Mambo Italiano
Posted on April 7th, 2008 in Flashback Fridays, Just Pensive
Sooo…
Italy.
Oh. Yeah. Huh. I’m going there. A month from today. Still have not busted out ANY OF THOSE GUIDEBOOKS. Still don’t speak a WORD of Italian. Still have no idea exactly what I want to see and in what time frame I want to see it in. Well. To be fair, Alayna and I did book our rail tickets and hostels and so we know how many days we are spending in each city. But that is about it.
And so, I give you, my grand plans for Visiting Italy in 2008.
Keep in mind, that I have been warned by various sources that
1. Italian food is awesome. The pizza does not have cheese on it. (courtesy of my neighbor.)
2. Venice is romantic and I will cry when I get there. (courtesy of my coworker.)
3. Italian men will pinch my ass. (This warning comes from my mother who has never been to Italy.)
3. Gypsies will attack me and beat me down in the street and probably kill me and I will get hospitalized just like that woman who was traveling with Father Bob and she was WARNED not to give the gypsies money she WAS and she NEVER CAME HOME, NEVER. (Thank you Dan’s mom!)
4. Italian people will mug me. (Everyone told me this.)
5. Gypsies will throw their babies at me so that I will catch them. When I catch the gypsy baby, the gypsies will take turns mugging me since my hands will be full with the baby. In essence, if a baby is thrown at you, DO NOT CATCH IT. (Thank you Atlanta James, expert traveler!)
So, I looked over the above advice very carefully and this is how I plan on spending my vacation.
Italian Itinerary
by Laura Elizabeth, 2008, One Month Before Departure
1. Arrive in Rome. Find railway station. Get to hostel. Do not get raped or killed or mugged by gypsies. DO NOT CATCH ANY BABIES.
2. Find cannoli. Eat it. Find gelato. Eat it.
3. Find a piazza of some kind. Twirl around it and sing the title song from “Light in the Piazza.”
4. Go to Vatican City. Request audience with The Pope. Slap him high five, refer to him as “Big Benny!” and ask him to canonize my mom for sainthood.
5. Pop a lactaid. Eat as much fresh mozzarella cheese as I can find.
6. Take train to Florence. Look at famous statues and stuff. Find more piazzas. Twirl.
7. DO NOT CATCH THE BABY.
8. Hang out in the Duomo/Take Pictures of the Duomo/Find out what the fuck a Duomo is.
9. Find a gaggle of Gypsy children. Sing to them, “God Help The Outcasts” from the Hunchback of Notre Dame, the Bette Midler version. Most likely, get mugged by gypsy children.
10. Take train to Venice.
10b. Cry.
11. Stay in super expensive hostel with Alayna because OH MA GOD Venice, just because you’re UNDERWATER doesn’t mean you can charge me 8,000 Euros to stay in a bed and breakfast!
12. Ditch expensive lodgings in Venice. Sleep with the gypsies. Sing to them from the musical Gypsy. “You’ll be swell! You’ll be great! Gonna have the whole world on a plate!”
13. Buy all the gypsy children gelato!
14. Take 50 pictures of famous pieces of art that I can post on flickr that no one will want to see because WHO WANTS TO SEE PICTURES I TOOK OF THE STATUE OF DAVID? Answer: No one.
15. Who wants to see pictures of Laura catching a gypsy baby? Answer: EVERYONE!!!!
16. Get on train back to Rome, bid a teary farewell to gypsy children. Sing to them, “Climb Every Mountain.”
17. Tell Alayna we are staying in Italy forever, America be damned.
18. Stay in Italy forever.
19. The End.
So, I think that like most travel arrangements, this will all go according to plan.
Haaaaa.
Honestly? My previous trip to Europe was SO horrendous on so many levels that any problems on the way to Italy will pale in comparison.
I remember when I went to Greece with Tom and we figured we had it all made–the perfect departure from JFK, arriving in France, transferring planes to Athens, arriving in beautiful sunny Grecian weather looking like Jackie O. (Both of us! It could happen!) I was young. I was naive. I was optimistic.
I was very, very stupid.
In actuality, our flight was due to take off about two hours after the Eastern Seaboard was struck with the Power Outage of 2003. We waited in the airport for nearly eight hours before our flight was canceled. We took a plane the next morning and our seats were no longer together so I ended up spending my first international flight sitting next to a crotchety old Frenchman. I sobbed hysterically while watching The Hours. Twice.
Then we arrived in France where they put us up at a hotel airport for about five hours. I ate a croissant and drank a cup of tea and fell asleep for about twenty minutes before Tom was shaking me to get up and catch our connecting flight. I shouted BON SOIR MES AMIS! And that is all I know of France.
We arrived in Athens on a putrid August day, where it was 115 degrees. They had lost our luggage with all the blackout/flight changes chaos and though I thought to buy some new clothes, all the stores were closed for some random Greek holiday.
I will never forget walking up the stairs to our Athens hotel room, after paying 5 extra euros for AIR CONDITIONING, and collapsing onto the bed realizing that I was going to be stuck in my sweaty disgusting traveling clothes for at LEAST a day or so. (HA! Our luggage was lost for a total of SIX DAYS.)
Tom went out to dinner with a few of our friends who met us there while I stayed in the hotel room, scribbling furiously in my journal. At one point, I closed my book and went out to the balcony that looked over the city of Athens. I never felt so lonely and tired and helpless. But just looking out over the buildings, I was overcome with a sense of wonder. I remember thinking to myself, “I will most likely, never ever see this again.” Even then, I knew to savor it.
In almost every picture I took in Greece, I am sweating like crazy and smiling wider than ever before. Lost luggage, miscommunication, sweltering heat and I never ever wanted it to end.
Dear Italy,
I promise to catch the baby. Please please don’t disappoint me. I am so very excited to meet you.
LYLAS,
Laura
When you read your travel books, make sure you laugh out loud about the description of the young muggers as “Gypsy kids.” When Corinne and I were backpacking, she was paranoid of the Gypsy kids, and ran away from them anytime they were around (i.e. always). It was totally nonchalant.
Can I please see you before you depart? My Gala is over!! W00000T!!
I just found your blog via dooce and I am so jealous. If I go to Italy I will be sure to take my own baby and throw a little kink in their game. I’d throw my baby at every unsuspecting gypsy thug I came across. Teach THEM to mess with an American!!
Haha! Hi Kathy! You throw that baby, you just go ahead and DO IT!!