I'm what the French call "les drunk"

So, last night was our first in Cortona, and what a night it was. We arrived in the small Tuscan mountain town in the afternoon faced with the exciting prospect of climbing the world's steepest hill. Once at the top we took the time to look around and really enjoy the beauty of our new home while simultaneously feeling as if we were about to die. Good times were had by all. Upon moving into our dorm, a 16th century convent, we were given time to settle and complain about the hill. A few hours later we were ready to walk back down the hill to Tonino's, the restaurant where we will be dining every week night. You would think walking down would be pleasant, but the thought of the walk back up is rather haunting. Yet, down we went.
At Tonino's, I was instructed that the before dinner drink of choice is the "spritz" (pronounced spreetz), which is prosecco (Italian version of champagne) and some sort of strawberry-ish liquer. The before dinner drinks were the beginning of the end for me. Most everyone had one of those, then my table drank 3 bottles of wine with dinner. By the end of dinner, I was very excited and ready to go to the Lion's Well for "one drink." Then I peer-pressured pretty much everyone else into doing the same. That was our mantra, "I'm just going for one drink, just to check it out, we won't really go out till Thursday or Friday." False.
We arrived at the "English pub" (Italians love to call their bars English pubs, I guess they think it attracts tourists who don't speak very good Italian. Clearly they're right) around 9 o'clock and were promptly greeted by several Canadian students who are also studying in Cortona for the semester. We made friends with them. So, we all had several more drinks and at some point I decided to casually lean on a stool. As I'm going into the lean saying, "I'm what the French call 'les drunk'", the stool breaks and I almost fall to the ground. Everyone saw, and laughed.
More drinks and shots go by and about 8 of us end up in a booth in the back playing Thumper and then Never Have I Ever. I failed miserably at Thumper, though I did succeed in coming up with the dirtiest word of the group, managing to even gross out the guys present (cum dumpster, in case you were wondering, thanks for that one Peggy). Never Have I Ever may have been a bad choice, as we ended up learning some things about each other that no one needed to know. For instance, two people have made sex tapes, a few have had threesomes, and at least one has had sex in a public place more than once. I'm not going to name names on the off chance that the guilty parties stumble upon this blog, but they know who they are, and so do I. And yes, though I was very intoxicated, I do remember exactly who put fingers down for the items listed above. I don't, on the other hand, remember most of the walk back up the hill or how I managed to make my bed.
All in all, I'd say it was a very successful night and one that won't be repeated any time soon. Especially because I spent all 20 euro that I took out with me last night and am now down to about 35 for the rest of the week. Ooops.

In the Land of the Guido, A Very Long Post

Well, I’m finally here, and what a journey it has been. First of all, let me say that I can definitely see why guidos dress the way they do. Italian men are all about the tight, fitted tees and hair gel; it must be deeply rooted in their DNA. Even the men who have the potential to be attractive ruin it with their fashion choices and accessories. The women, on the other hand, are nothing like the guidettes that are at this moment classing up the great state of New Jersey. That does not mean that I particularly agree with their clothing (designer logos prevail, with the added bonus of 5-inch heels at all times regardless of the freezing weather and cobblestone streets), but most are not sporting that ever-so-attractive orange skin pigmentation and the elegant-yet-simple bump-it with obvious hair extensions. Whatever their outward appearances may suggest, the people of Italy have been nothing but friendly (save for a very rude thief cab driver) and helpful. They try their hardest to accommodate my greatly lacking Italian language skills by using their greatly lacking English language skills. They take the time to ask where we’re (my roommate Ellen and I that is) from and what we plan on doing on our trip. Overall, the experience has been lovely so far.
Before I get to my first day abroad, let me briefly discuss the trip across the pond. It kicked off on the flight to Atlanta with my being seated next to an overweight Gap employee on her way to a conference in Vegas. She yapped incessantly for almost the entire 45-minute flight no matter whether I had my headphones in or not. I think we’ll probably be best friends for life. In the Atlanta airport, the people were miraculously even more colorful, Hollister and Abercrombie everywhere, mostly on foreigners who could not have been more excited to be showing off their American souvenirs. Mostly I just sat at a bar and drank beer trying to make myself sleepy enough to doze off on the flight. As luck would have it, said bar was in terminal E, the international terminal, the terminal printed on my ticket, the terminal that my flight was supposed to take off from before it was moved to terminal T which is at the exact opposite end of Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport. Long story short, I almost missed my flight because I spent too much time talking to the bartender who bore a rather striking resemblance to Lil Wayne minus the teardrop tats and his coworker the Kim Kardashian wannabe.
When I finally made it to the plane (I was the last person on before they shut the door), I was pleasantly surprised to see a rather meager crowd, mostly made up of real-live Italians. I ended up with 2 seats all to myself and all the free beer I could drink and the chance to watch 500 Days of Summer for the 5th time in a month (which I happily did). The beer made me drowsy enough to sleep in a really awkward position for a couple of hours, though sadly it wasn’t enough. When I got to Roma, I was drowsy to say the least, but I knew I must stay awake, so Ellen (my roomie for the night from Boston College by way of Minnesota) and I trekked it from the airport on the Leonardo Express and then took a cab from the train station to the elegant Torre Rossa Park Hotel. From there we set out on quite an adventure that involved lots of walking, a failed attempt to hail a cab and finally the discovery of a metro stop which led us to St. Peter’s Basilica where we spent a good 3 hours staring at one of the most amazing buildings and some of the most incredible art I have ever seen. We then somehow made it back to the hotel, went to dinner and then fell asleep at around 10.
On Monday everyone else arrived in the afternoon and we became acquainted with our new roommates and had dinner with the group. Not going to lie, I was a bit nervous, as I didn’t know a single person besides the four people I had met the night before. In order to keep this from being the longest post ever, I’ll just say that the 4 days in Rome consisted mostly of a lot of walking and a lot of sightseeing and just a dash of awkward broken Italian. I started this post on Sunday, but because I am way too cheap to pay for internet, I just waited until today when we got to Florence, or the Land of Free Hotel Internet as I now know it, to finish it and post, which is why I’ll have to just give you the highlights:
• Saw St. Peter’s, the Pantheon, the Coliseum, the Roman Forum, the Spanish Steps, the Keats-Shelley House, the Piazza Navona, the Villa Borghese, the Vatican, and many other things that I can’t think of after no sleep, a long bus ride, and 4 glasses of wine.
• Made some friends (thank God)
• Somehow managed, on Tuesday night, to knock the sink off of the wall in my room. It’s a long story, but, quickly, I came in at around 1:30 after a long drunken conversation to use the restroom and went to wash my hands. I set my left hand on the sink basin as I went to turn on the faucet and noticed that the sink was moving. I heard the loudest most horrible noise I have ever heard in my life and felt the sink hit my legs. I tried to get it to sit back against the wall until I found someone to help me, but it had another plan. As I tried to set it on the ground, a jet of water began pummeling the ceiling. I was fucked. I ran out, woke up my roommates, sprinted to the front desk and got a security guard who looked like he was about to shit his pants once he saw our room. The room flooded and we were moved to another where my roommates went back to sleep and I had a semi-panic attack. It was a blast.
• Walked by the “Cat Sanctuary”, which is an enclosed ruin where Roman cats can live undisturbed. Apparently, Italians LOVE cats because they are everywhere in some form or another (real, stuffed animals, calendars, posters, etc.). In our delirious state my friends Heather and Christina and I decided that the Coliseum was actually a cat sanctuary and the whole “gladiator” thing was a myth created by Russell Crowe who lives next door. We were also babbling something about gladiator kitties and lion kitties (they fight each other). I really hope no one spoke enough English to know what we were saying, because it got real weird, real fast.
• Went out in Rome last night, got way more drunk than I thought I was, and rode back in a cab with 2 girls and the one boy on the trip. One of the other girls was so drunk she began telling us about how Carrevaggio was gay and if she had lived at the same time as Bernini he “would have been hers” and how Anderson (the lone boy who feels like he has a disease because everyone keeps telling him how sorry they are and looking at him like he’s really pathetic) was just not her type (she was sorry, he just isn’t), she likes men with broad shoulders and narrow hips (guys like “upside down triangles”). The bus ride and cold, rainy, 5-hour stop in Viterrbo was really fun with a hangover.
• Italians, as well as loving cats, really love penguins. They are everywhere and we’re pretty sure they actually live here.
Basically it has been a long, exhausting, amazing trip where I’ve been either deliriously, hysterically tired to the point of uncontrollable laughter or drunk on copious amounts of free wine. Also, I recant my former statement about Italian men. I fall in love about 15 times a day, but Francesco, the guy at the photography shop, really holds the key to my heart. Not only is he beautiful, but he has a country house in Cortona. We’re probably going to get married; you’re all invited. I love Italy, I may never come home.