New York Minutes

I made it home to JFK in one piece, and surprisingly so did my five bottles of olive oil, four bottles of wine, balsamic vinegar, grappa and honey. It's not often that I thank an airline, especially after seeing the bill, but I think I owe a bit of gratitude to Delta for noticing my "FRAGILE" sticker. And another shoutout to Delta for organizing a celebrity sighting in honor of my New York homecoming (you shouldn't have).

It was Wyclef Jean, he was sportin' a shaved head, army green jacket and was waiting for his luggage at baggage claim 3 (I was at 4). I debated harassing him for an autograph to show my students in Italy, but then I remembered I'm home, quickly put on my "Jaded New Yorker" cap and went about my business.

Customs was a breeze and reuniting with my mom was a wonderful (and very Hallmark) moment. In the car I flipped on Z100 to get a crash course in the latest American pop music. I'm sorry, but who is Flo Rida (not to be confused with the sunny state of Florida) and why is he popular? Maybe I'm missing something, but his song "Low" sounds like every other recent hip hop artist. Where's the originality? And how can I explain shawty, apple-bottom jeans, and booty smackin' to my Italian friends? I miss the days of Tribe Called Quest, Missy, Biggy, and Nas. Luckily my friends over at Vh1 are still serving up kick-ass Hip Hop Honors shows. If you aren't in the know, click here.

When I got home I crashed on my palatial-seeming bed. It was a strange feeling--the sheets were soft, the pillows fluffy, and I could actually roll over without falling off. I started channel surfing only to find that nothing has changed on TV. Oprah is still having "aha" moments, the Hogan clan is causing hijinks, TMZ's hunting celebs and that annoying Head On commercial is still in rotation.

Toast to the East Coooast

Depending on how much wine and grappa we have in the house, cena a casa (dinner at home) has the potential for priceless video moments and no one is safe from my lens.  On this night my Italian roommate, Gianni, explained his ubriaco version of American geography using the world map we have in our sitting room.  

Some notes:

• The music you hear is from Gianni's native town in the south of Italy.  Love it.
  
• Gianni's zipper was down throughout the entire video.
  
• Attention all people of America, and by that I mean farmers, cowboys, east and west cooooasters:  I'm coming home tomorrow!
  

      

Sexy Sign Language

Just a few minutes outside the walls of picture-perfect Treviso is Il Terraglio, not to be confused with i taralli, my favorite Italian snack which consists of small crunchy ringlets of bread, mildly salty and delicious.

No, no. Il Terraglio is the road that connects Treviso and Venice. It's lined with trattorie, bars, villas, and apartments and by day it's seemingly ordinary. But by night it's a sexed-up superhighway filled with prositutes. On a recent drive back from Venice I counted thirty-five in a 2-mile radius at which point I felt slightly violated for even being on the same pavement, not to mention they were getting picked up left and right. Yuck.

Then I saw this salty sign provocatively posted along the street. In English it says, WATCH OUT FOR PROSTITUTES.

Come on, is this really necessary? It's not like these women are jumping out from behind trees and galloping across the road to graze. Can't they just tend to their "business" in subtle fashion? And it seems that the artist went to great lengths to perfect her perfectly perky Double D breasts but neglected to give her any hands! Poor hooker.

I would, however, enjoy seeing a sign that says, "ATTENZIONE: sleezy Italian men hunting for prostitutes may jam on their brakes at any minute."

If there were one place this sign could have served a genuine purpose, perhaps it would have been in Spitzer's office. Maybe if I ask nicely, the mayor of Treviso will overnight it to Albany as a cautionary reminder for Lt. Gov David Paterson...

Three's Company

It was the strangest moment - I arrived home on an ordinary Friday to see two of my favorite people from the U.S., my best friends Kelli and Maggie, in the flesh. They were casually leaning out of my second story window shouting, "Buongiorno...Ciao Bella!" and then bum rushed me with American kisses (the one-cheek variety) and hugs.

They are the first of my friends to visit from the U.S. and their presence was like a flood from my former life. They were chock full of gifts and news from the motherland: Crest mouthwash, Herbal Essences mouse, PEOPLE, US Weekly, the NY POST and OK Mag, updates on the newest NYC restaurants, clubs, political scandals, fashion trends, pregnant friends, engagements, etc. I was inundated with American-ness and at that moment there was no better feeling in the world. It took only 20 minutes before all of my repressed American slang weaseled its way back into my vernacular.

Totally; wanna; awesome; I'm over it; gotta; whatever; you guys; gimme a break. Ya' know?

But talk of America was quickly replaced with excited questions about Italy: my job, my new friends, the men, and of course our ambitous three-day itinerary.


Day 1-Venice
Day 2-Wine tour in the prosecco hills of Conegliano
Day 3-Road trip to Verona


To be continued...

It's pretty much my favorite animal...

There might not be any ligers roaming around Italy but there's an uncanny Napolean Dymamite look-a-like loose in Treviso. He was on the prowl at Amami last week and was scoring major points with the ladies (or maybe just me and Kelli).

He posed for photo after photo and, in his thick Italian accent, invited all the girls to, "toucha' ma afro," which I must admit was surprisingly well-maintained.

Unfortunatley he was too over-served (see photo below) to show off what I'm sure were fabulous dance moves. But I give the kid major props for embracing his dynamite style.
Just follow your heart. That's what I do.

Big Girls Don't Cry

You can take the girl out of the city, but can you take the city out of the girl?

I thought this to myself as I anxiously suited up Sunday morning (at 5:30am) for a snowboading trip in the Dolomite Mountains! I've had one previous snowboarding experience...it was circa 2001 with my ex-boyfriend who insisted that I not take a lesson and promised that he would teach me instead. After about 20 minutes he lost his patience (what little he had) and disappeared into the zero visibility, leaving me to fend for myself.

But I wasn't going to let tramautic memories ruin a perfectly awesome Sunday of skiing in Italy with some new friends! So I put on my game face (and a rather cute boaring outfit, compliments of my old job), downed two espressos and began the ascent up to Pecol, about an hour and a half away from Treviso.

We arrived before the crowds, easily rented boots and a board and went straight up in the gondola. Showtime.

After a few passes on the practice hill the guys decided we should throw caution to the wind and go down the real mountain. Oh Dio. My first run was disasterous; a series of flailing mishaps, face plants and falls. I even managed to take down my 6 foot 4 inch, 190 pound friend who ever-so-patiently guided me down. My most fantastic face plant nearly knocked the wind out of me, at which point as I fought back tears I thought, maybe I should have stayed on the bunny slope. Needless to say, my confidence wasn't at it's peak by the time I reached the bottom, but after fueling up with a mid-morning wurstel sandwhich (think sliced hot dogs on a hamburger bun) we went back up for round two.

I don't know how it happened, but on my 2nd run this city girl was actually snowboarding! Ok, I definitely fell a couple of times and by no means looked cool, but I finally became one with my snowboard and found my balance! Such a rush.

Run number three wasn't as successful, probably due to my trembling muscles and worn out knees but I felt satisfied with my modest success. I spent the rest of the day chatting with some locals and met an adorable Italian girl at the log cabin-ish panini shop who I'm going to meet for coffee and do a language exchange with (half hour of English, half hour of Italian). Oh, and I can't forget the Vin Brule. No cold winter day in Italy would be complete without it.

Lost Girls Just Wanna Have Fun

It's official, I'm a Lost Girl (of the week)!!! What does it mean? Who are the original Lost Girls?

Read all about it here on my dear friend's super extensive, incredibly witty, highly publicized travel blog: The Lost Girls.

Thanks for all your love and support, Jen. I am honored to be your Lost Girl of the Week! Inspiration comes in many forms...you are one of them.