The Arrival

An Introductory Note:

I promised myself I would never become a blogger, but considering there are far too many people in the world with far too little time to read a page-long mass email every week, I figured this would be the best way to keep you all posted on my year abroad. Plus, this way if you get bored you can quit halfway through and not feel guilty, since I'm not writing to you specifically. Read at your leisure, use it as a break from work, or turn it into motivation to get yourself into a similar situation. We're only young once.

I have officially been in my new city for ten whole hours. It was a rocky start and, despite the cool patina, I had a bit of a meltdown yesterday. Leaving from Newark allowed me a perfect view of the Manhattan skyline and behind my asburdly huge sunglasses I started to cry. It's only been my home for the past two years but I'd really made a life for myself. I had friends, my local bodega, my Ukrainian waxer...etc. After a seamless check-in at Alitalia (well, not entirely seamless - they made Shelby and I pack our lotions in our checked baggage. oh, the agony of an 8 hour flight with no curel!), we settled onto the plane.

There was a brief second, when we were on the boarding ramp, where I really panicked. My mom turned to me and said "we dont have to go, you know. We can turn around still." And for a milisecond I considered her words. But although change is never easy at first, I knew my life had gotten stagnant and I was ready for a new adventure. No turning back.

After about 15 minutes on the plane any anxiety I had melted away. The Alitalia staff were dressed impeccably (I'm fairly certain the men were wearing pants desigtned by stella mccartney - I own a pair just like them) and were so accomodating and so painfully Italian they were almost caricatures of themselves. Sitting bulkhead, we had a clear view of their animated conversations. Italians not onlyt speak with their hands, but they emote from every ounce of their being - their eyes, their shoulders, their legs even move when trying to get a point across. Even if their 'point' is as mundane as where to get the best coffee in the city. There is something abot the Italian language that is incredibly soothing. Almost every word ends in a vowel, and the sounds enveloping me put me into a zen-like state, quickly easing my nerves. Of course, the xanax probably didn't hurt, either...

I'd be crazy if I didn't mention the airplane food. I have this odd, masochistic love of SkyChef. It sort of reminds me of trips with the family to Florida when I was younger, and the excitement of travel. It's oddly comforting. Is that wrong? Anyway, if you ever get the chance to fly Alitalia (p.s. they really should pay me for all of this free press) you will be floored by the food. (**Side Note: This is all for you, Wiedemann, as I know how much you love hearing about the food. Anyone who doesn't care, please skip ahead.) The primo piatto was gnochetti with fresh tomato and basil, and was so unlike the American version of gummy, potato dumplings you get stateside. They were light and actually tasted like potato while still maintaining that pasta-like integrity and soaking up the sauce, which had large pieces of real, fresh cherry tomatoes in it. There was also a semolina flour cake with grana padano cheese and grilled radicchio. Next was (unsurpsingly dry and chewy) mixed grilled meats with perfectly grilled late summer vegetables in olive oil, followed by fresh fruit and espresso.

Last week someone asked me what would be the very first thing I do in Rome. With a straight face I answered "Order a cappuccino, obviously." And so I did, as soon as we checked into the hotel. There is something ethereal about the schiuma (foam) on top of the coffee here. It's dense and almost sweet, and the Italians have perfected the ratio of espresso (which is never, ever bitter here) to whole, rich, European milk. The second thing I did? Order another one.

My mom and I dropped my bags off at my temporary apartment - a small studio in the Jewish Ghetto. It's one street away from the Tiber and ironically enough Shelby and I think we've eaten on this street years ago. In fact, it's the sole evening I remember from my very first trip to Rome 13 years ago: We went to the Jewish Ghetto for some good eating (naturally) and politely asked if we could dine outside. The patroness brought out a collapsible table for us, fried up some artichokes, and we dined on this tiny side street right next to ancient ruins. You know, just your average Tuesday dinner.

Hope everyone is well stateside, in the NL, and beyond. Send a comment, email me, or call. As soon as I have my new mobile number I'll let you know.