Birthday Burritoes

HAPPY 21ST BIRTHDAY CASALINGA!

Why couldn't my birthday be during the Spring semester, too? These celebrations are some of the most fun I get to have here in Italy. For about a week Selvaggia made plans to surprise Casalinga with a birthday dinner; myself and a big group of our apartment building friends were all in on the surprise. In hushed voices behind Casalinga's back, we all talked about the big dinner we were going to have on her 21st birthday night. It was just as exciting for her as for us. Since the beginning of the semester, all of us have had this obsession with food that isn't Italian. We got sick of pasta and pizza about 3 weeks in and relentlessly searched the city for other cuisines. One of the only cultural restaurants around the city is a place called Tijuana's and for the entire 3 month's we've been here we all promised ourselves we would go. Their margherita's (not the pizza) were apparently the best in the city, and that coupled with some traditional Mexican food sounded alot like a perfect evening. Selvaggia knew that Casalinga would love to spend her birthday night here and made reservations for our group. For days Casalinga had no idea. Of course, on the day of her birthday, she figured it out.

Regardless of the ruined surprise, the birthday dinner was a huge success. We all dressed in our classy birthday gear and walked, a full-fledged birthday procession, to Tijuana's. This place is so popular in Firenze that you've absolutely got to make a reservation before going or else you won't be seated. Even with a reservation, we had to wait about twenty minutes for a table. After sitting down, I took a moment to digest my surroundings. And guess what I found? Not only were there cherubs floating around the ceiling, directly to my right was a Madonna and Child. Its at the point now where I'm fairly certain I'm being haunted by Madonna and her chubby minions. I don't like it. I decided I wasn't going to let the Virgin Mary ruin my night and so I picked up my menu and stared down in disbelief. Pitchers of margherita's, burritoes, enchiladas, quesadillas, and nachos. The prices didn't matter at this point. Euro exchange rate be damned, I'm eating whatever I want. When I finally brought my head up from my menu, I looked around at the enraptured faces of my friends and realized we were all on the same page.

Our waitress came over and I was almost, but not quite surprised by the amount of margherita's my table ordered. We all got pitchers and shared with a friend. Thats a helluvalotta margherita. It was seriously a pitcher. Selvaggia and I decided to be the oddballs and order ours traditionally and I nearly regret the decision because everyone else's strawberry margherita's were unbelievably good. Our traditional one was just a teensie bit better, though, and since I like to be unique it was definitely a win-win situation. I slurped down an entire glassfull of the drink before ordering my meal. I wanted a burrito. When you go to a Mexican food place for the first time in what feels like a century, you should always order a burrito. Even saying the word burrito feels right when you're in a Mexican food place. We had nacho appetizers (with melted something like cheddar cheese that was close enough for me) before my mondo burrito came out. There were beans, there was rice, there was guacmole, and my chicken was exactly the right level of spicy. I'm almost ashamed that I couldn't finish it. I did, however, manage to finish my pitcher of margherita with Selvaggia.



The walk home felt almost like a walk of shame. I was kind of tipsy with a stomach full of Mexican delighfulness. Basically, I was stumbling along the Florentine cobblestones with what was sure to be a massive stomachache coming on. I wasn't bothered by any of it. More importantly, neither was Casalinga, who at this point had the opportunity to speak with her mom back and home and was officially a 21-year-old. Was she happy? I think so. Which means our failed surprise dinner at Tijuana's was a huge success.
Arrivederci, for now.
Love, Gabby

Whew! Some Modern Art in Florence.

I used to think that abstract art was stupid. I always told myself that anyone could do it, it was ugly, it had no point. I mean, really, if you put one yellow dot in the corner of a white canvas and call it abstract art, these days you'll make millions. What about all those artists who dedicate their lives to painting and sculpting and creating masterpieces? What about all the Rafael's who studied human anatomy so much that they were able to create man flawlessly from paintbrushes? Those guys could give life out with only pigments. Who the fuck did these modern and contemporary artists think they were? This was my thought process before I came to Florence. I am now a contemporary art addict. You must all know by now how hard it is for me to deal with all the Renaissance. Sure, Rafael worked his ass off to understand the human figure. He did a good job. Brava, Rafael. Way to go. You did the same thing every other artist of this time period was trying to do. Exactly the same as the rest of them. And your message is clearly stated in whichever Bible scene you've decided to depict. I mean, didn't they realize by 1550 that the world really didn't need another painting of the Crucifixion?

I went to the Pitti Palace today. I've been meaning to go here for a while. Its the Palace that the Medici family lived in. It houses three gigantic galleries I'd been told I absolutely had to see before I left this city. I used my "I'm a student so I can cut this long line and get everything free" card and bypassed the 2 hour long line, which made me really optimistic about the things I was about to see. Of course, the first gallery bored me to no end. I found myself looking not at the paintings and sculptures on display but at the wallpaper and chairs and ceilings. It was ten times cooler to see a palace than to look at yet another Renaissance masterpiece. By the time I made it through half of the rooms the only memorable thing I came across was an old ottoman that mildly interested me because it was red and gold. I realized my interest in this ottoman stemmed from my subconscious desire to be in Gryffindor house so I decided I didn't need to see the rest of this gallery. I started speedwalking through the crowds of people exclaiming over this Madonna and that St. John's Beheading. You know that feeling you get sometimes when you're afraid someone is following you, so you speed up and when you finally go through the door you've still got a little adrenaline rushing through your system but at the same time you're totally flooded with relief? Thats the feeling I got when I made it through the doors and out of that gallery.

I was intrigued by the idea of the other two galleries in the Pitti Palace; I wasn't ready to give up on my day. In Florence, when you hear about a gallery of modern art in the same building as a gallery of fashion, its kind of like being in Florence and hearing about a place that sells peanut butter. Its a miracle. They owned up. Looking at 16th century clothing is alot cooler than you'd think it would be. There was a dress in this gallery that if I had the gall I would totally try to steal. Sure, it probably wouldn't fit me, but damn I'd look awesome in it. It was a dress that someone made for me hundreds of years ago, they just didn't know I'd exist to need to wear it. It was a deep green dress, embroidered and poofy and totally something you'd see at a ball. I don't care if I'm almost 20, I'll still go to proms. I would wear that dress to anyones prom who'd take me. Until I'm almost 30. I'd still go. I fantasized about myself in that dress for a really long time. By the time I made it to the modern art gallery I'd been in the Pitty Palace for almost two hours. I realized by the time I left the gallery another two hours later that I'm never going to be the next Rafael. I don't want to be. I've discovered that the art that is different, the art that is interesting, with strange different styles and awkward color schemes, are more complex and more interesting and more difficult to relate to. I'd rather be the person who spends her time looking at the art that is a challenge to understand than the person who spends her time pretending that portraits and Bible scenes and still-lifes interest me in the least. Modern and contemporary art have officially become my interest. I will never again knock a painting of the yellow dot in the corner of the canvas. I saw enough different styles in this gallery that I could have visited this place once a year and have inspiration for the rest of my life, thats how good this collection was. Even if i don't return to Florence once a year, I'm still inspired for life. God, I love art.

Arrivederci, for now.
Love, Gabby

100 daze

"Dost thou love life?" asks Ben Franklin. "Then do not squander time, for that is the stuff life is made of"...

WHERE THE FUCK DID ALL THE TIME GO? Please understand my dilemma here, reader. I've been here in Italy for 100 days. One hundred long, long days. It felt like everyday was another forever. And yet, where did all the time go? What in the hell happened to those one hundred days? I just can't believe it. When I first signed up to go to school in Florence, I didn't count how many days I'd be there. All I knew was that I was going to be in Florence from January until May, and in May I was going to go where the wind blew until my family came to stay in Italy for the month of July. So, roughly seven months of Italy. It doesn't sound like alot. By the end of Februaru I was counting the days and realized that I was going to be here in Italy for about 190 days. I have passed my halfway point. More than half of my life in Italy is gone. Someone please explain to me how this happened?

I've done quite a bit in 100 days. I went to San Gimignano, Sienna, Pisa, Lucca, Milan, Venice, Pordenone, Munich, Neuschwanstein, Nice, Cannes, Montecarlo, Eze, and Prague. I've almost completely conquered Florence. I've been to the Uffizi, the Accademia, the Boboli Gardens, the Bargello, up and inside the Duomo, in the Palazzo Strozzi, to San Miniato church, and I've seen every single one of Florence's tourist sights (Piazza Signorina, Piazza Repubblica, Piazzale Michelangelo, Ponte Vecchio, etc. etc). It doesn't feel like I've done enough. Thats only 25 things. What the hell have I been doing with my days? I'll go ahead an add another 15 to that number for all the partying and fun I've had. 40. 40 days worth of stuff, and I've been here for 100. Why have I squandered so much of my time? Has it seriously, seriously been 100 days?

I'm going to write again when I've only got fifty days left until I return home and see if I still feel so unaccomplished.
Arrivederci, for now.
Love, Gabby

I really, really hate Step Brothers

Why do I decide to always travel long distances by bus? Its not like airfare isn't cheap in Europe. For three weekends in a row I've taken bus rides that were far too long. At first, this was exciting. I liked to look out the windows and see the alps and pretty vineyards. After spending a good portion of my life cooped up on buses, I'm over it. When I went to Munich it took me about eight hours on the bus. When I went to Nice it took me about seven hours. Prague, though, was on a whole new level. Thirteen long hours I sat on that Goddamned bus. Twice. I suffered through the first bus ride breathing nothing but recycled fart air stuffed into a seat behind the loudest snorer in the world (who also happened to be the tiniest girl in the world) while the back of my seat was constantly jostled by an inconsiderate bitch who I'm pretty sure was the farter. The second bus ride wasn't nearly as bad, save for one thing: Step Brothers.

I get it. Step Brothers is a great movie to put on for people stuck on a bus. Its funny and long and everyone laughs until the time passes. Yeah. I watched Step Brothers on every single one of the aforementioned bus journeys. Its like all the bus driver's got together and chose Step Brothers as their signature bus ride movie. The first time I watched it, it did it's job. Time passed, I laughed, etc. etc. Then the next weekend came and the movie came on again. I would have read a book and tuned it out accept in Italy the buses don't have personal lights. So I watched the stupid movie again. Prague was the worst though. Thirteen long hours of movie watching; it was inevitable that I would watch Step Brothers. I was annoyed, sure, but I steeled myself for it. What I wasn't prepared for was the movie collection running out. Not only did I watch Step Brothers on the way TO Prague, I watched it on the way FROM Prague.

If I see Will Ferrel's nuts one more time I think I'm going to gouge my eyes out.
Arrivederci, for now.
Love,
Gabby

Gargoyles are cool

Finally, a Cathedral that wasn't Renaissance. I've ingested enough Renaissance that I could spit the stuff up for the next thousand years. Diluting all that classical mumbo-jumbo with a little bit of Medieval is a welcome relief, always. Any Florentine would agree. As I came up on this Cathedral during my second day in Prague, I was totally flabberghasted. It wasn't made of marble. There weren't any frescos. And to my great pleasure, there wasn't as single cherub flying around. Those little buggers wouldn't have the balls to fly around this Cathedral. They'd be eaten by Gargoyles.

I love sculpture. My absolute favorite place in the world is a Sculpture garden in New Jersey called Grounds For Sculpture. I practically worship the place. The sculptures are all contemporary and interesting and fun to interact with. When I got to Florence I was pretty gung-ho about seeing all the sculpture in the city. After my 24th David and an extreme marble overload, I gave up on caring about Renaissance sculpture. Admittedly, I still love David and I will forever praise the works of Donatello and old Uncle Mike, but I just can't take any more perfection, seriously. I needed something strange and new to re-ignite my love for sculpture. I found that in Prague when I came across my first real live Gargoyles. Halleluja.

Can you really tell me that these aren't the coolest things you've ever seen? I was really interested in them and decided to listen in on one of the English speaking tour-guides as she explained their significance. Gargoyles are alot cooler than I thought. The people who invented Gargoyles made them as protectors of churches and castles. Apparently, they thought that the uglier they were, the better representative of the Devil they were. And, as legend has it, the only thing the Devil is afraid of is himself. So, the more creepy Gargoyles that adorned the facades of these buildings meant the better chance the Devil would come across his own reflection before barging in. Makes me wonder why they didn't just make the place out of mirrors, but whatever. Gargoyles are officially my favorite.

I was delighted when I realized that to go inside the Cathedral I wouldn't have to pay a cent. I was totally amazed by the interior. The first thing I noticed was the stained glass. I have a small obsession with stained glass. I am a firm believer that half the reason I survived church when I was little was because I could busy myself with looking at all the different colors in the images rather than sneak underneath the pews to tie peoples shoes together. Which, when the stained glass got boring, I did. I still love to look at all the colors. I was immediately struck by the massiveness of the stained glass in this Cathedral. I've never in my life seen such intricate and gigantic windows in my life. The color schemes in them were inspiring, too. Instead of being as representational of life as they could, these colors were innovative (for the time). There was one window I will never forget made of all purple, red, and blue pieces. It was spectacular. I went from window to window and was barely able to contain myself. Caah kept having to shush me and look around for me because I was wandering from one amazing thing to the next. There were frescos, but they weren't Renaissance. There was gold everywhere. The sculptures were all totally nuts, there was even a wooden one! There was a tomb there of some saint or another so oranately decorated, with silver and gold and angels literally suspended from the ceiling, that Caah and I stood and gaped for a good twenty minutes.

As I came to the end of my Cathedral circuit, I noticed something and groaned inside. It was a Madonna and Child. Until this point I'd been totally free of Renaissance art and I wasn't about to let the Madonna and her stupid baby remain in that marvelous Cathedral uninsulted. I went up to the painting and was about to curse it off for ruining this outstanding place when I noticed something. Yeah, it was a Madonna. But she wasn't holding a child. I almost screamed with pleasure. I actually hopped a little bit and started cracking up hysterically. PRAGUE HAS CONQUERED THE RENAISSANCE, FRIENDS! Madonna was holding a house. I kind of resent all the parodies of David that are out there, but this parody I thoroughly enjoyed:

I've never enjoyed artwork so much. I couldn't stop talking about that Madonna and House for the rest of the day. Caah actually had to tell me to shut up at one point.

When I went back to Florence, flooded once again with Renaissance, getting through it was much easier. In the back of my mind there was always the Madonna and House.
Well, Arrivederci, for now.
Love, Gabby

What the fuck is up with the Stop signs?

I've got a problem, Europe. A big one. I have finally discovered the reason why the drivers here are absolute maniacs. You know, I pegged you as one of the smarter continents, Europe. I really did. I thought with all your experience at being the most advanced collection of countries in the world that you'd be able to pool your resources and outshine the rest of the world for intelligence. Plus, all those years of experience with being big bad Europe has to count for something, right? Nope.

What moron decided to put up stop signs? I understand the need for a sign that tells the driver they need to stop at an intersection. Those signs are completely neccesary. WHY DO THOSE SIGNS READ "STOP"? Please, someone explain this to me. You'd be better off putting up an octogonal sign thats just red. People understand that. But "Stop"? I get that alot of people in Europe understand English, but the majority don't. Maybe 1/4th of the Italian population understands English. Its no friggin' wonder I've almost been killed in car-pedestrian collisions. I must come within inches of losing my life every day. How the hell do you expect to get the point across for a driver to stop if they can't even understand the sign they are looking at? I almost sympathize with those speeding Fiats, now. Heck, they could hit me and the BOTH of us could sue. I could sue them for hitting me and they could sue whatever asshole decided that putting the word "Stop" on an Italian sign was a good idea.

I found this sign: in Prague, after coming across numerous Stop signs in Italy and Germany, and this was the final straw for me. I needed to address this situation. European motorways should not have Stop Signs. I only hope that someone takes my sound advice and paints over "Stop" and replaces it with the native language's word for stop.
Arrivederci, for now.
Love, Gabby

I ate my weight in Prague

I'm discovering that food is among the top 3 things I love most about Europe. I've become really experimental, here. I'm an anxious, nervous, and gullible person whose pretty much scared of everything, including breathing. I've got a long list of fears and were I to try and list them I'd find years from now I'd still be adding to the list. One of these fears is food. I have trouble trying new foods. When I was in Little Cayman I began my quest to overcome this fear. On that island we had a chef who cooked lunch and dinner. If I wanted to eat, I needed to try new things. The very first new things I tried was Mexican rice and beans. Guess who liked it? Since then the new foods I've tried have included: bananas, cantaloupe, lentil soup, cucumbers... the list continues. Since being in Italy, I've tried strawberries, tomatoes, guacamole (I know, not Italian), zucchini, red peppers... the list continues. Anyway, I've found that since being in Europe I actually enjoy this game where I try to eat new things. I've become quite the chef since living here, too. I challenged myself to try something traditional from each new place I found myself.

Praha was particularly challenging. I didn't know a damn thing about Prague and especially didn't know about its cuisine. And when I got there, I found myself surrounded by the American delicacies I love. I had a fried chicken sandwich from one of the hundred thousand 24 hour food stands that litter the city. I had a starbucks coffee (and never in my entire life have I been so publicly indecent. I was making sexual sounds loud enough that blocks over probably wondered who was being pleasured). I had Lipton Green Tea. I was in heaven. During dinner on my first night I reassesed what I was doing here in Praha. I used to work in a Starbucks Cafe at BN, was I really that desperate for it? No, I guess I am not. I miss American coffee passionatly, but I'll be in America again soon enough. I vowed that I would eat something Prahaian before the night was through. And then I looked at the menu. Fried chicken and mashed potatoes, complimented by a beerstein for only 500 crowns? Plus a before and after dinner shot of sweet Prahaian alcohol, and all this to the fun tunes from these dudes? I'd be insane to pass that up. I drank a stein full of Budweiser and ate every last bit of mashed potato on my plate.

I woke up the next morning and decided that today was the day I would eat something traditionally Czech. I went downstairs and to my surprise and delight our continental breakfast included my favorite cereal of all time: Kashi. Fucking Prague has Kashi. I ate two bowls of Kashi cereal and drank about 20 mugfulls of the freshly brewed American coffee they offered. It was by far the best breakfast I've had here in Europe. That day my friend Caah, who came with me to Prague, and I heard about a bakery. Not just any bakery, though. This was a bagel bakery. Apparently, this place was home to Europe's greatest bagel sandwich. Were we going to go here for lunch? Yes. We met two of our friends, one who I'll call Rosso and one who I'll call Poof, and the four of us went to try the best bagel sandwiches in Europe. I'll vouch for this place. I had a plain bagel with egg and cheese, toasted, with a coffee. An American coffee. We were so happy with the place that the four of us sat there for four hours and gossiped like old ladies. A perfect day of eating American style.

By the time we left we were already planning dinner and I'd long since given up on the idea of eating anything Czech before I left Prague the next morning. In one last ditch attempt to find something Prahaian Caah asked the receptionist at our hotel if there was anyplace good to eat. She told us to walk five minutes and we'd find a place. We did, and on the corner was a little hole in the wall, run-down looking joint whose menu was cheap and simple. We met Rosso, Poof, and another friend and the five of us went inside. I immediately loved the place. On their huge screen LCD televisions a Flyers/Penguins game was on. Live. All hope of a Czech meal melted then, but I didn't care. There was hockey. My eyes were glued to the screen and I barely looked at the menu. "I'll have what she's having" I said when the waitress came to take our order and I pointed to Caah. Thank you, Caah, for doing me that solid. I ate Czech. When my dish came out I looked down dismayed. I had a piece of chicken smothered in some strange white, bleu cheese sauce I'd never seen before. The sauce was touching my roasted potatoes. I'm one of those, whose foods can't ever touch. And to be honest, the look of the sauce was really giving me a panic attack. Anxious me kicked in. I'd become so used to American food that my fear of trying new things was returning. Right before my hyperventiliation kicked in I took a deep breath and looked over at Caah, whose eyes were closed in what seemed like certain pleasure. So I closed mine and dug in. Foodgasm. One big, fat, foodgasm. I nearly popped the button on my pants.
Arrivederci, for now.
Love, Gabby

Walking Tour

I'm going to walk you through the highlights of Prague because I walked through the highlights of Prague.

Probably the biggest "tourist attraction" of Prague is the Astronomical clock, known to the Czech's as the Orloj. Its basically three clocks: one shows the position of the sun, one shows the position of astronomical details (mainly images of the Apostles), and a clock respresneting all of the months. For zodiac buffs (which I have actually been lately) this thing is a must-see. Every hour or so, just like the Glockenspeil clock, there is a performance. This performance is exactly as exciting as the Glockenspeil, too. That is to say, standing in that huge crowd of sweaty, stank Europeans to watch one guy in a leotard blow a trumpet is really not exciting at all. The clock is definitely worth seeing, though, and grabbing a beer at one of the restaurant's outside is worthwhile too. People watching here is rival only to people watching in a German airport.

The Charles Bridge had the second highest density of tourists in Prague. Of course it was stunning. I expect no less from Europe, now. There were sculptures every ten feet or so of imporant men and, what else, cherubs. One day, when I'm in heaven, I'm going to kick a cherub. This was the view I had to my right. To my left was a view exactly as breathtaking. I didn't expect the river that cut through Prague to be so big; I'm used to the itty-bitty Arno, and seeing the monstrous Vltava river almost, but not quite, gave me that refreshing ocean sensation you all know I love. I fell in love with someone on this bridge. This guy: is my new boyfriend. Sorry, Dave, but I'm having an affair in Prague. This little old guy was too adorable to pass up. He was part of a five piece folk band that plays on the Charles Bridge every day for five hours. And he played the washer. He danced around like a cute little old man and played the washer. What a fucking life? He doesn't know how much he loves me.

Next stop: John Lennon Peace Wall. I told you, this place is revolutionary. Before we got to the wall we made a pitstop on a smaller bridge where there was a lovers-lock fence. These fences are all over Europe. Wherever theres a river theres a lock fence. There is one in Florence. This is what it looks like. Lovers buy a lock and to solidify their love, they put it around one of these fences. Then they throw the keys into the river, together. Its really symbolic and blah blah blah. I almost ran back to my boyfriend and asked him to buy a lock with me. I didn't though, and continued onward to the Peace wall, which I was dying to see. Decades of graffiti, decades of poetry, decades of pleas for peace are all over this wall. Its probably the most beautiful piece of artwork I have seen since I've been here, and I'm no revolutionary peace activist. This wall was just that magnificent. The wall stretches about 30 feet or so (rough estimate) and is covered with lyrics from Beatles songs, graffiti symbols and faces that beg for peace on Earth, and of course the I love Susan's 4E, or the Jacob was here 2005's. Can't go anywhere in Europe without them. I challenge all of you useless vandals to come up with something more inventive! Regardless of the stupidity of such writings, the wall was amazing.

Well, thats Prague in a nutshell.
Arrivederci, for now.
Love, Gabby.

Its not Czechoslavakia, its the Czech Republic

Prague. Its was on my list of things to do before I die. To be honest with myself and with my readers, the only reason it was on my list of things to do before I die was because it was on Rory Gilmore's list of things to do before she died. I'm probably the biggest Gilmore Girls fan in the world and spent the better part of my early teens wishing I were Rory Gilmore. I therefore adopted Prague as a dream of mine. I had not a fucking clue what important things were in Prague, why Prague was important, or even where it was, but going to Prague was more important to me than going anywhere else during this trip. I went to Prague, Rory Gilmore!


I found out that Prague is in the Czech Republic. I also found out that if you call the Czech Republic Czechoslavakia, people get angry. Really angry. People are really proud of being Czech and are even more proud to be from Prague. It's such an important city (to my surprise, since I'd never heard of it before Gilmore Girls) that two emperors of the Holy Roman Empire made this city their seat. It's now the unofficial capital of Eastern Europe and also the unofficial cultural center of all of Europe. All the young European revolutionaries, all the kids with big ideas, come to Prague to voice them in the underground. This city has the most active underground band scene in Europe, its basically the European Manhattan for music. It is host to some of Europe's best music festivals, second only to Amsterdam (where drugs are basically legal). The art, here, is all contemporary and innovative. Even the ancient art is innovative for it's time. Prague, it seems, is the up-and-coming city of the world.

This is one such revoluntionary-arty thing. This sculpture is made entirely of keys. Each of the keys was a donation by someone who was fighting for freedom worldwide. And young adults, all desperately trying to spread freedom, sell these keys for 5 Euros or 75 crowns. Each key sold is another key to freedom, or so their slogans say. When I was walking through Prague the next day, an entire procession of anarchists walked through the streets of Prague for a demonstration that very nearly turned violent. I only saw the beginning, but all of these kids (dressed as your traditional goth-anarchists with 800 piercings a piece) waved around their chains and threatened everyone with cameras. Something big is gonna happen in Prague, soon.

I suppose thats why Rory Gilmore wanted to go so badly.
Arrivederci, for now.
Love,
Gabby

Eurodogs

European dogs are cuter than American dogs. Easy. Minus the mangy, dirty strays that roam all around (and sometimes these are cute, too) these dogs are all extremely well-groomed. They are all well-behaved. They don't smell. The variety of dogs in Europe is astounding; instead of seeing every woman walking a mini chihuahua and every man walking a fat little pug, the Europeans like to mix it up. There are big goldens, weiner dogs, thin Greyhounds, and poodles. Lots and lots of poodles that are so well-maintained they actually look like poodles. In America, poodles don't have the fluffy balls on their feet and tails. In Europe, they do. I've had more than one conversation with friends about how seeing all the Europeans walking their beautiful dogs makes me want my best friend Bobo here in Italy with me. I miss him so much. I'd do pretty much anything to have my dog here in Europe. Dogs are everywhere and I desperately want mine here to fit in. Plus, I think my crazy dog could take a page out of the European good-dog handbook. In Europe, there aren't any regulations against having your pets on the train. You can bring your dogs into the bars, into the clothing stores, and even into restaurants. It's abnormal not to. They are so well-behaved the owners feel safe bringing them into these places. I haven't seen one bad dog, yet. Even the mangy street dogs are good. They even allow their dogs to roam freely, unleashed, and they faithfully trot alongside their owners. They know to look out for cars, they know not to wander too far away, they know not to stop for too long to catch a wiff of another dog's pee. I feel such longing when I watch how good these dogs are, and I DESPERATELY WANTED TO PET ONE.

I knew which dog I wanted to pet. Outside of my apartment is the San Lorenzo church. There is a piazza outside of this church and my favorite breed of dog next to a Huskie lays out there every day. Right in front of the steps, begging to be pet. Every morning before school I walk through this piazza and restrain myself from stopping for ten minutes to sit with this dog. He is bigger than a bear, fluffy, adorable. I'll stop myself from continuing. As I approach everyday I can't help but feel like all I want in the world is to bend down and pet this dog. His owner is one of the only non-creepy San Lorenzo marketplace shop owners. I wondered if his non-creepiness would be displaced to meanness and was terrified to ask if I could pet his dog. I tried to smile at him every day to let him know I was friendly, hoping my friendliness would incite him to allow me to pet his dog when I finally bucked up the courage to ask. The closest I ever came to asking was one beautiful, sunshiney morning when he asked me if I wanted to buy a belt. No, sir, I don't want your belt, but can I please pet your dog? It didn't sound right. How agonizing it became to walk past this dog every day and not bend down and pat his soft, brown head. He just layed there, unmoving, every morning. I daydreamed. I'd buy a ball and sit with this dog and play fetch forever, watching him bound around the piazza with his long tounge lolling around. He'd run back to me with a slobbery tennis ball and drop it in my lap and I'd throw it again and again. I know, I'm pathetic. I just really wanted to pet this dog.

It wasn't until nearly halfway through my schooling, during Spring break time when I was lonely and unhappy, that I couldn't take it anymore. Screw the language barrier, I was going to ask this San Lorenzo man if I could pet his dog. The dog was so cute, just laying there on another one of the only sunny days in the history of Firenze, I just needed to pet him. The cobblestones weren't wet, I could sit there for a minute or two. I'd had a good breakfast and was feeling brave. "Scusa, Signore," I said, hesitantly. "Ciao bella!" he cried. Of course, I'd underestimated his creepy. I suppose the Ciao bella's come with the San Lorenzo territory. It must be part of the job description. Anyway, I asked "Questa e sua cane?", "Siiiiiii" was his long, drawling reply. He wasn't getting a sale and I wasn't interested in making out with him later and so all that San Lorenzo friendliness was gone. "Posso coccolare il cane?" A curt nod, and I was elated! I practically bounced over to the dog, completely out of my mind with happiness. I bent over and put my hand out for him to sniff. He didn't even bother. To my great disappointment he took one look at me, got up and walked over two or three cobblestones before lying down in exactly the same position he'd been in before I'd disrupted him.

I guess Eurodogs are just as unfriendly as Europeans. And Bobo, you're still the best dog in the world.
Arrivederci, for now.
Love, Gabby.