How I ended up in Japan.

Prologue: This is a story about a short lived strike, a snowstorm, a cancellation, a ten hour wait, an airport picnic, a secret birthday and how I ultimately ended up in Tokyo, Japan.

Point 1: The British Airways' almost-strike was as short lived and it was stressful. The anxiety of rerouting my holiday pilgrimage home was unbearable if not completely hopeless. One million people were in the same boat as I and it seemed like they all beat me to the punch. Few options were available and nothing was affordable. I spent days whining about it with fellow BA dumpees before the strike was revoked and all returned to normal.

Point 2: The day before my departure, news of heavy snow reached over into my schedule and called for creative and preemptive planning. To beat the foul weather, I immediately booked a hotel on the toes of the airport and bid my Italian home a premature, if not down-right hasty, farewell. It was me against the weather and in the end, the weather slapped me in the face and laughed. Hysterically.

Point 3: At six in the morning, as I waited at the check-in desk, we were told that the flight was cancelled due to snow. In fact, it was announced that the entire international airport would be at a standstill until just after 1pm. It was at this point that I went to stock up on rations as I anticipated a widespread form of cabin fever.

Point 4: I purchased a bottle of water and two identical sandwiches - the second to be saved for emergency bartering and leverage. Of course, before I had a chance to wheel and deal with my ham and cheese, I nearly ran over a girl from my flight who was fortified between her luggage. As all great ideas go, I spontaneously parked my cart and sat down next to her exclaiming that I had food for us both and insisting that we have a picnic. We spent the next six hours together, avoiding the topic of how we had just missed our connecting flights and therefore left with no idea on how we would reach our prospective families.

Point 5: I inherently knew that I wouldn't make it home in time to celebrate the dwindling hours of my birthday. So, while my new friend was in the middle of a knit one/purl two, I shared the unacknowledged fact that I was turning one year older. She asked if the airport sold cake and then wished me the only happy birthday I was able to receive. I saved the sound of it in my head, in a place I could recall, as it was the only moment I had to remind me of the 24th anniversary of my birth.

Point 6: I was eventually told to rebook my ticket at the British Airways ticket counter and though the line took hours, I managed to get rerouted for the soonest possible flight. Now, instead of the original London to LA plan, I would be heading in the opposite direction: Japan. I received my new tickets to Tokyo with accompanying instructions to run - the flight was already boarding and I still had to pass through security. I've always wanted to dash though airport terminals the way they did in the beginning of Home Alone, but it's not nearly as exciting as it appears on screen. I managed to shed half my clothing mid-flight while simultaneously knocking down foreigners. I got to the boarding gate just in time to do the travelers equivalent of the "walk of shame." My fellow passengers glared me down as I made my way along the empty aisles, obviously the last to board and the reason for the hold back. I took my seat and thanked my lucky stars that I was finally getting the first foot out of Europe regardless of how long it took and how much longer it would take.

Epilogue*: I have a longer than ever layover in Japan which I am making the most of. Being back in Asia is invigorating and I know there's a permanent spot for it in my heart. I'm drinking tea and eating rice and my body has never been happier, though my wallet can't stop scorning the Yen exchange rate. While I live off the rest of my hours abroad, I bid you all farewell and a promise to see you in the morning.

*I'm currently back in Hawaii, though both my suitcases are lost somewhere. Go. Figure.

A German Skinny Dip

I've wanted to skinny dip ever since the night my brother took off all his clothes and slid into our undersized front-yard pond and sat amongst the guppies. He said it tickled and though I told him he was disgusting and simultaneously catching the incurable form of the fish flu, I was undoubtedly jealous.

It would be another ten years before I shed my clothes of thread and swapped them for 1000 gallons of water. Of course, I would have never expected it to happen in Germany during the first week of December.

"I didn't think to bring my swimsuit."
They shrugged.
"Naked swimming?"
They shrugged.
"Alright, naked swimming it is."

And ten minutes later I was living an old fantasy, staring at the stars from my rippling liquid gown.

The last country.

A year ago, I was living in Germany. It's easy to forget, perhaps, as time has a way of buffering down the details. In two weeks I'll embark on my final journey, back to the small town of Wassenberg where it all began. In the heart of my last goodbyes, I'll be taking the first steps towards a conclusion by sealing away the introduction.

The final flight, the last country. Germany completes the circle.

Too pensive to be healthy.

Would you blame me if all entries henceforth go on about me leaving Europe and returning to Hawaii? What I'm doing, going back home to finish my schooling, is the correct decision. My future can not progress towards my ideals without a degree. Still, that big step forward also doubles as that big step away. As frequently as I've had to say goodbye to people and places, I'm no better at it than I was to start out with. Contrary to how I may behave, I am sentimental and I get attached. Like a starfish that is so rooted to a spot, I have difficulty leaving a place once I set my feet down. And yet, without constant motion I would starve, always hungry for the places I haven't been. A nomad I may be, but my heart falls in love with everything it sees - a rather painful way of life at times, perhaps, but worth it. Passion, in the end, is never short at hand.

As of late, I've allowed myself to drift into a state of melancholy, sending sad eyes to buildings and street signs, trying to embed their images into the part of my mind that is capable of remembering. Then, as if to protect their feelings, I always add, "I'll be back and we'll see each other again." I do this in part because I believe it to be true, so much so that the sentence might as well be fact. I will return as my business here is unfinished. I have yet to experience Vienna, Prague, Budapest, Warsaw, the entirety of Greece, Portugal and Denmark. In truth, I have barely scratched the surface of Europe. With so much left to learn, it would be impossible to stay away.

I have friends here and family too, and memories of experiences that have shaped my life. The truth is that I'm not the same person who arrived here heartbroken and dejected in 2008. I owe much of who I am to this continent and those who have taken me into their hearts. Saying goodbye this time will be more complex than any other farewell I have ever given. Am I prepared? No. Will I ever be?

Likely not.

Pack Attack

There are less than four weeks until I return home to Hawaii, and yet, the fate of my possessions has still gone unsettled. It can only be natural that after a year and a half of living abroad, one would accumulate at least twice as much as they arrived with. I am the exception - I have accumulated three times that amount.

I've done what research I could and found an affordable alternative to shipping my heavier goods. How I have accumulated so many books is beyond the capacity of my memory. What you see below are just the ones that made the cut.

So, by Wednesday, my travel books will be doing what they do best and I'll be twenty-seven days behind them. Gradually, the shelves will become bare, the walls will get naked and I'll be left in a room with high ceilings and four obese suitcases.

This is where you tell me I have too much hair.

Dance like you're in a circus.

You don't realize you've never been to a circus until someone asks if you've ever been to a circus. As a first time circus goer, I thought I'd make a little documentary of my night under the big top



All in all, great fun, and if you can't view the video, click HERE!

All I can think about is how afraid I am of returning home.

Moving back to Hawaii feels like a break-up and I don't know if I'll be able to handle the distance.

Nobody knows what I am

I'm referring to ethnic ambiguity. When you're half Japanese and half white, you could very well get away with being any race depending on the context.

I know my existence confuses people. We meet and their eyes attempt to process exactly what they see, but it's difficult because I share traits with both the east and west sides of the world. If I'm surrounded by white Europeans then I'm Chinese, which was demonstrated to me by a girl who, ten minutes after meeting me, asked, "So where are you from? China?" I was taken aback of course, being that my English had distinct traces of an American accent, but I was willing to overlook her automatic assumption. Afterall, there are only thirty seven countries in Asia, all of which possess a different nationality of people, so how could I blame her for picking the biggest one first.

Then, when I was in the United Arab Emerates, which is technically more Asia than Europe and yet still somewhere in between, I was once asked if I was "Red Indian." A quick image search in Google shows me only one picture of a female Red Indian:

Now, if there are two things to be learned from this, let it be these:

1. I do not look like that.

2. If Google has only one picture of a Red Indian, then it's highly unlikely that you've ever actually seen a Red Indian. Therefore, the only conclusion I can come up with is that I look so foreign to you that you feel the need to compare me to an endangered ethnic community.

But the most interesting verdict that people have come to is in some ways more sensical. In fact, this is the situation that happens most frequently. It usually begins with me talking to myself, saying something daft like, "I wish I were the niece of King Midas' second cousin from Japan so that I could turn everything I touch into rice... God, I'm so Asian." At the mention of me being Asian, conversation will stop, all heads will turn and someone will bravely ask, "You're Asian?"

This is the part of the story where time freezes and I feel the need to reassess who I am, where I am and who exactly these people are. Yes, I'm Asian, I'm in my apartment and I obviously don't know these people well enough. At this point I can clarify the misunderstanding by asking, "Of course I'm Asian, what did you think I was?"

The answer they give is brilliant: Hawaiian. "I've never seen anybody from Hawaii before so I just assumed you were Hawaiian." And you have to admit, that makes a lot of sense. How is anyone supposed to know that there's a distinct difference between me and a true, ethnic Hawaiian? How are they supposed to know that I am the epitome of straight-up Haole? If not Hawaiian, then what else could I be?

The truth is that there's no way to know. Chalk me up to being a half breed, a mutt, whatever you can think of and I'll take it as long as it still retains some semblance to what I actually am: JapaneseGermanIrishScottishWelsh.

Okay fine, just Hapa.

That's not Italian.

It's a well-known fact that I am incapable of being constant so this shouldn't be a surprise.

Baking Soda does it all.

Italians are not proficient bakers of sweets, though nothing compared to the South Koreans whose homes are not equipped with ovens at all. Still, the use of Bicarbonato di Sodio, or baking soda, is used here more often than I have ever seen. Aside from leavening your basic cakes and tarts, the Italians use baking soda to give a small fizz to their water. In fact, to purchase baking soda from your local supermarket, one would first have to peruse the soft-drink section in order to find it.

In addition, I've also seen people wash their fresh produce in a bowl with a mixture of water and baking soda. Ask Arm & Hammer and they'll suggest you scrub your fruits with a sponge sprinkled with their product. I tried it on my apples once and, not to sound like the son of a skeptic, but I couldn't tell the difference either way.

Still, the strangest use I've seen demonstrated for me in this country would be the direct application of baking soda on the teeth. It makes partial sense as I've seen my toothpaste tubes declaring its partnership with baking soda, tag teaming to eliminate cavities AND whiten your teeth for the good price of one. But is it possible (or even wise) for baking soda to accomplish more than just making your cupcakes fluffy?

Nix: So tell me about bicarbonato di sodio.

Rebe (she's 11): I sometimes put toothpaste, then salt and then baking soda on my toothbrush because it whitens your teeth. It's disgusting. But it's useful.

Nix: Who told you to do that?

Rebe: My daddy.

Nix: Do you do it everyday?

Rebe: No! Absolutely not. Otherwise it ruins your gums. You do it once a month.

And there you have it. The many uses of baking soda in Italy. Be warned if you decide to try out the last option as baking soda is surprisingly salty and therefore downright disgusting on the palate. My advice is to brush your teeth first, numbing your taste buds with that fresh and clean minty flavor before giving it a second go with BS (and by BS, I do of course mean Baking Soda).

When bulbs burn out

I'm not saying that our apartment is falling apart, but things have ways of leaking, clogging, sticking, breaking and malfunctioning like you wouldn't believe. The lights in my room flicker so often that I once had to ask my flatmate if I was having seizures or if she could see the flashes too. During the summer, the generator in the apartment upstairs exploded and the residual water dripped liquid into our bathroom for a week (so don't even get me started on the multi-colored mold that has since taken root on our ceiling). As if our bathroom couldn't take any more, its only bulb burnt out and the plastic shell that covered it refused to come off. It's been showers by candlelight and pee-time in the dark.

While searching for a replacement bulb, however, we did stumble across an old Christmas tin, filled to the brim with gaudy holiday decorations. Plastic snowflakes covered in gold sparkles, cartoon drawings of baby Jesus, a few rotting pine cones, fake poinsettia flowers and a flashy red sign that read, "Buone Feste," Or Happy Holidays in Italian. Suddenly, with the excitement of children, we abandoned the light bulb quest and set about with decorating our meager flat. Virgin Mary here, plastic ornaments there and that tacky "Buone Feste" sign to be hung and taped to the front of our door.

I grabbed my scratch paper and threw it on the kitchen counter, declaring the next ten minutes to be paper snowflake crafting time. Annika and I set to work, trying to remember just precisely how to fold those things in the first place. The first few came out square, like babies born to paper box fish, and the most horrific ended up accompanying the Buone Feste sign outside. The hilarity the snowflakes created distracted us for long minutes until I finally had to ask, "is something burning?"

During our arts and crafts, Annika forgot her pot of lentils on the stove and the fumes wafted up and out our windows smelling strangely identical to marijuana. The boy who lives upstairs caught me laughing in the hallway and I invited him to our entrance to admire the new decor. He commented on the smell and left, to which I shouted after him, "Eh, Buone Feste!" And closed that pathetic door behind me.

The dreams that cause you to wake up crying.

I had been living abroad for a year and my mom was there to pick me up at the airport. This was a dream that was a continuation of now, except it was taking place in December 2008 - two months before my grandma would pass away.

It was nice to be back in Hawaii and the weather was warm, though the sun was setting and I was tired. Mom parked the car outside the house, except it was the house we used to live in ten years ago. Inside, it was full of life. Family moving around and holiday dishes being created. I looked around and saw my aunties, my uncles, my cousins, my dad. And Grandma. She was exactly as I remember her, and I missed her. I went up to grandma and asked if I could help her cook. She asked if I knew how to make six-minute pie and I didn't. Wanting to spend as much time with her as possible, I said, "If there's a twenty-five minute chicken, then maybe I can help." So she brought out a cutting board and I knew she was going to teach me. She brought out the baking soda and measured it, tapping the portion out onto the cutting board. Then she grabbed the flour and as she was scooping it with a measuring cup, she looked up at me and said, "I'm sorry we didn't make more things." In my sleep, I started to cry. What she meant was, "I'm sorry we didn't do more together when I was alive." With both versions of myself crying, one in the bed and one in the kitchen, I said, "Grandma, we did the perfect amount."

The tale of the super chestnuts.

Around midday, my flatmate and I walked over to a small market near the park to both stretch our Sunday legs and stock up on fresh produce.

We both have had a big thing for chestnuts which goes back to a few weeks ago to when her coworkers gave her a full bag to prepare at home. We sat around that day, peeling shells and commenting on how delicious something so simple could be. So, when I saw a dozen burlap sacks filled to the brim, I knew I had to be assertive and order a kilo.

With an enthusiasm that can only emerge when ordering chestnuts, I read the sign and said to the old man, "Un kilo di SUPER MARRONI!" Now, In order for you to understand the ways in which I embarrassed myself, you're going to have to take note of a few things.

1. Marroni = Chestnuts

2. The sign actually says, "Super offerta" (super offer).

3. I read, "Super Marroni"

4. I meant to say "Super Marroni!"

5. But I actually said, "ZZZUPER MARRONI!"

Ja, das ist wahr.

Like falling in love with someone far away.

I've been in Berlin for one day, and already I am feeling something strange. With Venice, I felt the need to revisit, but with Berlin, I feel like I need to stay. For a few real (long) moments, I contemplated moving directly here after Italy - After all, I am only a two hour flight away. But, the reality of income and visas come into play and it's easy to dismiss the idea as a partially bad one.

So, I formulated a plan: Go back to school, study German, get my degree, move to Berlin and teach at an international school. I so rarely have definitive emotions with decisive goals that this feeling of certainty is almost bazar just because it's so... novel. This may actually be the start of a new motivation in my life. Over the past year I've figured that I wanted to teach abroad, though I didn't know where. Without that destination in mind, my plans felt lackluster and fragile. Why, any change of circumstance could reset my ideas altogether as nothing was rooted to begin with.

But now, like falling in love with someone far away, I am making the risky decision to format my life in ways that make that long distance love compatible. I will mold myself through education into someone more qualified for life in this city. And with that, I begin.

What official looks like

Monopolio

I was playing Monopoly with one of the girls, and I had a difficult time taking it seriously as:

1. It was in Italian.

2. The pieces were wooden replicas of a mushroom, a candle and three wine jugs.

3. The "GO!" square now said, "VIA!"

4. And I was buying property in the dead Italian currency of the Lira.

The arrival.

The first day is always the most exhausting. In theory, getting from here to there should be the easiest part, though for some reason it is just the opposite. I was up at 3am, packing last minute essentials before my taxi arrived. When he did, he sped through the city unobstructed by signs of human life and thus, free to ignore red traffic signals. I arrived before anyone else in the airport, so I sat alone with my book, lulled by the sound of flickering lights and the gnomes that work the escalators when no one's around to use them. When I wasn't fearing the sudden onslaught of a zombie attack, I was learning about German history.

By noon I was queuing in front of the information point in Berlin, my usual first stop at any airport. Here I stocked up on maps and timetables and bought a ticket into the city. Maps were made for travelers and I've never spent a day without one since my disaster in Paris. I have come a long way since then.

After unloading my bags at the hostel, I contacted Michael, a friend whom I had met one year ago just days before I moved to Wassenberg. He was an exchange student from Germany, which is the only reason why we delved into a thorough conversation and kept in touch. A month ago he relocated to Berlin, and with an coincidence like that, it would be silly not to meet up. We agreed to meet in half an hour and when he arrived, my weekend began.

In minutes we were joined by a fellow German, Frank, (whose first words to me were "nice glasses," as he was wearing a matching pair), and together we walked around the city. Over the next few hours I knew there was something special about Berlin and already the desire to return was pressing.

The night ended in Frank's extremely large apartment whose bathroom lights triggered the radios to turn on (It was described to me as, "German engineering"). After Berliner beer and a night of great company, I caught the subway to my hostel and sunk into a solid state of sleep.

My intentions were this:

Blog from Berlin.

It's simple in theory, but there wasn't a moment in that city where I had time for anything other than the pure need for exploration and discovery. There's is no other place like it and never, in all my comings and goings, have I ever found it so emotionally painful to leave a place. My experience in Berlin was unique, driven first by a desire to understand its history. This past Monday was the 20th anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall, and I made every effort to be there for it. What I didn't know about its history was to be discovered, and by the time the city gathered throughout its streets, filling large, German squares in the name of reunification, I was a transformed person.

This trip can not be summed up in one post or one video, so in addition to my daily blogs, I will cover what I experienced in Germany. In this way, maybe I can change the slogan of my mission from "Blog Every Day In November," to "Blog Thirty Times In November." We'll keep the original acronym for historic documentation.

The cat is halfway out of the bag

It's not quite common knowledge that I'll be returning to Hawaii in December, but the secret is slowly revealing itself. Last week I made the decision final, notifying those who employed me that I'd be leaving in the name of higher education. With a proper degree I can obtain a proper job, and live abroad without the fear of being captured and deported.

What, I never told you? I'm so illegal.

The 11 year old discovered my departure date while I was in Venice, and in some strange way, it really solidified the beginning of the end. She told me not to tell her younger sister, which is news I could never break to a six-year-old anyway. I haven't had the backbone to openly announce this news to the girls I teach English to, and it's become obvious that I am blocking the metaphorical cat from getting out of the bag and strutting free. It's going to be difficult to leave, but I always knew that.

When hard times are ahead, I do what I do best, and that is to deny the things I'll have to face. I pretend there is the infinite version of time stretched out before me, and that the next time I say goodbye to the girls will not be one time closer to the last. Sometimes I manage to forget that when I leave, they'll mature without me. The next time we see each other, I'll be old, maybe married, and they'll have grown into their own personalities.

Regardless, watching other people grow up is not a good enough reason to stay. I'm still young, my own adventures await. The open window that led me to Italy is closing, but other opportunities linger. After all, I have not seen the last of the world. I will pursue the dreams I have at night and the fantasies I come up with in the day. I'll allow myself to be inspired and fearlessly follow the path that my heart desires. It's all I know how to do, and maybe all I'm good at.

But in order for me to move forward, I must first step away. And I'm working on it.

Sickly Epidermis.

Skin. It's something you get used to not seeing once November rolls around. Its rare appearance makes any extra bit of it seem that much more scandalous. Constant cover turns wrists and ankles pale, returning them to a state before excessive UV exposure reminiscent of half-naked days on the sea side.

My enjoyment of white skin is what adds to the thrill of attending Italian lessons at the local university. The rooms tend to be overheated, so I like to arrive early and situate myself in the back of the class. I watch as everyone arrives and remove their coats, though it never stops there. Midway through the lesson on prepositions, the boy from Russia will shed his pullover and it's over - He has just broken the seal. Soon, there are a handful of boys in their white undershirts with the pale skin of their arms looking sickly under the florescent bulbs. I just love it.

Anyway, pictures of Venice are up, so you can click here to view them. I intend to have the video up by Friday, but there's just too much to do before I set off again. My goodness how time flies.

YouTube Cattle Call

How does anyone do a followup post after a city like Venice? Already I'm back in the grind, living out my routine. The only difference is that now, when I close my eyes, I still feel like I'm moving. I guess that's what happens when you spend an hour on multiple water busses and six hours on intercity trains. Yeay travel.

I've been spending my down time going over the plethora of video footage I managed to capture this past weekend. Good grief there's so much. I've also tried to edit the photographs I took, but the task is daunting and I keep moving on to something else, like watching my new favorite YouTuber, Gunnarolla, speak French and sing songs about Canada.

So, in addition to living abroad, traveling when possible, making videos and blogging everyday of this month, I have taken up a side quest. As you may know, I've been trying my best to document the experiences I've had since I moved to Europe a year ago. The reaction that I've received is thrilling, and I realized how important sharing travel and cultural experiences can be. So, being an overly devoted YouTube user, I thought it would be great to start an expat collab channel where five expats living in all parts of the world could document and share what their lives are like under one community channel. Basically, it would require one video a week where we share stories or pictures of what we saw, learned, realized, ate etc. and then post them up. I'm hoping that we can develop a small following of viewers and, in an ideal situation, inspire them.

It sounds lofty, I know, but the hardest part seems to be getting those initial five participants. So, if you happen to be living abroad at the moment and are willing to create weekly videos, then let this be an invitation for you to contact me! (Nixfunkle@gmail.com)

I AM WAITING!

ps. Here's a picture of me and two Australian girls I met in Venice. We're being too cool for alcohol on Halloween night by rocking hot chocolate mustaches in some piazza.

Day two Haiku

Last day in Venice

Documenting through haiku

So don't be confused.

Woke up to the rain

The canals have over flowed

Water on side walks

Boat to Murano

Venetian waves can't stop us

From glass artisans

Starting to feel sick

The boat does not stop rocking

Would like to get off

I have missed my stop

I've circled Venice by sea

Don't know where I am

Ciao Cimitaro

A cemetery island

Trying to get off

Tried twice and failed twice

Murano doesn't want me

I'm going shopping

The holes in my boots

Have been filled in with hot glue

But my feet are wet

Train in two hours

Then five more to Torino

I don't want to leave.

Just call me Gimpy McGimperson

This is "Blog Every Day In November" entry #1, coming to you live from Venice, Italy. This will also be the last time I ever start a blog that way.

So when I was in Paris last year, I somehow hurt my right knee in ways that keep coming back to me. It's a problem that takes its leave during my traveling down-time, but continually reappears to join me in my city-wide circumnavigation. Venice has been no different, and somewhere between Giardini and Piazza San Marco it came back again with a disgruntled fervor that is somewhat reminiscent of waking a hungry troll in the middle of its nap.

Still, this handicap was well earned as I covered a lot of Venetian ground before it had a chance to be debilitating. Making use of my sidekick, the map, I managed to efficiently make my way to the Fondazione Musei Civici Veneziani which has no particles in its title, so I don't know how to properly translate it. What I can do is give you a summary of its collection, and that is mostly modern. Now, I have an inability to appreciate modern art so let me assure you that the reason why I was there transcends both Cubism and Futurism. In my guide book there is a strategically placed picture of Judith II, a painting crafted in 1909 by the famous Gustav Klimt. That perfectly formed boob would draw anyone to it's doors. And so the story goes.

Though honestly, I absolutely adore his work and the three Euro student fare was worth it (current and former students alike, I beseech you, if you want to make the most of your college education, carry your student ID card around at all times and claim your reduced rate entry fee at every possible opportunity)!

At some point in the day, I decided that catching a water taxi would be to my best interest despite never learning how the entire system worked. Trying only gets you so far, so I did the next best thing, which was to hop onto the first boat that appeared. I ended up on the isle of Lido which had nothing to offer me except the danger of death by land vehicle. You see, Venice doesn't have any roads, just canals and bridges. Therefore no cars, just boats and gondolas. There's something extremely pleasant about this, especially after a lifetime of having to share my streets with engines.

On the way home, I took a spontaneous stop to Giardini where I wandered into yet another modern art exhibition, though this was a biennial international art fair, which kind of made it more exciting. Kind of.

This is where my knee gives out and I return to my hostel fairly early to take a hot shower and write you all post cards because blogging about my day just isn't nearly personal enough. This is where you express your gratitude.

Halloween Spectacular

Tomorrow officially starts the "BEDIN" quest, but I thought I'd start a day early to deliver a little Halloween Spectacular.

I left Turin this morning at 6am and have arrived five hours later on the opposite side of The Boot. Italians don't generally celebrate Halloween, but why let something like popular opinion effect how I partake in foreign festivities? I have therefore treated myself to a long weekend in Venice.

This place cost an arm and a leg in taxes alone, so I find myself pinching pennies by the sea side. Regardless, the canals are fantastic and the buildings divine. My favorite part is the Gondola Men, always leaning cooly against wooden bridges with their slender boats tucked safely underneath, lapping with the tides. I can't help but to feel that they exude a kind of sexuality that I have never before seen in those working in the public transportation profession. I imagine my bus drivers wearing those body-hugging nautical V-necks and the result is just not the same. Train conductors in ribbon-lined straw hats? Definitely no the same appeal. Gondola men: the only reason why anyone would pay 60 Euro to float through canals.

The city is as confounding as you would expect a city built on water to be. To get from here to there requires maze-like intellect as dead-ends are bountiful and streets signs perpetually useless.

Still, beauty is omnipresent and I'm happy to be here. A domani tutti, and Happy Halloween.

There is no end to the videos of Thailand.

The week is almost over. It goes by so fast. I won't have a full weekend in Turin until December.

I still have countless video footage of my trip in Thailand, and I manage to throw some together periodically. No, I am not living a double life between Southeast Asia and Western Europe, I'm just chronologically impaired. Bare with me.

This is a brief film of my fourth day in Bangkok, though techically it was filmed in Ayutthaya. The palace grounds were so huge that it was recommended that we rent golf carts, which we did with more fun and pleasure than necessary. We encountered monks on vacation and harassed hedge-monsters, then spent the afternoon at the Ancient Market trying all sorts of traditional Thai food. If you can't view the video, allow me to redirect you to my YouTube page here.

I hope the weather is well wherever you are as I have just been driven by necessity to purchase my first legitimate winter coat ever. Let me tell you, it doesn't mess around. It's like magic really. You see, I zip it up and throw the fur-lined hood over my head and it's like Hawaii, but indoors. My legs complain but my body is lying beach-side with a Corona in the inside wool-reinforced pocket. I haven't been in love with anything so wonderful since I last saw the Jonas Brothers on "Disney in English" last Monday. No matter what you say, you can't take my Jonas away.

Next time you hear from me I'll be elsewhere, though we'll keep the destination a surprise. BEDIN is about to begin and November will make you wish you were me.

So, what's everyone going to be for Halloween?

A little experiment

For the entire month of November, I'll be conducting a little experiment which we'll call "Blog Every Day In November," or "BEDIN," for acronymical fun. I've seen this type of documentation done in the form of YouTube videos, but I have neither the time nor the talent to see something of that magnitude through. November is the perfect month as just enough is happening to keep both of us occupied. In fact, so much is happening that it would be a downright injustice to let any of it go unrecorded. I'll be traveling more frequently, so expect updates from different locations in Europe. I'll try my hardest to bring my world to you as my time abroad is slowly coming to a close. In a few days we'll kick this off, so stay tuned.

Busking at it's finest

A surprise orchestration on one of Turin's main streets catches me by surprise. I love buskers and these guys do it right!



If you can't view the video, click HERE!

Liver, lungs and brains.

Last month, I joined the B-family in a trip to the Asti countryside. The weather was near perfect and so we hopped on some old school Italian bicycles and toured the vineyards.

Last weekend, we revisited Asti and the country was colder in more ways than one. Despite the chill, we managed to have adventures without cycles. By adventures, I mean ingesting things that most people wouldn't: Sulfur water, liver, lungs and brains. For me, this was an experience I didn't expect, and yet, one that I would never have passed up. Enjoy the video :)

If the video does not appear, click here!

Venti anni fa.

Tonight at dinner we talked about history. Twenty years ago, the Berlin Wall came down and everyone who was old enough to remember it, remembered it. Where they were, what the saw, how the world reacted. They told me their stories, of watching East Berliners and West Berliners come together for the first time in thirty years to friends and family that they had been separated from. It had been half a lifetime for them.

They said people brought food and beer and cried and ate while simultaneously tearing down the wall. The guards, outnumbered and confused by the sudden crowds that had gathered on both sides of the divide, took their weapons and abandoned their posts. Within days, the barrier would be destroyed.

It's an event that I know little about despite its importance, so on the weekend of November 9th, I'll be flying over to Berlin to join in with the celebrations. Museums and tours, it will be self-education at its finest. On Monday, the festivities should come to a head with exhibitions, demonstrations, performances and mass inebriation (all of which I intend to participate in).

Video documentation guaranteed.

Ciao Autunno or How Autumn Killed the Summer Dress.

About two weeks ago the temperature in Turin plummeted. I shut and locked my large glass window for the first time since the start of summer and I haven't opened it since. Already its exterior is coated in a thin layer of dust from nearby construction, filtering what little sunlight that manages to make it through the clouds and reducing my room to a constant state of winter gloom.

Two days later, I pulled out my trusty suitcase, opened my closet doors and proceeded to pack away my summer dresses, one by one. The cotton white number with crocheted trimmings that kept me cool in the intense Thai humidity, the red and white polka-dotted sundress that I changed into in the handicapped stall of Nice Côte d'Azur Airport after staining my favorite knee-length dress when leaving the United Arab Emirates. My heart had atrophied by the time I rehung the hangars so that they swung naked and lonely in the hollowness of my closet. If there was one way to personify the end of summer and the quickly approaching winter, this was it.

Hello Autumn.

Chiang Mai, Thailand - Part 2 (w/video)!

First off, Chiang Mai was amazing, making it into the Top 5 places I have ever seen. Part one helped to convey the beauty of the country, so I'm hoping that part two exemplifies the kind of fun that can be had there. This trip-within-a-trip was magical, and most of what I remember of it comes from that weekend.

We started the day at elephant camp where we rode on elephants and trusted our lives on bamboo rafts. We followed up this aqueous undertaking by stopping by the Tiger Sanctuary where we got a chance to fawn over a plethora of tigers and play with a few of them as well. The next day we visited an umbrella factory and a wooden market where we once again made use of our bartering skills and purchased a multitude of Thai goods.

Needless to say, the return trip to Bangkok was bittersweet though my experience in Chaing Mai will forever remain close to my heart. Enjoy!

If you can not view the video, click here :)

Chiang Mai, Thailand. Day 1

This is the first day of our trip to Chiang Mai in the north of Thailand. It began as all great travels do, which is extremely early in the morning. In this case, 430am in sleepy Bangkok. From there we went to Wat Phrathat Doi Suthep (วัดพระธาตุดอยสุเทพ), treated ourselves to a dinner show and bargained furiously at the infamous Walking Market, otherwise known as the Night Bazaar (ไนท์บาซาร์). We ended the adventure in the only appropriate way possible, which was by hailing a Songthaew (สองแถว) and riding back to our hotel in the back of a truck. I never cared much for personal safety anyway.

If you can't see the video, click here or visit www.youtube.com/Nixfunkle

The tally of things.

When I left Torino, I took with me a lone suitcase stocked a little more than halfway full. By the time I left Dubai, I had two suitcases stuffed to the point of explosion as both were overweight by a kilo while my carry-on (bless that large leather bag from Korea) bulged from the addition of handmade Thai pottery and heavy Arabian trinkets. I carried a bamboo umbrella slung across my back and managed, with every leftover ounce of effort, to lug it all from the south of France to the north of Italy - three train rides and eight hours away. Regardless, it was a homecoming I was eager to experience. Suddenly I was surrounded with a foreign language that I could partially comprehend, signs I could read and a general culture I felt at ease in. For all intensive purposes, Italy was home.

I spent the following days catching up on sleep and designating homes to the numerous new additions of my apartment. In total, I have purchased seven new dresses, three Thai purses, (1 suitcase), four cotton blouses, six skirts, seven paperbacks, one apron, one coat and ten pairs of shoes. This does not include four handmade boxes, a Turkish candle holder, a silk fan, one pink umbrella, a pair of reading glasses, a pound of postcards, two Arabic pillowcases, a solid bronze camel lamp and those nine long decorative sticks from the wooden market in Chiang Mai (I don't know what they are, but aren't they decadent?!)



Well, it seems that if there is one thing I excel at, it would most definitely be in the art of accumulation. Granted, I won't start complaining until I have to bring it all back to Hawaii.

Of loathing a bad situation.

I am learning a lot in the UAE, though it mostly involves being invisible. I hate it here. I count the hours until my return flight home, and so far it is 5.5 days away. I have little spending money and being as I booked a hotel outside of Dubai, I can not afford to take a taxi back and forth. So, I have found an uncomfortable solice in book reading and bad television show watching. A little before noon, the electricity in the city went off and I spent the next three hours lying on the tile of my room, soaking up its chill and praying for the air condition to go back on.

I have developed a greater understanding of how blessed my life has been as I have never gone a day without people that love me and friends I can trust. I think this is a kind of fortune that not many can say they have had. I have been granted a plethora of opportunities to travel the world where I have developed families that would care for me instantly in the event that I ever sought help. I have seen things that I never imagined would exist and I have tasted food of such variety that my palette for world cuisine has become insatiable. I was born to a country of privledge where women are treated as equals and are allowed to walk the streets with bared shoulders or, heaven forbid, exposed knees. Every moment of my life has been a treasure. These things that I know and embrace are from the 36 hours that I have been here, without all the above.

I will not discredit Dubai for my bad experiences as they may have been due to the poor luck of the draw. I picked a bad hotel whos water runs tan and constantly hot, I mismanaged my funds and I exhausted myself in the prior weeks. Or, after traveling Italy, France and Thailand with friends and family, I may simply be extraordinarily lonely.

But I am not disheartened as toil brings personal growth if one seeks it.

New in town

I have arrived safely in Dubai. Things are fine though I just forked over a quarter of what is left of my spending money for a desert safari. I'm feeling quite downhearted at the moment as i have left a very secure place with family and friends and anything i could want (as the cost of living in Thailand is so cheap!) for a country where I am alone and wary and poor. Regardless, a camel ride should do me good and cure my homesickness for a moment at least. The following days will be spent appreciating the cheap and the free ways of life. Bread by the river, a swim in the Arabian Sea, a walk through a souq, an afternoon by a mosque. Still, the life blood of my travel bug is growing thin and now, more than ever, am I ready to return to the comforts of my Italian home. I can see it now, the train station, the skip across the street to my apartment, the marbel steps, the high ceilings, the soft sheets, the open window and the sound of the tram rattling by, this way and that.

But until then, I must make the most of my leftover time abroad and dune bashing sounds just about right.

15 minutes at a time

I seem to have developed an affinity for blogging in unconventional paces as I am currently hidden away in a sparsely populated area of Bangkok International Airport. My flight to Dubai has been delayed for 30 minutes and while seeking to find a bathroom, I have subsequently discovered a free Internet port. The keys stick and omit consonants while easily doubling up on vowels, but I will gladly put up with any keyboard quirks in exchange for free access to gmail. Of course, even that would be too good to be true, which is also maybe why i can only be logged in for 15 minutes at a time. There is a lot of toil involved in bringing this to you.


It pains me to leave Thailand and I have yet to place all the reasons why. I have paraded around this country with a personal car and driver and the loose equivalent of a bodyguard. I suppose this is a classic result of who-you-know, or rather, who-knows who-you-know. I got lucky and spent two weeks feeling like a princess.

Oh, but I digress. The things I've seen! Just this afternoon, I caught a rickety boat across a river to a pottery island. Thing is, and unbeknownst to us, the potters are located far between, requiring us to hire the local mode of transportaton: motorcycles. So then I suddenly found myself saddled up behind a Thai cross dresser on a speedy two wheeler, zig zagging through narrow walkways with 90 degree turns, honking horns to imply impending doom. On the way back, we got caught in a thunderstorm, and our daring escape from the downpour only caused my white dress to turn transparent and residual rooftop water to flow from my moppy head, through my eyelashes and into my mouth. Call me a hypochondriac, but I sure didn't have a sore throat yesterday.


That was because yesterday I was in the emergency room getting my pee tested for a bladder infection. My body finds ways to survive. I'm okay.


Anyway, I think it's about that time to wait patiently at my gate. Hopefully I do not nod off as I won't be boarding until a little after 1 in the morning. I'll arrive within the United Arab Emirates six hours from now, traveling back in time so that I can step off in Dubai at just after 5am - perhaps an Arabian sunrise is in order.

Movement.

I update from an internet cafe that is situated on the bridge of a mall that caters to expats, drinking hot coffee and staring at my complimentary strawberry cookie. Bangkok's alright, Thailand is great.

In between the moment I left you in Torino, I have circumnavigated my way through central Italy, hopped on a train to the South of France, dipped my tongue in the Mediterranean Sea and hitched a plane to Thailand where I have been for the past two weeks. Life has been immeasurably sweet, and I mean this quite literally as Thai's have a notorious affinity for their desserts. I'm turning a blind eye to the instant metamorphosis sticky rice and mango have had on my hips. Needless to say, this place caters to my palette.

A few days ago I returned from Chiang Mai, a city in the Northwest of the country. The trip was remarkable in countless ways, but it also signified the start of what I will consider a rude awakening. True poverty, widespread suffering and the illegal trafficking of exotic wildlife can leave a crude scar in an innocent heart.

Of course, more on that later. For now, a nice night out under the invisible stars of Bangkok. In a few days I will be hidden in cloth, traipsing around the United Arab Emirates.

Holiday

First off, let me apologize for falling off the face of the blogging community. Now that that's out of the way, let me tell you how the first two days of my six week travel holidays have been.

Kate, my best friend in Germany, arrived in Italy yesterday morning and from there the hours have exploded, disintegrated and drowned in a well of gelato. Day one comprised of a complementary tour of Torino where we visited places such as Piazza Costello, Via Garibaldi, The Mole Antonelliana, Via Roma, and Parco Valentino where we had a delightful picnic and sunbath. This is also where Kate made a friend with a fellow park-goer, which is completely typical of her. What started as just some guy staring at us turned into an arrangement of towels and quilts and crude maps and bad jokes. His name was Antonio and by the end of the conversation, we had arranged to meet later for an apperitivo. I have been here for five months with little more a small sprinkling of friends to show for it. Give this girl a few hours and she'll work wonders.

At 9 we were reunited with Antonio (and friend, Christian) in the Quadrilateral. Both boys had a deeply sarcastic sense of humor which turned out to be extremely amusing. When our meal and drink were consumed, we strolled around the city so Kate could admire balconies.

Best quote of the day was in reference to Kate's skin color in which Antonio said, "You are white like mozzarella."

Before we went home, Christian and I had agreed to meet up later in September for a language exchange, making him my third tandem parter. I wrote him a text in Italian to which he responded, "ps. written Italian so so. We have to work hard on it." Spirit crusher.

Today we catch the morning train to Bologna, where I will do what I can with what I have to keep you updated.

Thoughts from Italy,

Nix

There's no such thing as an Italian Fender Bender.

While parallel parking in the wrong direction on the wrong side of the road, we hit the car in front of us; a fender-bender, if you will. I was the only one in that car of Italians to panic.

Nix: You just hit that car, that can't be okay, can it?!
Paulo: Why not? We have a bumper.

That is a summary of my life in Italy. Now please educate yourselves with the subtle differences between Italians and the rest of the European Union:



(If you can not view the video, click here).

A Brewski in Düssi

I spent a long weekend back in Germany to visit the place in which this (extended) year-long sojourn first began. A typical night out in Düssi with the best friends I could have made in the short amount of time that I lived there.

As with any night out, it was made even greater with wonderful company, extreme happenstance and a few rounds of beer. Kate, Sebastian, Devlin, Rania - I send you my love from Italy!

For the love of Wassenberg

I leave for Germany in the morning. Although this qualifies as world exploration, its sole purpose isn't to explore, but to reunite. I'm going back to the place in which this year-long adventure began, in a town so small and so humble that the average German wouldn't recognize its name. Within it's invisible circumference is a family so near and dear to my heart that the size of the town becomes irrelevant in comparison to the perpetual love and infinite joy that I feel. 

In more ways than one, I am returning home.

Fruity Patootie.

It was 5pm on a hot afternoon and the 5 year old and I were relaxing in the kitchen, widows open, eating cherries. Then, as I lean back and nibble around the pit of the cherry, she sits up and says, "it looks like a butt hole."

And I was done with cherries for the day.

The dreams that sweaty people dream.

The weather is absolutely perfect, it really is: low 80's, light breeze, moderate humidity. In fact, were I to shut my eyes and picture things just so, it would be completely possible to imagine myself at home, lounging away on the sandy circumference of my island paradise.

Except. I am wearing two shirts and a cardigan to ensure that my modest chest and seductive shoulders are not exposed to the conservative public. I leave my apartment each day, hoping to receive the country-wide memo that announces how this ridiculous spring dress code has finally made the leap into near fabric-less summer gear.

I have dreams of Italians stopping me in the street, "Haven't you heard?" they'd ask. "Sweater weather is over!" Then we would enthusiastically shred our cardigans by tossing them into the air and proceed to frolic under the trees, relishing in the comfort of deep necklines and the eradication of sleeves altogether.

Of course, I am aware that this fantasy is confined within the fuzzy edges of my REM sleep cycle. So, until the temperature hits something more comparable to scalding, I will have to find ways to come to terms with the fact that my head is two shades darker than the rest of me.

The pitfalls of being short.

I have spent the entirety of my adult life at the paltry height of 5 feet and 1.5 inches (156.21 cm).  There really are few ways to win with this when the universe continues to use me for its entertainment. After-all, there is no other reason the explain why the height of every deodorant-immune armpit is exactly 4 feet and 10.5 inches off the groud - the exact level of my nose.

The Good Girl Vice

I don't do drugs, I don't smoke, I don't drink heavily or engage in frivolous sexual activities. I don't swear (often), steal or over-consume to the point of waste. I don't betray friends, commit treason, manipulate (knowingly), solicit, trespass, or assault others. 

So, if you're going to give a good girl a vice, make it a straight up cup of Italian coffee. Let me indulge in that artificial feeling of minor non-addition to something that is not actually an addition so much as it as a simple and throughly enjoyable morning routine.

Oh yes, I feel so naughty just looking at that big bad mug of caffeine.

The recent past and a 20 second Video.

Let's get back into the habit of this, shall we? For some reason, I was so much more diligent with my posts when I was in Germany. This is probably due to the fact that Germany functions on a regulated and predictable time pattern, whereas Italian time functions more as a variable than a constant. We're not sure who to blame for the shortness of days; The weather, the country, a malicious force that inflicts steroids upon our watches, our dependance on caffeine. Ask anyone here, they'll tell you the same thing: There's just not enough time in the day. 

Regardless, things have been well. I got a new room mate nearly two weeks ago (has it been so long, so soon? I'm always so shocked at the actual speed of life no matter how aware of it I presume to be). I started Italian lessons and have traversed the basics of singular and plural nouns to dates, times, shops and primary verbs. I took a semester of Italian five years ago, so you'd think this language would come more naturally. But no, this isn't the case at all. Italian eludes me. 

I went to Verona a few weekends ago, nearly a month ago now that I think about it (Seriously. Time? It's completely irregular). Loved the city, but loved my company even more. Sadly, Daniele, one of my very few friends in this country, has flown away and left us for West Virginia. It's actually something I try not to think about. 

And then there's the matter of summer plans, which dishearten me because I am so very bad at planning. This is my rough draft schedule for my six week European sojourn, are you ready? 

Week 1: ??? Spain? 

Week 2: Nice, France 

Week 3: Cinque Terre, Naples, Rome 

Week 4: Rome, Florence, Tuscany ???? 

Week 5-6: Volunteering in Greece.

Now here's a 20 second video that will fill you with a sense of mediocre entertainment and wasted time

Impossible to Capture on Film

If you've ever played Final Fantasy x - xii (or watched the movie, "The Spirits Within") then you are already at an advantage in visualizing the following descriptions.

Spring has since let loose a flurry of white balls that almost exactly resemble the glowing spirits of newly vanquished enemies. These light-weight particles float around in whichever direction they choose, catching sunlight at peculiar angles to make the world seem momentarily inhabited by fairies. If you wish to take the magic out of this occurrence then I will tell you that, up close, these airborne mysteries are surprisingly similar to the down feathers of adolescent ducklings. Light, fluffy and no longer attached to a city full of water residing avian creatures, it is actually sensibly possible that these things are merely the result of hundreds of baby birds transforming into full-fledged adults.

Of course, I admit that this thought is just as equally absurd as my two prior speculations, and so I feel it rather necessary to reinforce my sanity by saying that it may also be the seeds of prolific plants. Yes, seeds so marvelous that they spread their species across Italy in a way that leaves quixotic girls seeing fairies and imagining an entire riverbed populated with naked ducks. Oh, Spring, there are few things more lovely.

Hello.

Keeping in touch is a peculiar thing. The common realization for anyone who moves away and returns home is that things manage to stay almost exactly as they were before they left. Yet, despite this (and strangely so), you soon begin to realize how life has moved on in its usual way with surprising ease considering that you are no longer there. The truth is that this usual life has adapted to your absence, and no matter where you are, this is a heartbreaking concept.

So, on those odd days when an old friend reaches out from that removed place in life that used to be your own, well, thats a miraculous moment indeed. It’s one of those instances that defies the belief that life moves on without you, that your impact wasn’t ever more than fleeting. It’s true that once upon a time, I contributed to the faraway lives of others in positive ways - ways that, in the end, were worth remembering. This always has the ability to put my morning on a happier than usual note (either that or the generous cup of Italian coffee that is dancing through my bloodstream). Of course, for sentimental reasons, we’ll credit my bliss on friends in far places who have the time to say hello.

Porta Palazzo

Porto Palazzo is Europe's largest open-air food market, nestled right here in Turin. Despite being instantly overwhelming, it was easy to stumble into great finds, cheap prices and sudden mischief. Blood, guts, death and kisses were just a few things that were encountered on this day trip, and due to adventure overload, I probably won't be back for a while. Still, it was a great experience that was made so by the unexpected nature of the trip. 



(If you can not view the video, please click here).

REMEMBER TO WATCH IN HIGH QUALITY.

Also, special thanks to Ali who helped navigate me through the market, which is just as large (and larger) than it sounds. Without her, I would not have had some of the amazing footage that has made this video so wacky (ie. Random fish seller giving his love).

Of falling in love with a country.

A black dress, pink cardigan and a pair of heels that haven’t been worn since they’ve been packed and unpacked several times in several countries since the middle of October. The weather allowed for a light spring coat despite the late hour, and I was ready to hit the town with two captivating Italian boys. Both aerospace engineers, I found myself feeling elevated just to be in the company of these multi-lingual comedians. The one thing I’ve learned to delight in more than Italian food is the good old Italian humor.

Sometimes I find myself falling in love with everything around me so that I’m constantly overwhelmed with passion, floating in a state of perpetual euphoria. Often times I catch myself, so caught up in my happiness, that my first reaction isn’t pleasure, but fear. What if I’m just absorbed in the blissful beginning months of a new relationship? You know what I'm referring to, those tragically misleading weeks that lure you into thoughts of everlasting happiness simply because you are helplessly engrossed within a bubble of ignorance. After all, we are so rarely the people that others intend for us to be. What if Italy has flaws larger than its defected postal system? (Is that actually possible?) But more importantly, is Italy even capable of loving me back?

But alas, until the mysteries of the universe reveal themselves, I will sit in a Russian restaurant across from two enthralling boys who bicker in that perfect Italian accent over pointless things like bridges and manners. These people that I’ve just met, I’m secretly in love with them too. I’m in love with them not just because they are positively contributing to my life abroad, but because they are completely and utterly Italian - a breed that manages to show love without ever meaning to.

When I exit any building, I have to grin widely wherever I am to outwardly show my gratefulness. The hidden truth is that I do the same thing with people, turning my head to hide my extreme delight to be in their company.  This community of friends is half the reason why I love this country in the first place. I love that Mario is eating chicken with spicy chocolate drizzled on top. I love that Daniele can’t stop using all the bad words he learned from South Park. I love that these heels echo every time they hit the cobblestones. I love that the tram is late and that we just missed the jazz show, that my drink has too much rum and that our taxi driver is beat-boxing has he drives. I love that there are two superheroes in my apartment, that it’s 2am and that I’m not tired. I love that every time I look outside my window, I see Italy. Italy, and it’s wildly enchanting Italians.

For the first time ever, there’s no where else I’d rather be.

Easter in Italy

In a country full of devout Catholics, it's no surprise that Easter is a rather big deal. Schools have been closed since Thursday (which we will call Good Friday eve), Saturday is pre-Easter and Monday is something everyone here likes to call, "Little Easter." Nothing operates on that day either, though I'm not sure what's so special about it.

I spent today, (the official regular-sized Easter) cleaning up and piping chocolate eggs down my system. Trust me, it's an old Italian tradition that goes way back and I'm inviting you to join me in my quest for diabetes.

If the video doesn't appear, I will suggest you clickity here.

I spent lunch with my lovely Italian fam eating every kind of meat imaginable (although I heard you're not actually supposed to eat at all), then we cut open the Colomba which is a traditional Italian dessert saved specifically for Easter. It's shaped like a Dove to represent peace, though some people will say it actually just represents springtime. It's a sweet bread with dried fruit on the inside and sugar pellets, almonds and more dried fruit on top. It was rather scrumptious, and I found myself getting seconds.

Dinner was held in my apartment which was graced with a dozen and a half expats from around the city having no other family to spend the holiday with. There was cheese, wine and tiramisu, so naturally I now feel like a lump of cholesterol in a pretty brown cardigan.

All in all, it was an interesting day. A little too much sweets, but that just goes to show that Easter is basically the same no matter where you are. Buona Pasqua everyone.

Genova

I know I'm chronologically skipping around here, but this is a video I made of my trip to Genova on the 29th of March. 

"But Nix, it's almost Easter, where have you been?"

After a weekend in Brescia, I've worked every morning with students from the aerospace engineering department at Politecnico University here in Turin to make a video for an Airbus competition. Also, because the girls I teach English to were leaving for Paris on Thursday, I had to compress their weekly lessons into four straight nights, leaving me me exhausted by the end of each day and unable to work on the list of personal projects I had in mind. Alas, with the weekend bestowed upon me, I can sit on my orange couch and check things off my little post-it. Clean apartment, make video, write a blog, read a book, shop for stuff.

Now, without further ado, let me introduce Genova (and make sure you are watching in high quality).



Also, if you can not view the movie, please click here.

Mantova and Brescia

13th birthday celebrations call for adventures of varying kinds. They begin at 9 in the morning with an overnight bag, snuggled in the back of a full car on the way to Mantova. At 10:27, we are singing happy birthday outside a rest stop, and, minutes later, we are crossing over the 25th parallel, clapping our hands and cheering. Indeed, growing older calls for much celebration.

Three hours later, we unfolded ourselves from the car and stepped into the humble city of Mantova, the place in which the infamous Romeo was once exiled. The city is significantly smaller than both Genova or Torino, and yet it still manages to boast grand palaces and extravagant architecture. 

Piazza Sordello comprised the majority of the city center. 

The Duomo di Mantova stood watch over the square as we made our way across the antient cobblestones, poking up against our soles. To the east stood the houses of Acerbi, haunting only if you knew the rumored history behind it. 

Then, to the East, Palazzo Ducale, a grand palace housing over 500 rooms, multiple courtyards, gardens and galleries. 

The inside was filled with a plethora of frescoes, some, of course, more common than others.

A short stroll south of the palace, led us to a series of great finds such as the Rotonda di San Lorenzo, an ancient church built in the 11th century, and the Basilica di Sant'Andrea di Mantova. More proof as to why cathedrals are my favorite places to visit.

Afterwards, we met up with family friends whos two sons practiced every english word they knew on me. “Nix, there is a table in the kitchen. That is a piano and a TV. My brother is a gay.” I uncomfortably ate cookies while the Italians joked on.

When the day ended , we said our farewells and weathered the rain and the clouds to the small town of Brescia. Here we would meet up with the grandparents of the birthday girl and feast in god-like fashion on home made Italian cuisine. When our bellies were uncomfortably full, we pulled out some chocolate cake and celebrated.

In the morning, for breakfast, I was served a mug full of raw egg yolk and sugar, a substance that sang me dreams of salmonella. When it was apparent I was having a hard time finishing the meal, they delivered two shots of espresso and suggested I pour it in. Figuring I had nothing to lose, I obliged and filled my bloodstream with cholesterol and caffeine. Honestly, I would do it again.

We spent the afternoon on the fringes of Lake Iseo, taking in the sights of mountains and water and villas. The market was in full swing and we strolled around, enjoying the good weather and cheap prices.

For lunch we overdosed on food and drove home in a daze from the week long adventure. I continue to remember the words of their mom, saying, "Oh no, you can not leave. The girls will cry. This is a problem. Really." In the end, she schemed to find me an Italian boyfriend to keep me around forever, as moms must do what moms must do to keep their children whole. Ha, and how can I complain?