even more into their boyfriends. Plastic on gay-friendly night is the most flamboyant, crazy night that would probably top all other “gay-friendly” events. I danced next to Madonna who was lip singing on stage dressed in a blonde wig and a skintight leopard dress, while gay men all around belted out the lyrics to the Italian song we didn’t know and jumped and danced. It was the craziest club I’ve ever been to. 

Don’t know if I’m going back there, but being Plastic sure did feel good till 4 in the morning.

 

Oh, the weather outside is frightful

Overnight, winter arrived. 

Out of nowhere, the wind came. And the wind is merciless – so cold and bitter and seeps into your bones and through our cracked kitchen window that I can’t shut. 

Milan has an inefficient way of dealing with conservation. They’re so obsessed with recycling that if you don’t recycle then they’ll dig through your trash, somehow find out who the trash belongs to, and fine you 300 euro. So basically, recycling is mandatory. I’ve never recycled a day in my life before coming here where now I’m washing out empty sauce bottles and sorting paper from plastic. 

Milan also has controlled heating. The whole city doesn’t get heating until tomorrow. As in we couldn’t use our heater because the city had it on lockdown. Not only is it shut off during the warmer seasons, but it also shuts off starting at 10 p.m. every night. Uh, hello – that’s when it gets FREEZING. 

Apparently the reasoning is that at 10 p.m. you should be in bed so since you have your blankets you don’t need the heater…

And for some odd reason, during the day when the sun is out and when nobody is home, the heater is again, available. 

Milan is so backwards. I’m still freezing.

This entire week I’ve lived off of vegetable soup willing myself to stay at Stage 1: runny nose and sore throat. Stage 2 would be my life crumbling into a feverish mess.

 

Milan is covered with a thin, invisible film of coldness. Over the trees, the buildings, the park, the street, the stores – everything is cold, cold, cold.