Paris
Ah the city of love, Parigi. What could be more romantic than ice skating on top of the Eiffel Tower, eating at quaint bistros serving fresh baguettes drenched in butter, and wandering the halls of the Louvre the weekend before Valentine’s Day? Well sharing a double bed with someone with a deeper voice who can grow facial hair easier than Monica and Alissa, my two bedmates for the weekend is a good place to start. Not that I didn’t love being quarantined to the “sick room” with this pair, plus Olivia (who slept in the single bed alone since she was diagnosed as having the worst cough at the time), since I discovered on my night in the middle of the bed that Monica makes an excellent little spoon and gives into my snuggling demands as long as I pester and preserve throughout the night. Perhaps I should take a lesson from my male counterparts and appreciate spending the weekend in a tiny bed with two girls; after all, convincing Monica to spoon was probably easier than it would be to coax many men into the same position. Now that you have the mental image of the four of us lovely, coughing, nose-blowing ladies spread between one double and one single bed in the quarantine room, let me paint the picture of the one and only Eiffel Tower Hotel our room was located in. My darling roommate, Jenna, who was down the hall in another room with our friends, Jess and Despina, the non-sicklings of the crowd that particular weekend, found us this impressive accommodation for the weekend. Everyone was quite eager to sleep in an actual hotel after a long weekend of hostels in Amsterdam and Brussels behind us, so the bar was set high. “It’s a four-star, with a beautiful view of the Eiffel Tower, and may even have a pool!” chimed Jenna, proud of arranging such sweet digs for the weekend. Well, when we arrived Thursday night (this is after being rejected by several cab drivers who did not like the looks of our luggage or our American accents) an infinity pool was not there to greet us. In fact, we were greeted in a darkened lobby by a Middle Eastern-looking man sitting alone on a sofa, hidden in the shadows of the entrance. As he popped out to usher us in, a rather terrified scream popped out of me! The rest of the hotel turned out to be one of hundreds of “The Eiffel Tower” 3-star spots within a 10 mile radius around Paris’s most famous landmark. What happened between Jenna’s internet search and our arrival, nobody is certain, but the breakfast was delicious (it better be, considering we were charged extra after our shadow-lurking friend discovered there was one more of us in the quarantine room than he had bargained for) and the beds were free of bugs (we check religiously in any new spot we sleep in). Besides, the city of Paris earned 5-stars in my book, making up for any lack of stars in the lobby of our hotel.
The Italian Alps
Jetting back early from Paris late Saturday night, we made it on time for the shuttle bus full of our study abroad program comrades headed to the Italian Alps for a 3 day vacation from classes in the form of a program-sponsored ski trip. The term “program-sponsored” became synonymous with “ingenious capabilities of starting a rager in any location” during this trip and was truly a bonding experience for us all. Starting off a little rocky with a near death experience as our bus made the perilous journey up into the mountains, reversing almost off of a cliff, the trip improved greatly with the beautiful sites, namely the snow-covered peaks and delightful resort lodge. While I chose not to partake in the skiing exercises due to my high risk of injury or at least discomfort, I did play the role of ski bunny quite well, enjoying fine dining and a relaxing spa. My friends hit the slopes, and one sprained arm later (poor Olivia’s), we all were reunited in the hip spot on the mountain top. What took place in that bar can best be summarized by the below video. It is truly a glimpse into the characteristic ridiculousness of IES. Enjoy!
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Euro Trips: Part I
My dearest darlings,
I know you all must be terribly disappointed with me for my lack of communication; however, you must forgive me because I have simply too busy gathering the juiciest stories to report back regularly. Also in my defense, I have been jet-setting across the great wilderness geographically identified as the continent of Europe, but for our purposes, more accurately described as Miss Sam’s playground. Besides, you can’t stay mad at me forever when I am about to give you the down and dirty of my European adventures and a whole goody bag of TIMs (total Italian moves for those of you who have forgotten our acronyms in my absence)!
Taking into consideration my fear of carpel tunnel and my desire to soak up the Mediterranean sun on this delightful cruise ship I am currently bronzing myself on without developing odd MacBook-induced tan lines, I am going to tease you with snippets of some of my most memorable moments from each of my trips outside of Milano, but will refrain from recounting each moment of these journeys.
Amsterdam
Amsterdam is arguably one of Europe’s most notorious cities, at least in the realm of college students. Well, in an attempt to experience the cultural attributes of this fair city, and since we arrived late one Thursday night without any hotel reservations due to a slight miscommunication or purposefully bitchy (I have yet to come to a conclusive answer on this) error, i miei amici and I checked into Durty Nellie’s Hostel that fateful night. I should have been tipped off that this would be a favorable experience since my delightful furball of a sister (and my mother’s favorite child, despite her feverent claims otherwise…who else gets multiple breakfasts cooked for them in the morning?!) is named Nellie. But what truly foreshadowed the rest of my 23 hours in Amsterdam was when the Scottish gentleman checking us in at the bar (yes, the hostel is primarily a pub with some rooms upstairs) read my middle name on my passport and goes, “Oh, like the Isle of Skye in my beautiful country of Scotland!” and I was like “YES!”. I may have found my soul mate at that moment, if only he had been 20 pounds lighter and 20 years younger, the accent and recognition of my middle name, plus the owning and running of a bar, in the notorious Red Light District, no less, were confirmation enough for me that we could have led very happy lives together selling beer and checking out hookers on the charming streets of Amsterdam. As you may have guessed, a place with Durty in the name naturally was the starting point for a bar crawl that night. My sorostitue status makes me incapable of resisting any activity that offers a themed t-shirt at the end of a night of binge drinking. Therefore, my friends and I, led by an Aussie-accented woman who continuously called me Holly Madison (one of Hugh Hefner’s former girlfriends) thanks to my blonde hair I suspect since there is some discrepancy between our cup sizes as I have had no plastic surgery here in Italy), and a man claiming to be an international DJ, sporting a ponytail. With our trusty guides and neon wristbands we experienced several of Amsterdam’s finest pubs and discotecas, complimented by a tour of the Red Light District where we lost the vast majority of our male companions. The highlight of the night was probably our favorite bar where I became the favorite of our bartender who offered Monica and me unlimited free drinks and the opportunity to pole dance with transvestites. I’ll leave it up to your imagination on whether I took him up on this offer. Regardless of that outcome, we proudly slept only 1 hour of the 23 we spent in Amsterdam. Do not worry parents; I managed to squeeze some more traditional culture such as the Anne Frank House and the Van Gogh Museum out of the trip. But without the coffee shops identified by a particular green plant on the sign and half naked girls in windows, the Euro-trash version of mannequins, how would Amsterdam ever receive such infamy and recognition on every college students’ radar?
Brussels
A short train ride away from the Netherland’s party capital, Brussels may be summarized by the simple acronym: BBC. No, fellow townies, not Bloomington Bagel Company, although I could certainly go for a salt bagel with low-fat schmear, this acronym stands for Belgian Beer and Chocolate. Let’s begin with the chocolate because that is where my days generally began. Chocolate museums, chocolate stores, chocolate taste tests, chocolate drenched waffles, chocolate elephants…the list really does go on and on. Belgium is famous for its fine chocolates and its capital of Brussels lived up to the reputation. Although I found shop keepers incredibly stingy and suspicious of me, I managed to wrangle my one free taste in Chocopolis, a large chocolate shop with a giant (and by giant I mean almost life-size) chocolate elephant outside in the plaza. I’m not sure if they considered me a national security threat (as Brussels is also the capital of the European Union for all of you International Relations buffs out there and I am a half-Argentine, American from the Midwest, living in Milan, visiting Belgium—suspicious, right?) or simply suspected me of gorging myself on free samples (probably a reasonable suspicion given my U.S. citizenship and confession that I have eaten lunch gratis at Sam’s Club thanks to the plethora of free samples). Regardless of my less than warm welcome, I found the chocolates delightful and purchased several boxes from the crabby salespeople to send home to my family.
Moving along to the equally important, delightfully intoxicating letter B, beer! Belgian beers are well-known around the world, but to this Keystone (aka dirty water) drinking co-ed, the labels are all new. My natural instinct was to select a beer guide for the night. Cue tall, dark, and handsome (total TIM!) Alex, an MBA-student at a prestigious international business school nearby. Alex, a partially Greek God is a transplant from Toronto and picked me out of a crowd shoving into a French fry shop (another delicacy of the region) by my use of the American language. Being suave and debonair from his European mother’s upbringing, he generously offered his services as my beer tour guide in one of the largest (3 or 4 stories I believe) beer pubs in the neighborhood. Accompanied by a gaggle of MBA-expectants relieved to be away from their intense fast-track program for a night in the city, and my friends fresh off of the Amsterdam high (take that as literally as you wish), we enjoyed a night of what even my undiscerning taste buds can identify as delicious regional beers. Perhaps the most notable event of the evening was the fact that I choose to keep 3 beer bottles from my Alex-guided drinking tour and take them back to Milan with me! This may not strike you as that incredible, but allow me to extrapolate on the audacity of this feat. Point A, I was flying Ryan Air, the notoriously difficult airline that allows only 1 itty bitty carryon in which you must also stuff your purse. Point B, the carryon I choose to take on this trip was a mini purse-backpack (the kind I remember carrying in teddy-bear version in preschool thinking I was cool to have a pseudo-purse) that I had purchased the week before at H&M for this exact purpose since my apartment was still infested with bed bugs at this time. Point C, who packs glass beer bottles and tries to carry them onto an airplane? Therefore, given the combined rules of the airline coupled with the disgustingly small size of my purse-bag, carrying 3 beer bottles home to Milan, for the single reason of soaking the bottles to carefully remove the labels for scrapbooking purposes, is in fact absurd even by TIM standards. Yes, all in all, the trip was far beyond any Total Italian Move, definitely entering Total Sam Move territory.
xoxo's
your little jet-setter
I know you all must be terribly disappointed with me for my lack of communication; however, you must forgive me because I have simply too busy gathering the juiciest stories to report back regularly. Also in my defense, I have been jet-setting across the great wilderness geographically identified as the continent of Europe, but for our purposes, more accurately described as Miss Sam’s playground. Besides, you can’t stay mad at me forever when I am about to give you the down and dirty of my European adventures and a whole goody bag of TIMs (total Italian moves for those of you who have forgotten our acronyms in my absence)!
Taking into consideration my fear of carpel tunnel and my desire to soak up the Mediterranean sun on this delightful cruise ship I am currently bronzing myself on without developing odd MacBook-induced tan lines, I am going to tease you with snippets of some of my most memorable moments from each of my trips outside of Milano, but will refrain from recounting each moment of these journeys.
Amsterdam
Amsterdam is arguably one of Europe’s most notorious cities, at least in the realm of college students. Well, in an attempt to experience the cultural attributes of this fair city, and since we arrived late one Thursday night without any hotel reservations due to a slight miscommunication or purposefully bitchy (I have yet to come to a conclusive answer on this) error, i miei amici and I checked into Durty Nellie’s Hostel that fateful night. I should have been tipped off that this would be a favorable experience since my delightful furball of a sister (and my mother’s favorite child, despite her feverent claims otherwise…who else gets multiple breakfasts cooked for them in the morning?!) is named Nellie. But what truly foreshadowed the rest of my 23 hours in Amsterdam was when the Scottish gentleman checking us in at the bar (yes, the hostel is primarily a pub with some rooms upstairs) read my middle name on my passport and goes, “Oh, like the Isle of Skye in my beautiful country of Scotland!” and I was like “YES!”. I may have found my soul mate at that moment, if only he had been 20 pounds lighter and 20 years younger, the accent and recognition of my middle name, plus the owning and running of a bar, in the notorious Red Light District, no less, were confirmation enough for me that we could have led very happy lives together selling beer and checking out hookers on the charming streets of Amsterdam. As you may have guessed, a place with Durty in the name naturally was the starting point for a bar crawl that night. My sorostitue status makes me incapable of resisting any activity that offers a themed t-shirt at the end of a night of binge drinking. Therefore, my friends and I, led by an Aussie-accented woman who continuously called me Holly Madison (one of Hugh Hefner’s former girlfriends) thanks to my blonde hair I suspect since there is some discrepancy between our cup sizes as I have had no plastic surgery here in Italy), and a man claiming to be an international DJ, sporting a ponytail. With our trusty guides and neon wristbands we experienced several of Amsterdam’s finest pubs and discotecas, complimented by a tour of the Red Light District where we lost the vast majority of our male companions. The highlight of the night was probably our favorite bar where I became the favorite of our bartender who offered Monica and me unlimited free drinks and the opportunity to pole dance with transvestites. I’ll leave it up to your imagination on whether I took him up on this offer. Regardless of that outcome, we proudly slept only 1 hour of the 23 we spent in Amsterdam. Do not worry parents; I managed to squeeze some more traditional culture such as the Anne Frank House and the Van Gogh Museum out of the trip. But without the coffee shops identified by a particular green plant on the sign and half naked girls in windows, the Euro-trash version of mannequins, how would Amsterdam ever receive such infamy and recognition on every college students’ radar?
Brussels
A short train ride away from the Netherland’s party capital, Brussels may be summarized by the simple acronym: BBC. No, fellow townies, not Bloomington Bagel Company, although I could certainly go for a salt bagel with low-fat schmear, this acronym stands for Belgian Beer and Chocolate. Let’s begin with the chocolate because that is where my days generally began. Chocolate museums, chocolate stores, chocolate taste tests, chocolate drenched waffles, chocolate elephants…the list really does go on and on. Belgium is famous for its fine chocolates and its capital of Brussels lived up to the reputation. Although I found shop keepers incredibly stingy and suspicious of me, I managed to wrangle my one free taste in Chocopolis, a large chocolate shop with a giant (and by giant I mean almost life-size) chocolate elephant outside in the plaza. I’m not sure if they considered me a national security threat (as Brussels is also the capital of the European Union for all of you International Relations buffs out there and I am a half-Argentine, American from the Midwest, living in Milan, visiting Belgium—suspicious, right?) or simply suspected me of gorging myself on free samples (probably a reasonable suspicion given my U.S. citizenship and confession that I have eaten lunch gratis at Sam’s Club thanks to the plethora of free samples). Regardless of my less than warm welcome, I found the chocolates delightful and purchased several boxes from the crabby salespeople to send home to my family.
Moving along to the equally important, delightfully intoxicating letter B, beer! Belgian beers are well-known around the world, but to this Keystone (aka dirty water) drinking co-ed, the labels are all new. My natural instinct was to select a beer guide for the night. Cue tall, dark, and handsome (total TIM!) Alex, an MBA-student at a prestigious international business school nearby. Alex, a partially Greek God is a transplant from Toronto and picked me out of a crowd shoving into a French fry shop (another delicacy of the region) by my use of the American language. Being suave and debonair from his European mother’s upbringing, he generously offered his services as my beer tour guide in one of the largest (3 or 4 stories I believe) beer pubs in the neighborhood. Accompanied by a gaggle of MBA-expectants relieved to be away from their intense fast-track program for a night in the city, and my friends fresh off of the Amsterdam high (take that as literally as you wish), we enjoyed a night of what even my undiscerning taste buds can identify as delicious regional beers. Perhaps the most notable event of the evening was the fact that I choose to keep 3 beer bottles from my Alex-guided drinking tour and take them back to Milan with me! This may not strike you as that incredible, but allow me to extrapolate on the audacity of this feat. Point A, I was flying Ryan Air, the notoriously difficult airline that allows only 1 itty bitty carryon in which you must also stuff your purse. Point B, the carryon I choose to take on this trip was a mini purse-backpack (the kind I remember carrying in teddy-bear version in preschool thinking I was cool to have a pseudo-purse) that I had purchased the week before at H&M for this exact purpose since my apartment was still infested with bed bugs at this time. Point C, who packs glass beer bottles and tries to carry them onto an airplane? Therefore, given the combined rules of the airline coupled with the disgustingly small size of my purse-bag, carrying 3 beer bottles home to Milan, for the single reason of soaking the bottles to carefully remove the labels for scrapbooking purposes, is in fact absurd even by TIM standards. Yes, all in all, the trip was far beyond any Total Italian Move, definitely entering Total Sam Move territory.
xoxo's
your little jet-setter
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Milano Fashion Week: Blonde is IN
Ciao darlings!
It has been far too long, but the good news is that I have so much delish, juicy gossip to dish! Let me begin by recounting my first experience with Milano Fashion Week 2011. The evening began with a plan to lurch around the Duomo area (essentially the city center, aka the center of the fashion universe this week), eat gelato, and see the sights. Well, the sights quickly turned into a live concert by Jack Jaselli & The Great Vibe Foundation (check them out on FB) and witnessing my first fashion show! As promised by my Fashion Management professor, there was a tent and runway set up in the middle of the Piazza for some shows, but this was no ordinary tent--it was translucent! I spotted my professor seated inside in the front row, sipping on a glass of champagne as photographers and well-dressed lovers of fashion filed in (with the exception of a teenager in a wintermint green Hollister sweatshirt sitting next to an extraordinarily fabulous elderly man--I am still puzzled why he would publicly accept her as his grand-daughter with that sort of fashion blasphemy!). As the show started, lights shinning, camera bulbs flashing, and trendy music way too cool for me to identify playing, I perched up on a metal railing and stared in at the magic. Granted I was not on the list, but the gelato in my hand (a cone filled first with melted chocolate and then creamy black cherry and nutella gelato) tasted just as good as free champagne and my view was no worse than the photographers in the third row of seats inside the tent. Watching the clothes (so many sparkles and furs!) float down the runway, my insides literally melted and warmed like I had just taken a sip of a Bailey's-spiked hot chocolate on a cold winter day and my eyes filled with tears. Yes, I confess the moment brought me to tears. I think it's like how you are supposed to feel on your wedding day or when you first put on your white coat after graduating top of your class from medical school or watching a unicorn give birth; the universe was aligned and I was right there in the center of it. It gives me chills even writing about it. Judge me all you want, but clothes are my cocaine and I am an addict.
Now it sounds like the night could not become any more monumental, but don't worry, it did. After the catwalk finale, Jenna, Monica, and I scurried back to our apartment because we had an invitation to join a friend of a friend at her table at the Armani Club (fashion week's hotspot for designers and those that wear their designs)! Us girls sprinted around the apartment looking for appropriately high heels, chugging a bottle or two of spumante, and updating our facebook statuses (c'mon we aren't cool enough yet not to brag about this!). After selecting dresses, taking the traditional pre-going out roomie pick, we clip-clopped down the stairs in our stilettos to be scolded in Italian by the angry doorman's wife in her nightgown. Mi dispiace, but fashion does not sleep madame! Jenna, Monica, and I met up with two of our other girls, Despina and Alissa, and made our way from the metro through the fashion district to the block of Armani buildings. We had instructions to enter through the left side door and tell the doorman we work for Vogue (in my case I was playing the sex tips editor for Cosmo because sex always sells and I wanted in to the club). Well naturally being somewhat directionally challenged (with the exception of Monica who for some reason did not have her staple map with her), we ended up at what we thought was the right door. After trying to enter on the coat tails of some pro tennis players in front of us (who were ceremoniously rejected by the doorman), a tan man inside smiled and pointed at me and the girls and I were quickly ushered into a chic bar full of you guessed it, the rich and beautiful (I was too awestruck to accurately report if any of them were famous as well). As our coats were taken by the coat check, we met our bronzed, late 40's-early 50's, ticket in. The gentlemen introduced himself as Jeff Sutton and after a little further prying we learned that he owns commercial real estate on 5th Avenue and Times Square and is in town looking at purchasing the building we were presently standing in to add to his Armani building collection. Upon further googling on blackberries, we learned that his net worth is over $1 billion and he owns half of NYC. Lucky me, he is a fan of blonde co-eds and spotted my hair from inside! He was quite friendly and engaging to all of us, even offering me a penthouse apartment in Manhattan should I choose to be flown on his private jet back and forth between Minneapolis and NY this summer to "play house" for him (direct quote from the apron and heels fan). After this standard exchange of chitchat and meeting his business VP, we were notified that the bar we were in did not in fact grant us entry to the Armani Club, an entirely different entity from the Armani Bar, duh! Jeff collected our coats and we proceeded back around the building to what we now recognized as the entrance we were supposed to use earlier in the night, only to find it swarmed with a few hundred people at this point clambering to get inside. Well we pushed and shoved along with the rest so Jeff could speak with the man with The List, but apparently real estate moguls of NYC do not carry the same weight in Milan, so it turned out that only 4 from our group could enter: Jeff, his VP, me, and Despina (my fellow blonde in the group). We took our tickets and squeezed through the rope, leaving our friends on the other side to wait for Isabelle, the friend of a friend who had a table and was our original reason for being there. Upon entering the club our first order of business was naturally to visit the ladies room. This is when I learned that I am actually a troll--a creature of midgit height and awkward body proportions. Yes, every girl in that bathroom was a certified model about a foot taller than me and 30lbs lighter. I'm not sure how much sight they were capable of through their smokey, liquor and cocaine eyes, but perhaps they just assumed I was one of the designer's dogs. Aside from the bathroom, the rest of the club's clientele included more 6+ foot models, financial brokers from all over the world, and short scruffy men that looked somewhat familiar from the designer profiles in Vogue. The saga with our girlfriends continued when Isabelle arrived, and despite having lured us there with stories of sitting at the table next to Vivienne Westwood (my dream wedding dress designer), was not able to get them in at that point (apparently the staff of Vogue and every other fashion mag was already inside). Being the wonderful friends that they are, our less blonde companions blew us kisses told us to have fun, so Despi and I returned inside the absurdly exclusive locale that Isablle promised us we were only inside because of our blonde hair. Regardless of my ticket in (be in blonde hair or a middle-aged tycoon), I followed Isabelle to her table and proceeded to drink a complimentary red bull and vodka and peruse the room. During our lap around the club I got a card from a guy who is somehow related to the Lamborghini company and an invitation for a ride in his speedy black beauty, I danced in the DJ's booth and had a photo shoot with the club's lead photographer (still looking for these images online!) and Despi chatted up a pro soccer player. Despite my troll status, blonde is truly IN in Milan right now (evidenced by the presence of only blonde models Jo No Fui show we saw earlier), and somehow many of the models inside we brunette so I received a surprising amount of attention. I would like to note my outfit at this point for those of you who may assume it was the hippobottomus receiving the attention because I was in fact wearing a flowy, feminine pink and black strapless dress coupled with my new Florentine leather jacket (a masculine accent to counteract the girly effect of the dress), pearls from my grandma, and the most fabulous metallic ankle-strap chain-accented stilettos given to me by my Mimi for Christmas and never worn before last night. So no, the rump did not attract the attention, although it is possible that after the girl who possibly grew up around a radiation spill and Despi, I may have had the third largest boobs in the place (an extremely foreign experience for me!)
The dancing and shoulder-rubbing ended somewhat abruptly when the lights were turned on sometime around 2:30 or 3am. Despi and I grabbed our coats and were headed to the door only to find that we had to use our precious tickets to pay downstairs. Thankfully, we both still had our tags to pay cover at the end of the night because if you loose it, there is a 300 Euro charge for a lost ticket. Us trolls headed back downstairs to be greeted by a mob of leggy giraffes pushing towards the coat check and exit. It was literally a mob scene, essentially a what not to do in case of emergency tutorial. In the midst of the sea of stilettos, one found the top of my foot and came crushing down on it. My reaction: I screamed bloody murder. 80lbs or not, whatever creature was wearing that shoe hurt like hell! With the screaming and hysterics that followed I was able to reach the safety of an enclave and was attended to by a burly security man who brought me a seat and a bag of ice. Following him as a doctor who spoke to Despi in a mix of Italian and English and wrote down a number of things for us to go fetch at the pharmacy for me injury. The pain was dreadful and my tears would not subside, so my quickly multiplying herd of security guards kept asking to send me to the nearest hospital. I refused and asked for a cab home and after much convincing that I did not want to ride in an ambulence instead, a taxi was called for me and Despina. When it arrived, one of the burly men hoisted me up and carried me up the stairs and set me inside the waiting cab. Everyone was quite sweet and I blew kisses to my fashionably black-sheathed saviors. When I at last made it home and inside (not as easy as it sounds since I had no key and persistently rang the doorbell until one of my kind roommates opened the door for me) I discovered a scary sight in the mirror with my tear stained cheeks streaked with black mascara and my quickly bruising and swelling foot. I climbed into bed, elevated and iced my foot as instructed and quickly fell into what can only be described as a fashion-induced sleep (for the next 3 hours before I had to rise to limp to a long day of classes).
Regardless of my injury, I think I gave just as much sass as I took from my foray into the world of Milano Fashion Week and celebrated my fashion show and Armani club deflowering by wearing my new Dolce & Gabbana top today. Everyone knows that fashion can be painful, and I lived to attest to this and swear that each limping step is so totes worth it my loves.
Kiss kiss,
your little fashionista
It has been far too long, but the good news is that I have so much delish, juicy gossip to dish! Let me begin by recounting my first experience with Milano Fashion Week 2011. The evening began with a plan to lurch around the Duomo area (essentially the city center, aka the center of the fashion universe this week), eat gelato, and see the sights. Well, the sights quickly turned into a live concert by Jack Jaselli & The Great Vibe Foundation (check them out on FB) and witnessing my first fashion show! As promised by my Fashion Management professor, there was a tent and runway set up in the middle of the Piazza for some shows, but this was no ordinary tent--it was translucent! I spotted my professor seated inside in the front row, sipping on a glass of champagne as photographers and well-dressed lovers of fashion filed in (with the exception of a teenager in a wintermint green Hollister sweatshirt sitting next to an extraordinarily fabulous elderly man--I am still puzzled why he would publicly accept her as his grand-daughter with that sort of fashion blasphemy!). As the show started, lights shinning, camera bulbs flashing, and trendy music way too cool for me to identify playing, I perched up on a metal railing and stared in at the magic. Granted I was not on the list, but the gelato in my hand (a cone filled first with melted chocolate and then creamy black cherry and nutella gelato) tasted just as good as free champagne and my view was no worse than the photographers in the third row of seats inside the tent. Watching the clothes (so many sparkles and furs!) float down the runway, my insides literally melted and warmed like I had just taken a sip of a Bailey's-spiked hot chocolate on a cold winter day and my eyes filled with tears. Yes, I confess the moment brought me to tears. I think it's like how you are supposed to feel on your wedding day or when you first put on your white coat after graduating top of your class from medical school or watching a unicorn give birth; the universe was aligned and I was right there in the center of it. It gives me chills even writing about it. Judge me all you want, but clothes are my cocaine and I am an addict.
Now it sounds like the night could not become any more monumental, but don't worry, it did. After the catwalk finale, Jenna, Monica, and I scurried back to our apartment because we had an invitation to join a friend of a friend at her table at the Armani Club (fashion week's hotspot for designers and those that wear their designs)! Us girls sprinted around the apartment looking for appropriately high heels, chugging a bottle or two of spumante, and updating our facebook statuses (c'mon we aren't cool enough yet not to brag about this!). After selecting dresses, taking the traditional pre-going out roomie pick, we clip-clopped down the stairs in our stilettos to be scolded in Italian by the angry doorman's wife in her nightgown. Mi dispiace, but fashion does not sleep madame! Jenna, Monica, and I met up with two of our other girls, Despina and Alissa, and made our way from the metro through the fashion district to the block of Armani buildings. We had instructions to enter through the left side door and tell the doorman we work for Vogue (in my case I was playing the sex tips editor for Cosmo because sex always sells and I wanted in to the club). Well naturally being somewhat directionally challenged (with the exception of Monica who for some reason did not have her staple map with her), we ended up at what we thought was the right door. After trying to enter on the coat tails of some pro tennis players in front of us (who were ceremoniously rejected by the doorman), a tan man inside smiled and pointed at me and the girls and I were quickly ushered into a chic bar full of you guessed it, the rich and beautiful (I was too awestruck to accurately report if any of them were famous as well). As our coats were taken by the coat check, we met our bronzed, late 40's-early 50's, ticket in. The gentlemen introduced himself as Jeff Sutton and after a little further prying we learned that he owns commercial real estate on 5th Avenue and Times Square and is in town looking at purchasing the building we were presently standing in to add to his Armani building collection. Upon further googling on blackberries, we learned that his net worth is over $1 billion and he owns half of NYC. Lucky me, he is a fan of blonde co-eds and spotted my hair from inside! He was quite friendly and engaging to all of us, even offering me a penthouse apartment in Manhattan should I choose to be flown on his private jet back and forth between Minneapolis and NY this summer to "play house" for him (direct quote from the apron and heels fan). After this standard exchange of chitchat and meeting his business VP, we were notified that the bar we were in did not in fact grant us entry to the Armani Club, an entirely different entity from the Armani Bar, duh! Jeff collected our coats and we proceeded back around the building to what we now recognized as the entrance we were supposed to use earlier in the night, only to find it swarmed with a few hundred people at this point clambering to get inside. Well we pushed and shoved along with the rest so Jeff could speak with the man with The List, but apparently real estate moguls of NYC do not carry the same weight in Milan, so it turned out that only 4 from our group could enter: Jeff, his VP, me, and Despina (my fellow blonde in the group). We took our tickets and squeezed through the rope, leaving our friends on the other side to wait for Isabelle, the friend of a friend who had a table and was our original reason for being there. Upon entering the club our first order of business was naturally to visit the ladies room. This is when I learned that I am actually a troll--a creature of midgit height and awkward body proportions. Yes, every girl in that bathroom was a certified model about a foot taller than me and 30lbs lighter. I'm not sure how much sight they were capable of through their smokey, liquor and cocaine eyes, but perhaps they just assumed I was one of the designer's dogs. Aside from the bathroom, the rest of the club's clientele included more 6+ foot models, financial brokers from all over the world, and short scruffy men that looked somewhat familiar from the designer profiles in Vogue. The saga with our girlfriends continued when Isabelle arrived, and despite having lured us there with stories of sitting at the table next to Vivienne Westwood (my dream wedding dress designer), was not able to get them in at that point (apparently the staff of Vogue and every other fashion mag was already inside). Being the wonderful friends that they are, our less blonde companions blew us kisses told us to have fun, so Despi and I returned inside the absurdly exclusive locale that Isablle promised us we were only inside because of our blonde hair. Regardless of my ticket in (be in blonde hair or a middle-aged tycoon), I followed Isabelle to her table and proceeded to drink a complimentary red bull and vodka and peruse the room. During our lap around the club I got a card from a guy who is somehow related to the Lamborghini company and an invitation for a ride in his speedy black beauty, I danced in the DJ's booth and had a photo shoot with the club's lead photographer (still looking for these images online!) and Despi chatted up a pro soccer player. Despite my troll status, blonde is truly IN in Milan right now (evidenced by the presence of only blonde models Jo No Fui show we saw earlier), and somehow many of the models inside we brunette so I received a surprising amount of attention. I would like to note my outfit at this point for those of you who may assume it was the hippobottomus receiving the attention because I was in fact wearing a flowy, feminine pink and black strapless dress coupled with my new Florentine leather jacket (a masculine accent to counteract the girly effect of the dress), pearls from my grandma, and the most fabulous metallic ankle-strap chain-accented stilettos given to me by my Mimi for Christmas and never worn before last night. So no, the rump did not attract the attention, although it is possible that after the girl who possibly grew up around a radiation spill and Despi, I may have had the third largest boobs in the place (an extremely foreign experience for me!)
The dancing and shoulder-rubbing ended somewhat abruptly when the lights were turned on sometime around 2:30 or 3am. Despi and I grabbed our coats and were headed to the door only to find that we had to use our precious tickets to pay downstairs. Thankfully, we both still had our tags to pay cover at the end of the night because if you loose it, there is a 300 Euro charge for a lost ticket. Us trolls headed back downstairs to be greeted by a mob of leggy giraffes pushing towards the coat check and exit. It was literally a mob scene, essentially a what not to do in case of emergency tutorial. In the midst of the sea of stilettos, one found the top of my foot and came crushing down on it. My reaction: I screamed bloody murder. 80lbs or not, whatever creature was wearing that shoe hurt like hell! With the screaming and hysterics that followed I was able to reach the safety of an enclave and was attended to by a burly security man who brought me a seat and a bag of ice. Following him as a doctor who spoke to Despi in a mix of Italian and English and wrote down a number of things for us to go fetch at the pharmacy for me injury. The pain was dreadful and my tears would not subside, so my quickly multiplying herd of security guards kept asking to send me to the nearest hospital. I refused and asked for a cab home and after much convincing that I did not want to ride in an ambulence instead, a taxi was called for me and Despina. When it arrived, one of the burly men hoisted me up and carried me up the stairs and set me inside the waiting cab. Everyone was quite sweet and I blew kisses to my fashionably black-sheathed saviors. When I at last made it home and inside (not as easy as it sounds since I had no key and persistently rang the doorbell until one of my kind roommates opened the door for me) I discovered a scary sight in the mirror with my tear stained cheeks streaked with black mascara and my quickly bruising and swelling foot. I climbed into bed, elevated and iced my foot as instructed and quickly fell into what can only be described as a fashion-induced sleep (for the next 3 hours before I had to rise to limp to a long day of classes).
Regardless of my injury, I think I gave just as much sass as I took from my foray into the world of Milano Fashion Week and celebrated my fashion show and Armani club deflowering by wearing my new Dolce & Gabbana top today. Everyone knows that fashion can be painful, and I lived to attest to this and swear that each limping step is so totes worth it my loves.
Kiss kiss,
your little fashionista
Monday, February 7, 2011
la metropolitana
Ah, the metro system, not to be confused with the metric system, a mistake sometimes made by those of us with lighter-colored hair. While both are TIM and Euro-chic, la metropolitana is the topic of today's story. Public transportation is abundant in Milano, the metro being a favorite of the Milanese. Thus far during my stay in the fair city, I have learned 1. how to get to and from my most frequented destinations (school and shopping obvi); please do not underestimate the enormity of this task as it requires recognizing that you must be on different sides of the track to go in different directions and that there are multiple colors of lines going all over the city 2. how to squish like a sardine into the train when to the untrained eye it appears that there is not enough space for a small shopping bag (think the size of the Victoria's Secret pink-striped bag if you just go in to claim your pair of free panties) and 3. how to subway surf aka stand sideways with your legs shoulder-width apart to ride without holding onto the metal support poles (this is extremely important when there are short boob-height men standing close to said support poles). Despite considering myself quite the savvy metro passenger, none of my new knowledge could possibly prepare me for the email I received the other day from my program's office. It read as follows:
"Dear Students,
We have received reports from two female students about being separately accosted by the same man on the metro.
The man in question is described as being around 5’8” tall, solidly-built, middle-aged, balding and with a darker complexion, but lighter facial hair.
He has accosted two students on the RED metro line between CADORNA and P.TA VENEZIA stops.
The man exposes himself, presses himself against a female in the crowded train and masturbates.
An official report of this, including a detailed description of the man in question, has been made to police.
Our hope is that the police will step up surveillance of this train line/station(s) and catch the man before this happens again to anyone else.
While commuting, if someone begins to press against you in a way that you find inappropriate and/or disconcerting, please try to move away from that person.
If he or she follows you or if you are unable to move away immediately, get off the train at the next stop and move to another car or, if still followed, immediately seek police assistance.
If getting to the next stop will take too much time and you want the behavior to stop sooner, shout loudly “Please stop touching me!” at the person and “Help!” to others in the train car.
This sort of behavior is highly inappropriate in Italy, and other individuals on the train should come to your assistance if you draw attention to what is happening and ask for help.
The Italian translations for these phrases are:
“Please stop touching me!” = Smettila di toccarmi!
“Help!” = Aiuto!
Regardless of how you get away from a person who might attempt to do this, please report any and all such incidents to IES Abroad staff.
Indecent exposure is illegal in Italy and should be reported to the police as soon as possible.
Many thanks for your attention. Please let me know if you have any questions or concerns."
So yes, the story goes that a man repeatedly bumped into/pressed himself against a female student in program and proceeded to whip out the junk and masturbate. It was discovered by said female in the form of an ejaculation stain on her jacket. Thankfully, upon receiving this email I learned that this type of behavior is in fact frowned upon in the metro and indecent exposure is illegal in Italy, although I did witness a man urinating in the street on the way to dinner the other night. TIM. I suspect that men, like their close canine relatives,are permitted to engage in such animalistic behaviors here in Milano (please refer to earlier entries about extreme sidewalk dog poop dilemma). Also thankfully, I was not either of the two victims of this revulsion, which is quite shocking to me based on the luck I've had with freak incidents in this city. Thus far the perpetrator has not been caught, but I am prepared in case I am accosted by the perv. My plan: use my YMCA self-defense class training and grab his balls like a ziplock baggie of grapes and pull until they rip off. My mother's plan for me: look him up and down, say, "that's it? not exactly something to be proud of" and watch his tow-tow (polite term used by my 5-year old cousin for penis) shrivel up. Please note that while my mimi was explaining this plan to me she used the explanatory visual of an erect index finger curl up into the finger version of an extremely small, flaccid tow-tow while she made little meep meep noises. Thank you, mother, for your always effective visual simulations and useful advice.
Oh Milano! Bedbugs out, metro masturbater in. What other freak inhabitants are you hiding in this city?
xoxo's,
your metro savvy sam
"Dear Students,
We have received reports from two female students about being separately accosted by the same man on the metro.
The man in question is described as being around 5’8” tall, solidly-built, middle-aged, balding and with a darker complexion, but lighter facial hair.
He has accosted two students on the RED metro line between CADORNA and P.TA VENEZIA stops.
The man exposes himself, presses himself against a female in the crowded train and masturbates.
An official report of this, including a detailed description of the man in question, has been made to police.
Our hope is that the police will step up surveillance of this train line/station(s) and catch the man before this happens again to anyone else.
While commuting, if someone begins to press against you in a way that you find inappropriate and/or disconcerting, please try to move away from that person.
If he or she follows you or if you are unable to move away immediately, get off the train at the next stop and move to another car or, if still followed, immediately seek police assistance.
If getting to the next stop will take too much time and you want the behavior to stop sooner, shout loudly “Please stop touching me!” at the person and “Help!” to others in the train car.
This sort of behavior is highly inappropriate in Italy, and other individuals on the train should come to your assistance if you draw attention to what is happening and ask for help.
The Italian translations for these phrases are:
“Please stop touching me!” = Smettila di toccarmi!
“Help!” = Aiuto!
Regardless of how you get away from a person who might attempt to do this, please report any and all such incidents to IES Abroad staff.
Indecent exposure is illegal in Italy and should be reported to the police as soon as possible.
Many thanks for your attention. Please let me know if you have any questions or concerns."
So yes, the story goes that a man repeatedly bumped into/pressed himself against a female student in program and proceeded to whip out the junk and masturbate. It was discovered by said female in the form of an ejaculation stain on her jacket. Thankfully, upon receiving this email I learned that this type of behavior is in fact frowned upon in the metro and indecent exposure is illegal in Italy, although I did witness a man urinating in the street on the way to dinner the other night. TIM. I suspect that men, like their close canine relatives,are permitted to engage in such animalistic behaviors here in Milano (please refer to earlier entries about extreme sidewalk dog poop dilemma). Also thankfully, I was not either of the two victims of this revulsion, which is quite shocking to me based on the luck I've had with freak incidents in this city. Thus far the perpetrator has not been caught, but I am prepared in case I am accosted by the perv. My plan: use my YMCA self-defense class training and grab his balls like a ziplock baggie of grapes and pull until they rip off. My mother's plan for me: look him up and down, say, "that's it? not exactly something to be proud of" and watch his tow-tow (polite term used by my 5-year old cousin for penis) shrivel up. Please note that while my mimi was explaining this plan to me she used the explanatory visual of an erect index finger curl up into the finger version of an extremely small, flaccid tow-tow while she made little meep meep noises. Thank you, mother, for your always effective visual simulations and useful advice.
Oh Milano! Bedbugs out, metro masturbater in. What other freak inhabitants are you hiding in this city?
xoxo's,
your metro savvy sam
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
the man plan
Now that I am cimice-free in Milan, I have had the opportunity to spend my time engaging in activities other than hauling my worldly possession about in garbage bags and fighting the foes of fashion. Naturally, most of this newfound time has been spent eating. Allow me to clarify that the act of cenare (to eat dinner) for example ecompasses more than just stuffing food into my awaiting mouth with fork or hand. It includes walking (doesn’t everything in Europe?) to the market, oftentimes multiple stores for various items, selecting the freshest produce, meat, and unrefrigerated eggs, and then cucinare (cooking). The mangiare (eating) and subsequent napping comes hours later in this process. Forgive my Italian usage, I am using my blogging as a productive means for studiare (studying) for my intensive Italian class final on Friday. As I was saying, I rediscovered what teens commonly refer to as “having a life”, something I have not experienced for quite some time, thank you I-Core semester and bedbugs! One of my latest entertainments has been working on self-improvement. No, I am not practicing yoga or doing charity work, but rather I have read and studied Whitney Casey’s The Man Plan: Drive Men Wild—Not Away. In the best interest of my darling readers I will share some of my new insights from said novel. Lucky you, I’ve already sifted through the nonsense that comes with any self-help book and separated the gems of wisdom from the cubic zirconium. To my male readers: this is lesson number one, CZ is a dirty word to women and something that should be avoided. A small diamond is always better than a fake. And if you can’t afford a diamond, there are many other beautiful gemstones out there that do not involve synthetic plastic blends and are not sold at Claire’s. To “all the single ladies” (cue Beyonce) and those of you who are taken and find reading my blog more entertaining than your significant other (who can blame you?) here is what I have learned from my reading:
1. I am not difficult, I am definite. The term high maintenance, generally associated with negative, undesirable connotations, has often been used to describe me; however, after reading The Man Plan I have come to the conclusion that using the term high maintenance is like using the term brunette to describe a dirty blonde, it’s simply incorrect and a mistake made often by less discerning individuals (cough cough, men). Please note the following comparisons for a better understanding of the difference between difficult and definite, high maintenance and simply knowing what you want.
• Busybody (in everyone’s beeswax) vs. Social Butterfly, Gregarious (involved)
• Bitchy (get it for me) vs. Assertive (yes, that is what I want)
• Boisterous (noisy) vs. Exuberant (lively)
• Expensive (draining) vs. Luxurious (deserving)
• Demanding (whiny, pushy) vs. Ambitious (pushes herself and everyone else around her)
• Conceited (self-important) vs. Cultured (she’s got style)
• Arrogant (haughty, superior) vs. Confident (secure, proud)
Men always say they want a woman who knows what she wants and how to get it, a woman who takes good care of herself and dresses well, a woman who is confident. Well, wake up and smell the coffee, boys! What you are asking for is a definite woman, so don’t complain when you get what you want!
2. I am not a gold digger, I am a goal digger. The Man Plan recognizes that despite the overpopulation of “metal detectors”, “finance finders”, and “sugar babies”, some women are attracted to wealthy men not because they are rich, but because of the qualities that made them rich; they are leaders, entrepreneurs, risk-takers, confident, and optimistic. Ladies, it’s ok to like money and the men that have it, but you must enjoy the man as well as the money. Money can’t buy you love, but it sure as hell can buy him an incredible divorce attorney if you’re only sticking around to dig through his wallet…and Swiss bank accounts, stock portfolio, and real estate assets. Nobody likes a gold digger, but everyone loves a relationship where you can teach each other things, so while you’re helping your rich man pick out a tie, learn a thing or two about what makes him so financially successful and you will end up that way, too.
3. I don’t play games, I learn the games they play. Any guy will tell you he doesn’t want a girls who plays games with him, but what he might not be so upfront about is how important it is that you learn about his games, aka sports. Now ladies, I admit to being that girl who always sat out in gym class because any time there was a ball involved, I got hit with it and yes, I did join sports teams just for the cute uniforms, but The Man Plan does not ask you to learn the name of every player on his favorite team or all of the sports lingo (in fact, it frowns upon being a know-it-all because guys like to teach you about sports since it makes them fell tough. Evidence: the all too familiar mini-golf lesson with him standing behind you showing you how to swing with his arms wrapped around yours), just enough to bond over something he’s passionate about besides you. Don’t get in a panic about the difference between a linebacker and being in the back of the line when the stores open for Black Friday shopping, just remember these few simple rules I learned.
• Let men have their cave time. If you’re not interested in the game, he’s probably not interested in having you there pouting, so plan to do something else while the game is on.
• If he’s hungry, bring him something to eat. This does not mean you are a slave, but consider the situation reversed. If you’re in the middle of the Jersey Shore Season Finale and are dying for a Coke Zero, wouldn’t it be nice if he got it for you?
• Allow for naps. If he falls asleep while watching sports, this is not an invitation to change the channel. He will wake up and go right back to the game. A quick nap is part of the game-watching activity.
• Never comment on the quarterback’s cute behind. Do you want him commenting on the cheerleader’s cute “L.A. face and Oakland booty”?
See, the boys spend years learning about sports and it only took us girls a minute to learn the rules--women are fast-learners, after all. Besides, if you watch the game with him, maybe he will surprise you with that cute jersey of his favorite team.
I learned a lot from reading The Man Plan and I hope I was able to help you learn a few key pointers as well. You see, I am a big proponent of education, especially when I am the teacher, the topic is men, and class is not at 9am. Stay tuned for more life lessons coming soon from Milan!
Ciao Ciao!
Your girl with a plan
1. I am not difficult, I am definite. The term high maintenance, generally associated with negative, undesirable connotations, has often been used to describe me; however, after reading The Man Plan I have come to the conclusion that using the term high maintenance is like using the term brunette to describe a dirty blonde, it’s simply incorrect and a mistake made often by less discerning individuals (cough cough, men). Please note the following comparisons for a better understanding of the difference between difficult and definite, high maintenance and simply knowing what you want.
• Busybody (in everyone’s beeswax) vs. Social Butterfly, Gregarious (involved)
• Bitchy (get it for me) vs. Assertive (yes, that is what I want)
• Boisterous (noisy) vs. Exuberant (lively)
• Expensive (draining) vs. Luxurious (deserving)
• Demanding (whiny, pushy) vs. Ambitious (pushes herself and everyone else around her)
• Conceited (self-important) vs. Cultured (she’s got style)
• Arrogant (haughty, superior) vs. Confident (secure, proud)
Men always say they want a woman who knows what she wants and how to get it, a woman who takes good care of herself and dresses well, a woman who is confident. Well, wake up and smell the coffee, boys! What you are asking for is a definite woman, so don’t complain when you get what you want!
2. I am not a gold digger, I am a goal digger. The Man Plan recognizes that despite the overpopulation of “metal detectors”, “finance finders”, and “sugar babies”, some women are attracted to wealthy men not because they are rich, but because of the qualities that made them rich; they are leaders, entrepreneurs, risk-takers, confident, and optimistic. Ladies, it’s ok to like money and the men that have it, but you must enjoy the man as well as the money. Money can’t buy you love, but it sure as hell can buy him an incredible divorce attorney if you’re only sticking around to dig through his wallet…and Swiss bank accounts, stock portfolio, and real estate assets. Nobody likes a gold digger, but everyone loves a relationship where you can teach each other things, so while you’re helping your rich man pick out a tie, learn a thing or two about what makes him so financially successful and you will end up that way, too.
3. I don’t play games, I learn the games they play. Any guy will tell you he doesn’t want a girls who plays games with him, but what he might not be so upfront about is how important it is that you learn about his games, aka sports. Now ladies, I admit to being that girl who always sat out in gym class because any time there was a ball involved, I got hit with it and yes, I did join sports teams just for the cute uniforms, but The Man Plan does not ask you to learn the name of every player on his favorite team or all of the sports lingo (in fact, it frowns upon being a know-it-all because guys like to teach you about sports since it makes them fell tough. Evidence: the all too familiar mini-golf lesson with him standing behind you showing you how to swing with his arms wrapped around yours), just enough to bond over something he’s passionate about besides you. Don’t get in a panic about the difference between a linebacker and being in the back of the line when the stores open for Black Friday shopping, just remember these few simple rules I learned.
• Let men have their cave time. If you’re not interested in the game, he’s probably not interested in having you there pouting, so plan to do something else while the game is on.
• If he’s hungry, bring him something to eat. This does not mean you are a slave, but consider the situation reversed. If you’re in the middle of the Jersey Shore Season Finale and are dying for a Coke Zero, wouldn’t it be nice if he got it for you?
• Allow for naps. If he falls asleep while watching sports, this is not an invitation to change the channel. He will wake up and go right back to the game. A quick nap is part of the game-watching activity.
• Never comment on the quarterback’s cute behind. Do you want him commenting on the cheerleader’s cute “L.A. face and Oakland booty”?
See, the boys spend years learning about sports and it only took us girls a minute to learn the rules--women are fast-learners, after all. Besides, if you watch the game with him, maybe he will surprise you with that cute jersey of his favorite team.
I learned a lot from reading The Man Plan and I hope I was able to help you learn a few key pointers as well. You see, I am a big proponent of education, especially when I am the teacher, the topic is men, and class is not at 9am. Stay tuned for more life lessons coming soon from Milan!
Ciao Ciao!
Your girl with a plan
Monday, January 31, 2011
and so the cimice saga comes to an end
Day 3, Wednesday: Burnt Fur
Ciao! I left you all with the image of me heading to class with a trash bag of coats. The third installment shall tell you just what became of those coats. We made it to the IES center for our 9am class, a little worse for wear considering our lack of coats and still wet ballet flats, oh and who could forget the extra baggage under our eyes considering we were up all night boiling the t-shirts we wore. Arriving at the Center we spoke to M about our previous night. It was becoming evident to us that M non capisce aka did not understand the 411. Between the language difference and cultural barriers (the age-old body odor vs deodorant battle), M seemed to struggle to comprehend the horrors we had endured. We let her know that we would leave our bag of coats in her office and take them to the dry cleaners after our class. Fast forward through 3 hours of Italiano tutorial and the standard morning lecture head-drop snooze and I reconvene with my more advanced roommates at M's office. Walking into the office we quickly realize that our trash bag of worldly possessions have Houdinied their way out of the place. "M, where are our jackets?", we ask cautiously. "Oh, they are in the wash," M replies proudly. "What wash? With water?" we question. "Yes, yes wash in hot hot water and dry," M responds. Time out. WTF? Any young woman knows the first rule of wool and fur is that they must be dry cleaned, not cleaned and dried. Lava secco, M! DRY cleaned! Why, you novices in the audience may moronically ask, because washing and drying these delicate fabrics ruins them. It's easy to predict what happens next in our tale of horrors. A young man returns our garbage bag of coats and what do we find? Monica now owns a child-sized peacoat that forces her to do a penguin dance as she stretches out her arms in the sleeves. And I? The fur fairy herself? I am left with flatten wet down and burnt fur, the ruins of my lovely Michael Kors down jacket. I expect the expression of dismay and revulsion on my face during this discovery would match that of a man who had unknowingly just undressed a transvestite at a strip club. (Please note this reference has relevance to our trip to Amsterdam). "My fur," I wail, as the fire starts burning in my sleep deprived, bloodshot eyes. I whip my tail of burnt fur from the hood of my decimated coat and look around for a target. All I find is a group of male IES students huddled behind one of the rather large IES employees, looking quite frightened and unsure of how to react. Their confusion may have been in part to Monica's sobbing into her hands behind me or the profanities exploding from me and Monica. "Hell no," I spite out through clenched teeth while doing my best black girl finger wave (thank you Tri-North Middle School of the hood region for this lesson in attitude) "Nobody messes with my family and friends, dog, or clothes. That is my holy trinity and nobody messes with my holy trinity!" I scream out.
The red bites and itchy rash I could treat. The disaspora and caravan of trash bags I could laugh at. The cold and lack of sleep was only temporary. But my fabulous fur hood? No, that crossed a line inside me. I believe this tragedy marked a turning point in the cimice saga--a point at which I could not longer be the victim of insects and incompetence, but it was time to raise up and fight back. I found an inner strength inside me, fueled by a fight for justice, a passion for fashion, and a desire (shared by all of my fellow beauty queens) for world peace.
Here is the image that kept me going through the next week in my battle against injustice and gross creepy crawly things:
RIP my furry friend, taken from me too soon by incorrect washing procedures
I will end the cimice saga here, my friends, with my roommates and I jetting off to Amsterdam to forget our troubles. Needless to say, Rome was not built in a week, and the girls of Milan did not recover from bedbugs in that time either, but we are slowly readjusting to our now cimice-free abode. A story of horror indeed, but as I like to say, I plan to give birth to four children one day, so any discomfort I experience now is just practice, right? Childbirth ready or not, at least I will know just what to do if any of my children ever meet a bedbug--call my old roommates first and pop open a bottle of spumante. Thank goodness for my bella Milanese roommates, whom I have now experienced more with than most people ever will (as said by Mrs. Jenna's Mom), and who have kept me laughing through my tears. Tonight, we will drink to our burnt fur. Cheers to you old friend! And in the words of my English neighbors, good riddance cimice!
xoxo,
your bedbug-free blogger
Ciao! I left you all with the image of me heading to class with a trash bag of coats. The third installment shall tell you just what became of those coats. We made it to the IES center for our 9am class, a little worse for wear considering our lack of coats and still wet ballet flats, oh and who could forget the extra baggage under our eyes considering we were up all night boiling the t-shirts we wore. Arriving at the Center we spoke to M about our previous night. It was becoming evident to us that M non capisce aka did not understand the 411. Between the language difference and cultural barriers (the age-old body odor vs deodorant battle), M seemed to struggle to comprehend the horrors we had endured. We let her know that we would leave our bag of coats in her office and take them to the dry cleaners after our class. Fast forward through 3 hours of Italiano tutorial and the standard morning lecture head-drop snooze and I reconvene with my more advanced roommates at M's office. Walking into the office we quickly realize that our trash bag of worldly possessions have Houdinied their way out of the place. "M, where are our jackets?", we ask cautiously. "Oh, they are in the wash," M replies proudly. "What wash? With water?" we question. "Yes, yes wash in hot hot water and dry," M responds. Time out. WTF? Any young woman knows the first rule of wool and fur is that they must be dry cleaned, not cleaned and dried. Lava secco, M! DRY cleaned! Why, you novices in the audience may moronically ask, because washing and drying these delicate fabrics ruins them. It's easy to predict what happens next in our tale of horrors. A young man returns our garbage bag of coats and what do we find? Monica now owns a child-sized peacoat that forces her to do a penguin dance as she stretches out her arms in the sleeves. And I? The fur fairy herself? I am left with flatten wet down and burnt fur, the ruins of my lovely Michael Kors down jacket. I expect the expression of dismay and revulsion on my face during this discovery would match that of a man who had unknowingly just undressed a transvestite at a strip club. (Please note this reference has relevance to our trip to Amsterdam). "My fur," I wail, as the fire starts burning in my sleep deprived, bloodshot eyes. I whip my tail of burnt fur from the hood of my decimated coat and look around for a target. All I find is a group of male IES students huddled behind one of the rather large IES employees, looking quite frightened and unsure of how to react. Their confusion may have been in part to Monica's sobbing into her hands behind me or the profanities exploding from me and Monica. "Hell no," I spite out through clenched teeth while doing my best black girl finger wave (thank you Tri-North Middle School of the hood region for this lesson in attitude) "Nobody messes with my family and friends, dog, or clothes. That is my holy trinity and nobody messes with my holy trinity!" I scream out.
The red bites and itchy rash I could treat. The disaspora and caravan of trash bags I could laugh at. The cold and lack of sleep was only temporary. But my fabulous fur hood? No, that crossed a line inside me. I believe this tragedy marked a turning point in the cimice saga--a point at which I could not longer be the victim of insects and incompetence, but it was time to raise up and fight back. I found an inner strength inside me, fueled by a fight for justice, a passion for fashion, and a desire (shared by all of my fellow beauty queens) for world peace.
Here is the image that kept me going through the next week in my battle against injustice and gross creepy crawly things:
RIP my furry friend, taken from me too soon by incorrect washing procedures
I will end the cimice saga here, my friends, with my roommates and I jetting off to Amsterdam to forget our troubles. Needless to say, Rome was not built in a week, and the girls of Milan did not recover from bedbugs in that time either, but we are slowly readjusting to our now cimice-free abode. A story of horror indeed, but as I like to say, I plan to give birth to four children one day, so any discomfort I experience now is just practice, right? Childbirth ready or not, at least I will know just what to do if any of my children ever meet a bedbug--call my old roommates first and pop open a bottle of spumante. Thank goodness for my bella Milanese roommates, whom I have now experienced more with than most people ever will (as said by Mrs. Jenna's Mom), and who have kept me laughing through my tears. Tonight, we will drink to our burnt fur. Cheers to you old friend! And in the words of my English neighbors, good riddance cimice!
xoxo,
your bedbug-free blogger
Thursday, January 27, 2011
the cimice saga continued
Day 2, Tuesday: The Evacuation
Alright, I have established the validity of the cimice invasion, now I must tell you what happened after the discovery. Monday night, when the bedbugs were discovered, Jenna and I were shunned. We were told to close the door to our room and leave our possessions in the infested area. We were instructed to sleep in the living room. The living room is not a typical Americano cozy space, but consists of a chair and a sofa, a thin sheet borrowed from our C.A., and the absolute coldest temperature found in the apartment because of its many windows and the fact that in Milano our heat is shut off every night at 10pm. I believe this is also why I am frequently forced to take freezing showers. In turn, the freezing showers are probably the reason why Europeans bathe less and therefore produce terrible body odor oftentimes. I will not detail these odors at the moment a) because I'm eating and b) because there is enough revulsion in this blog already. Anyways, Jenna and I spent a sleepless night freezing and worrying about what tomorrow would bring. I lay awake on the cold chair imagining the cimice feeding on my beautiful new fur vest and cried. These were the first of many tears in the days to come.
Tuesday morning, after a sleepless night, my roommates and I headed to the IES center for our 9am classes and to speak with the housing director who was notified of the discovery the night before. I'll call our housing director, M, to protect her identity in this account and myself in case I rant in an inappropriate manner. After 2 1/2 hours of intensive Italian class, we reported to M's office for instructions. We were informed that we had 2 hours to evacuate from our apartment before the exterminators would arrive with the bug bomb. We were to leave everything in our rooms and take only a few articles of clothing in a sealed trash bag. The catch was that any article of clothing that went into this bag would need to be washed at approximately 200 degrees Farenheit aka ruined and destroyed. Obvi, I am not agreeable to the idea of ruining my clothing and hardly packed anything that could be considered junk clothes for my semester in Milan, arguably the greatest fashion capital of the world. Along with packing our trash bags, we had to strew the rest of our belongings about the apartment so they could be fully treated with the pesticide. We raced about our apartment during our time limit like some daytime grocery store game show I used to watch when I stayed home sick when I was younger where the contestants had shopping carts and various challenges to grab certain products off the shelves in a set amount of time. In the show they were gambling with money, in our apartment we were gambling with the risk of spreading cimice across the greater metropolis of Milano and beyond.
We left our newly nested abode loaded down with trash bags of t-shirts to boil in the laundry, food we didn't want to waste, and all of our infested bedding to take to the center as specimen evidence. We left our apartment in the hands of two men in ghostbuster uniforms, lugging heavy trash bags like some sort of disaspora. We snuck out the back door of the building to avoid the attention of our doorman and fellow residents. Much to our relief, Eduardo, my roommate Brooke’s TIM boyfriend was kind enough to load our bags into his car. I later learned that he insisted on hiding them in the trunk for fear that the policia would stop him to question him about harboring illegal goods or running a homeless shelter out of the trunk of his mother’s car. While Eduardo and Brooke drove to our temporary shelter at the Collegio dorms, the rest of us girls made our way on the metro to bumblefuck Milan. Who knew this region existed with highways and gas stations?! There are no gas stations in Milan, but we were clearly headed to an alternative world. In addition to the cornucopia of automobiles we discovered, we also found that this region at the far end of the green metro line was plagued by thick, heavy fog. We exited our stop and stood in what looked like the creation of a dozen fog machines at some European Halloween party (I am unsure of whether they celebrate this holiday here, but I suspect they would be quite good at it considering the amount of food with eyeballs I see in the markets). Naturally between the insufficient directions provided by M (we later find this is standard and to vastly lower our expectations of her) and the heavy cloak of fog, we are soon lost and disoriented. And guess what? No one has even heard of the Collegio di Milano! Of course not, it would be too fortunate for us to be able to find our new shelter quickly, so we wait it out in a small coffee shop in which we were instructed not to sit on the chairs for fear of spreading our cimice. Freezing, frightened, and with sore legs from standing, we waited for our trash bag caravan to arrive and direct us to the Collegio.
When at last we did find the massive establishment of dorms (obviously the Italians couldn't see them from the windows of their speeding cars--again we were in bumblefuck where people drove cars rather than using public transport like the rest of the city), we had to propagate M's concocted tale that granted us entry to the Collegio in the first place. Apparently when people heard of the bedbugs they didn't want us in their beds. So instead we had to tell everyone that our plumbing overflowed and soaked our apartment and all of our belongings. Thanks for the shot at our dignity, M. No one in the apartment was able to produce anything that could clog the toilets because of the lack of fiber and extreme amounts of carbs we were consuming anyways! Pardon my language, especially you, Cat, I know how you hate foul talk, but it is a harsh reality of traveling without your FiberOne bars. Our dignity gone, we followed the procedure of entering our new apartments, stripping down, sealing our clothes in bags, and showering. We dressed in sweats and workout tops borrowed from our wonderful bedbug-free friends and headed downstairs to start boiling our clothes.
Next issue: coin-operated laundry machines. Typically, not a big deal; however, with our continuing streak of great luck, we had only dollar bills. Does the front desk have change? No way! Do the vending machines give change? Nope, they only accept students' swipe cards. Do the students' standing by the vending machines have coins? Of course they wouldn't. Plan of attack: walk upstairs to the library where students are hard at work, still in my sweats, stomach-baring, spandex workout tank, and oh yes, no shoes (they were being soaked in bleach) to beg for coins. I knew I needed an extra boost, so I relied on the never-failing hair flip before marching into the library and disrupting the first male I spotted. Thankfully he spoke English and hair flip, so he proceeded to race to his room to look for coins. He asked his friends. And when all else failed, he left his studies to walk to the closest pizzeria to get change. TIM. Thank goodness for chivalry and the lessons I've learned from Legally Blonde or I don't know how we would have ever washed our clothes that night. About 6 hours later, after boiling and excessive heat drying, we all had a t-shirt to wear to class the next morning. A very nice accompaniment to our still soaking shoes, and you guessed it, no coats because those had to be taken to the dry cleaners the next day!
A picture's worth a thousand words, so let me show you just how we made our way to the metro the next morning in this ensemble di hobo.
Outfit: T-shirt, no jacket (no worries, only about 30 degrees Fahrenheit), and a large trash bags of coats (makes more sense to carry them like stolen trash than wear them anyways). Definitely worthy of a spot in the worst dressed issue of Cosmo this year.
Photo Credit: Jenna Michelle
Alright, I have established the validity of the cimice invasion, now I must tell you what happened after the discovery. Monday night, when the bedbugs were discovered, Jenna and I were shunned. We were told to close the door to our room and leave our possessions in the infested area. We were instructed to sleep in the living room. The living room is not a typical Americano cozy space, but consists of a chair and a sofa, a thin sheet borrowed from our C.A., and the absolute coldest temperature found in the apartment because of its many windows and the fact that in Milano our heat is shut off every night at 10pm. I believe this is also why I am frequently forced to take freezing showers. In turn, the freezing showers are probably the reason why Europeans bathe less and therefore produce terrible body odor oftentimes. I will not detail these odors at the moment a) because I'm eating and b) because there is enough revulsion in this blog already. Anyways, Jenna and I spent a sleepless night freezing and worrying about what tomorrow would bring. I lay awake on the cold chair imagining the cimice feeding on my beautiful new fur vest and cried. These were the first of many tears in the days to come.
Tuesday morning, after a sleepless night, my roommates and I headed to the IES center for our 9am classes and to speak with the housing director who was notified of the discovery the night before. I'll call our housing director, M, to protect her identity in this account and myself in case I rant in an inappropriate manner. After 2 1/2 hours of intensive Italian class, we reported to M's office for instructions. We were informed that we had 2 hours to evacuate from our apartment before the exterminators would arrive with the bug bomb. We were to leave everything in our rooms and take only a few articles of clothing in a sealed trash bag. The catch was that any article of clothing that went into this bag would need to be washed at approximately 200 degrees Farenheit aka ruined and destroyed. Obvi, I am not agreeable to the idea of ruining my clothing and hardly packed anything that could be considered junk clothes for my semester in Milan, arguably the greatest fashion capital of the world. Along with packing our trash bags, we had to strew the rest of our belongings about the apartment so they could be fully treated with the pesticide. We raced about our apartment during our time limit like some daytime grocery store game show I used to watch when I stayed home sick when I was younger where the contestants had shopping carts and various challenges to grab certain products off the shelves in a set amount of time. In the show they were gambling with money, in our apartment we were gambling with the risk of spreading cimice across the greater metropolis of Milano and beyond.
We left our newly nested abode loaded down with trash bags of t-shirts to boil in the laundry, food we didn't want to waste, and all of our infested bedding to take to the center as specimen evidence. We left our apartment in the hands of two men in ghostbuster uniforms, lugging heavy trash bags like some sort of disaspora. We snuck out the back door of the building to avoid the attention of our doorman and fellow residents. Much to our relief, Eduardo, my roommate Brooke’s TIM boyfriend was kind enough to load our bags into his car. I later learned that he insisted on hiding them in the trunk for fear that the policia would stop him to question him about harboring illegal goods or running a homeless shelter out of the trunk of his mother’s car. While Eduardo and Brooke drove to our temporary shelter at the Collegio dorms, the rest of us girls made our way on the metro to bumblefuck Milan. Who knew this region existed with highways and gas stations?! There are no gas stations in Milan, but we were clearly headed to an alternative world. In addition to the cornucopia of automobiles we discovered, we also found that this region at the far end of the green metro line was plagued by thick, heavy fog. We exited our stop and stood in what looked like the creation of a dozen fog machines at some European Halloween party (I am unsure of whether they celebrate this holiday here, but I suspect they would be quite good at it considering the amount of food with eyeballs I see in the markets). Naturally between the insufficient directions provided by M (we later find this is standard and to vastly lower our expectations of her) and the heavy cloak of fog, we are soon lost and disoriented. And guess what? No one has even heard of the Collegio di Milano! Of course not, it would be too fortunate for us to be able to find our new shelter quickly, so we wait it out in a small coffee shop in which we were instructed not to sit on the chairs for fear of spreading our cimice. Freezing, frightened, and with sore legs from standing, we waited for our trash bag caravan to arrive and direct us to the Collegio.
When at last we did find the massive establishment of dorms (obviously the Italians couldn't see them from the windows of their speeding cars--again we were in bumblefuck where people drove cars rather than using public transport like the rest of the city), we had to propagate M's concocted tale that granted us entry to the Collegio in the first place. Apparently when people heard of the bedbugs they didn't want us in their beds. So instead we had to tell everyone that our plumbing overflowed and soaked our apartment and all of our belongings. Thanks for the shot at our dignity, M. No one in the apartment was able to produce anything that could clog the toilets because of the lack of fiber and extreme amounts of carbs we were consuming anyways! Pardon my language, especially you, Cat, I know how you hate foul talk, but it is a harsh reality of traveling without your FiberOne bars. Our dignity gone, we followed the procedure of entering our new apartments, stripping down, sealing our clothes in bags, and showering. We dressed in sweats and workout tops borrowed from our wonderful bedbug-free friends and headed downstairs to start boiling our clothes.
Next issue: coin-operated laundry machines. Typically, not a big deal; however, with our continuing streak of great luck, we had only dollar bills. Does the front desk have change? No way! Do the vending machines give change? Nope, they only accept students' swipe cards. Do the students' standing by the vending machines have coins? Of course they wouldn't. Plan of attack: walk upstairs to the library where students are hard at work, still in my sweats, stomach-baring, spandex workout tank, and oh yes, no shoes (they were being soaked in bleach) to beg for coins. I knew I needed an extra boost, so I relied on the never-failing hair flip before marching into the library and disrupting the first male I spotted. Thankfully he spoke English and hair flip, so he proceeded to race to his room to look for coins. He asked his friends. And when all else failed, he left his studies to walk to the closest pizzeria to get change. TIM. Thank goodness for chivalry and the lessons I've learned from Legally Blonde or I don't know how we would have ever washed our clothes that night. About 6 hours later, after boiling and excessive heat drying, we all had a t-shirt to wear to class the next morning. A very nice accompaniment to our still soaking shoes, and you guessed it, no coats because those had to be taken to the dry cleaners the next day!
A picture's worth a thousand words, so let me show you just how we made our way to the metro the next morning in this ensemble di hobo.
Photo Credit: Jenna Michelle
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