It's summer in San Diego -- not that I would know.... Honestly, it's not different from January. The temperature is the same, the humidity level never changes, and it's still a little dark most mornings. In June that's because of the marine layer; in January it's because the sun's not out yet. Overall, I have a hard time distinguishing from month to month. But it is summer, and many of my friends and colleagues are traveling -- on vacation, teaching and studying abroad. Due to the massive expense of moving and divorcing, a vacation is not on my list. And I've had to make due with remembering happier (and more financially stable) times.
After my first year of law school, I decided to spend the summer abroad. My university hosted a comparative law program which traveled to London, Belgium, Paris, and Geneva. I looked into the program... and I wanted to kill myself. London's dirty. The French hate Americans. Geneva is too expensive... and what could possibly be more boring that Brussels? (…like I'd be comfortable in a country that considers mayo a condiment for french fries). I'm dynamic -- I live on the edge, baby! And I wanted to travel to a country that was full of life -- full of passion. A passion for food, a passion for love, a passion for wine. And another university has a program in Italy...and that was definitely where I belonged. So I planned to study in Italy for six weeks and then meet my boyfriend (who became the husband, who became the ex) in Spain for another two weeks. It would the perfect summer of me!
Now prior to this endeavor, I had not spent time abroad, and full disclosure - I was nervous. I did not want to be considered an "ugly American." So I spent ample time and energy devising a method for "blending" and molding myself into the model Italian citizen -- at least my perception of one. I left my Gap wardrobe stateside in favor of skirts, dresses and slacks. No tacky tennis shoes for me - oh, hell no! -- I would tour in leather sandals and flats. No one was going to mistake me for an obnoxious American. ...And believe me, no Italian did.
Here's what I failed to realize: I had an Italian grandmother. I have dark hair, dark eyes and a Roman nose. No doubt, I look Italian. (Having grown up outside of South Bend, Indiana where everyone is either of German or Polish decent, I failed to realize that my mutt-like heritage could be categorized... as Italian of all things...). So factor that with the wardrobe and the results were as follows: 1) I have never been yelled at as extensively as I was in Italy; and 2) I have never been less sexually attractive to a collective group of males (we'll come back to this in a minute).
Because I looked and dressed Italian, others assumed I spoke Italian. And when people spoke to me and I did not reply but for the East Coast "Why are you talking to me?" look on my face, they started screaming. And waving their arms (Italians really do live up to their stereotypes). ...I had not counted on this downside to the assimilation process. Another Italian stereotype which remains true is the fact that Italian men LOVE American women. Why? Because we're easy. We don't live with our parents (read: sex). We don't look onto the Vatican daily to be reminded that, "thou shall not have premarital sex." We can be quickly identified by our denim and khaki wardrobes. We travel in packs. And we're loud. So that makes us easy prey. ...with the exception of me. Oh no, I had to be different. I went on a different law school program by myself. I decided to forgo denim. And as a result, I received negative -- not a single cat-call -- none, nada, nothing as far as male attention was concerned. Between the yelling and the conclusion that I held no allure to the opposite sex (who were supposed to follow me home confessing their love), my self-esteem took a nose-dive.
Needless to say, I was happy when the end of the program came. For the last night, our group was treated to a fantastic, true Italian dinner experience at a resort overlooking the hills of Florence. And when I say “hills,” I mean hills. Lots and lots of hills. Like, really, really hilly. And as previously discussed (see “The Subaru (Part 1)”), hills and girls raised on the flats of Indiana don't always go well together. Especially not on a bus. We drove into the pines of Florence, along winding roads, steep upgrades, and twisty bends. Prior to our dinner arrival, I began to feel nauseous. I turned to my seatmate Mandy and told her I was going to be sick. Because she was a great friend -- and had some self interest in not being vomited on -- she jumped up before the bus came to a complete stop, told the other passengers to remain seated, and allowed me to hop off first. I exited the bus and made my way to a cement bench. I sat - and immediately jumped the hell up with a scream. It felt like something had stuck me right in the ass! Why? Because something had stung me...directly in the ass. I turned, looked down, and realized to my horror that I had sat -- and been stung in my right check -- by a bee. The cherry on top? I'm allergic. …so here I am in a remote Italian village, without an epipen …surrounded by yellers.... But, hey -- at least I wasn't car sick anymore.
My father is deathly allergic to bees. Doctors have told him the results of bee stings are cumulative. Translation: the allergic reaction becomes worse the more times you are stung. And since my reactions had been cumulatively worse as well, I was pretty freaked. Luckily, there was a doctor on our program who explained several factors: 1) my allergy is considered "level 2." If my throat did not close up immediately, I was out of the woods as far as the death card; 2) I could still have a "local reaction" -- swelling, itching, redness...and that could take up to 24 hours to set in. And finally, 3) bee allergies were not hereditary (I still call bullshit on that one), so the fact that my father had violent reactions did not mean I would. So after our 6 hour dinner (no joke), I went home, packed, and caught an early flight to meet boyfriend in Barcelona (Bar-th-e-lona...it's not Sesame Street Spanish, kids).
Boyfriend and his sister had both previously lived in Barcelona and they were both back for the summer visiting friends and host families. Boyfriend met me at the airport with flowers (heart!). Between my love sickness for him and the Italian yellers, I had never been so happy to see anyone. Barcelona is a beautiful city – one of my favorites. It's on the water, the architecture is modern and unique, the streets are wide, and the people are gorgeous. (And it was a relief to be in the company of people who did not insist on screaming at me constantly). Boyfriend and I spent the afternoon by the water, and as the sun began to set, we strolled up Las Ramblas. …And I began experiencing a sensation I'd never felt before. I’m not speaking of love…not contentment. I’m speaking about my ass. My right ass check began to itch...but it felt like the itchy part had separated from my actual ass. "Something's wrong," I told boyfriend. We booked it back to our hotel and boyfriend lifted my skirt to see what I could not. He screamed, "Oh Jesus!" just as his sister entered our suite. Her usually calm features shot up in alarm.
"What the hell happened?" I told them about the bus ride, the bee...and the miraculous 24 hour-to-the-minute timing of the reaction.
"Is it that bad?" I asked. The two of them parted and allowed me to make my way to the bathroom and a full-length mirror. I had never - nor have I since - seen anything like this. My right ass check has grown another ass check all its own. The tiniest pin-prick of a bee string present when I left Florence that morning has morphed into a red, lumpy, swollen entity -- at the time I thought it was a sign of the apocalypse. ...JLo clearly had nothing on me.
As previously mentioned, boyfriend and his sister had lived in Spain and both were fluent in Spanish. However, only boyfriend's sister spoke Catalan, which as you may know is the language spoken in Barcelona. (If you have no idea what I'm talking about, I frankly can't get into the whole Spain and Franco and the many sub-cultures and regional dialects. ...just refer to the Protestant/Catholic thing in Ireland. Or the American Civil War -- it's like that... close enough). So off to the drugstore we went for some benedryl and an ass-shrinking miracle. Here's what I didn't know about the pharmacy in Spain: you have to actually talk to the pharmacist. This fact presented a multitude of problems: 1) I'm from the East Coast and I hate people. I especially hate talking to them; 2) this incident was highly embarrassing and I wanted to share it with approximately no one; and 3) I don't know how to say "my ass-check exploded" in Catalan.
Boyfriend's sister took action and went directly to the pharmacist as we entered the store. They talked for a while and all I understood was "la crema" - which I assumed meant cream. As they continued to talk, the pharmacist came around from behind the counter, gave me a pitiful look, and without warning whipped me around and lifted my skirt. In the middle of the drugstore. For all to see. Her reaction also resembled something similar to, "Oh Jesus!" (but again -- I'm not sure how to say that in Catalan). …After we retreated with medication and some type of ass cream, I took several benedryl, drank a pitcher of sangria, and passed out at the dinner table.
Luckily, all's well that ends well. Within a day I was again down to one ass (believe me, one is all you need). But I learned several valuable lessons that day -- and that entire trip: 1) know the culture; 2) know the language; and 3) don’t let your ass explode in a foreign country.
After my first year of law school, I decided to spend the summer abroad. My university hosted a comparative law program which traveled to London, Belgium, Paris, and Geneva. I looked into the program... and I wanted to kill myself. London's dirty. The French hate Americans. Geneva is too expensive... and what could possibly be more boring that Brussels? (…like I'd be comfortable in a country that considers mayo a condiment for french fries). I'm dynamic -- I live on the edge, baby! And I wanted to travel to a country that was full of life -- full of passion. A passion for food, a passion for love, a passion for wine. And another university has a program in Italy...and that was definitely where I belonged. So I planned to study in Italy for six weeks and then meet my boyfriend (who became the husband, who became the ex) in Spain for another two weeks. It would the perfect summer of me!
Now prior to this endeavor, I had not spent time abroad, and full disclosure - I was nervous. I did not want to be considered an "ugly American." So I spent ample time and energy devising a method for "blending" and molding myself into the model Italian citizen -- at least my perception of one. I left my Gap wardrobe stateside in favor of skirts, dresses and slacks. No tacky tennis shoes for me - oh, hell no! -- I would tour in leather sandals and flats. No one was going to mistake me for an obnoxious American. ...And believe me, no Italian did.
Here's what I failed to realize: I had an Italian grandmother. I have dark hair, dark eyes and a Roman nose. No doubt, I look Italian. (Having grown up outside of South Bend, Indiana where everyone is either of German or Polish decent, I failed to realize that my mutt-like heritage could be categorized... as Italian of all things...). So factor that with the wardrobe and the results were as follows: 1) I have never been yelled at as extensively as I was in Italy; and 2) I have never been less sexually attractive to a collective group of males (we'll come back to this in a minute).
Because I looked and dressed Italian, others assumed I spoke Italian. And when people spoke to me and I did not reply but for the East Coast "Why are you talking to me?" look on my face, they started screaming. And waving their arms (Italians really do live up to their stereotypes). ...I had not counted on this downside to the assimilation process. Another Italian stereotype which remains true is the fact that Italian men LOVE American women. Why? Because we're easy. We don't live with our parents (read: sex). We don't look onto the Vatican daily to be reminded that, "thou shall not have premarital sex." We can be quickly identified by our denim and khaki wardrobes. We travel in packs. And we're loud. So that makes us easy prey. ...with the exception of me. Oh no, I had to be different. I went on a different law school program by myself. I decided to forgo denim. And as a result, I received negative -- not a single cat-call -- none, nada, nothing as far as male attention was concerned. Between the yelling and the conclusion that I held no allure to the opposite sex (who were supposed to follow me home confessing their love), my self-esteem took a nose-dive.
Needless to say, I was happy when the end of the program came. For the last night, our group was treated to a fantastic, true Italian dinner experience at a resort overlooking the hills of Florence. And when I say “hills,” I mean hills. Lots and lots of hills. Like, really, really hilly. And as previously discussed (see “The Subaru (Part 1)”), hills and girls raised on the flats of Indiana don't always go well together. Especially not on a bus. We drove into the pines of Florence, along winding roads, steep upgrades, and twisty bends. Prior to our dinner arrival, I began to feel nauseous. I turned to my seatmate Mandy and told her I was going to be sick. Because she was a great friend -- and had some self interest in not being vomited on -- she jumped up before the bus came to a complete stop, told the other passengers to remain seated, and allowed me to hop off first. I exited the bus and made my way to a cement bench. I sat - and immediately jumped the hell up with a scream. It felt like something had stuck me right in the ass! Why? Because something had stung me...directly in the ass. I turned, looked down, and realized to my horror that I had sat -- and been stung in my right check -- by a bee. The cherry on top? I'm allergic. …so here I am in a remote Italian village, without an epipen …surrounded by yellers.... But, hey -- at least I wasn't car sick anymore.
My father is deathly allergic to bees. Doctors have told him the results of bee stings are cumulative. Translation: the allergic reaction becomes worse the more times you are stung. And since my reactions had been cumulatively worse as well, I was pretty freaked. Luckily, there was a doctor on our program who explained several factors: 1) my allergy is considered "level 2." If my throat did not close up immediately, I was out of the woods as far as the death card; 2) I could still have a "local reaction" -- swelling, itching, redness...and that could take up to 24 hours to set in. And finally, 3) bee allergies were not hereditary (I still call bullshit on that one), so the fact that my father had violent reactions did not mean I would. So after our 6 hour dinner (no joke), I went home, packed, and caught an early flight to meet boyfriend in Barcelona (Bar-th-e-lona...it's not Sesame Street Spanish, kids).
Boyfriend and his sister had both previously lived in Barcelona and they were both back for the summer visiting friends and host families. Boyfriend met me at the airport with flowers (heart!). Between my love sickness for him and the Italian yellers, I had never been so happy to see anyone. Barcelona is a beautiful city – one of my favorites. It's on the water, the architecture is modern and unique, the streets are wide, and the people are gorgeous. (And it was a relief to be in the company of people who did not insist on screaming at me constantly). Boyfriend and I spent the afternoon by the water, and as the sun began to set, we strolled up Las Ramblas. …And I began experiencing a sensation I'd never felt before. I’m not speaking of love…not contentment. I’m speaking about my ass. My right ass check began to itch...but it felt like the itchy part had separated from my actual ass. "Something's wrong," I told boyfriend. We booked it back to our hotel and boyfriend lifted my skirt to see what I could not. He screamed, "Oh Jesus!" just as his sister entered our suite. Her usually calm features shot up in alarm.
"What the hell happened?" I told them about the bus ride, the bee...and the miraculous 24 hour-to-the-minute timing of the reaction.
"Is it that bad?" I asked. The two of them parted and allowed me to make my way to the bathroom and a full-length mirror. I had never - nor have I since - seen anything like this. My right ass check has grown another ass check all its own. The tiniest pin-prick of a bee string present when I left Florence that morning has morphed into a red, lumpy, swollen entity -- at the time I thought it was a sign of the apocalypse. ...JLo clearly had nothing on me.
As previously mentioned, boyfriend and his sister had lived in Spain and both were fluent in Spanish. However, only boyfriend's sister spoke Catalan, which as you may know is the language spoken in Barcelona. (If you have no idea what I'm talking about, I frankly can't get into the whole Spain and Franco and the many sub-cultures and regional dialects. ...just refer to the Protestant/Catholic thing in Ireland. Or the American Civil War -- it's like that... close enough). So off to the drugstore we went for some benedryl and an ass-shrinking miracle. Here's what I didn't know about the pharmacy in Spain: you have to actually talk to the pharmacist. This fact presented a multitude of problems: 1) I'm from the East Coast and I hate people. I especially hate talking to them; 2) this incident was highly embarrassing and I wanted to share it with approximately no one; and 3) I don't know how to say "my ass-check exploded" in Catalan.
Boyfriend's sister took action and went directly to the pharmacist as we entered the store. They talked for a while and all I understood was "la crema" - which I assumed meant cream. As they continued to talk, the pharmacist came around from behind the counter, gave me a pitiful look, and without warning whipped me around and lifted my skirt. In the middle of the drugstore. For all to see. Her reaction also resembled something similar to, "Oh Jesus!" (but again -- I'm not sure how to say that in Catalan). …After we retreated with medication and some type of ass cream, I took several benedryl, drank a pitcher of sangria, and passed out at the dinner table.
Luckily, all's well that ends well. Within a day I was again down to one ass (believe me, one is all you need). But I learned several valuable lessons that day -- and that entire trip: 1) know the culture; 2) know the language; and 3) don’t let your ass explode in a foreign country.
