Finding Lolita

Good evening Romers! After a relaxing week under the San Diego sun, I have finally returned to Northern California. What a vacation. Being back at school felt a little surreal, but I quickly felt myself transitioning back into the life of a student after only a couple of days.....showering/staying in the dorms (what memories), spending hours socializing in the cafeteria, running into former professors, sipping lattes at the fountain and watching students amble along the promenade, capitalizing on every last ray of sunlight before class....

Well, needless to say, it was beyond fabulous catching up with old friends and meeting new ones, and made me excited to think that I get to go back to graduate school in a few months!! What made this trip even better is the way that it all started: the airport.

Now I'll admit it, I have a bit of a fetish with airports. Sometimes, I feel like it's where I belong more than anywhere else in the world. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that you can assume an alias for that short flight (I've introduced myself as a professional tennis player once, just to keep things exciting). Or maybe it's the "transitional" nature....so many emotions stir the atmosphere of an airport--joy, anger, excitement, loss, fear, loneliness, love, anticipation, and my personal favorite: lust for the cute guy sitting at your terminal! Well, such is normally the case. It never ceases to amaze me how many attractive people I come into contact with at airports (the mystery is soo intriguing!), and it makes it all the more thrilling to wonder if maybe I will be on the same plane, or even better, the same row as the unnamed cute guy I just ran into at Starbucks. In any case, it turns out that I did spot an attractive young businessman while standing in line at Peet's Coffee (think Luke Brandon from Confessions of a Shopaholic), and we exchanged smiles and a hello, but as luck has it, I later saw him at the Chicago gate..*sigh*

Although Luke Brandon and I lost our opportunity at fate, I knew it was time to get to my gate. I strategically took a seat behind a girl with the largest bump witnessed by mankind (displayed above.) It was simply too impressive to sit anywhere else but in her blind spot so that I could sneakily snap a picture and prove bumps of this size do in fact exist (think of a bumpit on steroids). Feeling quite proud of my recent finding, I began scanning the others at my gate....people watching being my favorite hobby of all time, I capitalized on this perfect opportunity and watered my eyes with the sight of people typing on laptops, reading novellas, text messaging, and checking their nails constantly. I couldn't help but notice a man (let's call him Humbert Humbert) continually chatting up several women surrounding him. I didn't think much of it, given that I was hypnotized in my own train of thought, and proceeded to line up as my number was being called.

My plane was full of young women, students from SDSU and UCSD for the most part, who were presumably finishing spring break and heading back to school. As luck would have it, Humbert strolled up to the area just in front of me, and claimed his place in line with a hearty laugh and a joke to the two girls standing ahead of me. Again, didn't think much of it. That is until he turned around and asked if these two girls knew how the weather was in San Diego....and where they study.....and how old they were. The polite, nonchalant responses these girls no older than 18-years-old were giving began turning into annoyed, aloof words. I couldn't help but laugh a little, internally of course, at what this man was trying to do. It got even better when he turned around again and softly caressed one of the girl's arms, shoulder to elbow, and stated he was envious of her beautiful tan. I got to witness their disturbed looks when he finally entered the plane, and hoped to God I wouldn't have to sit next to Humbert.

creeping at baggage claim

As I found my seat at the very back of the plane, Humbert took a seat in the next aisle over from me, surprise surprise, next to another 20-year-old student. This girl was actually quite chatty with him for the entire hour and 20 minute flight, and seemed to really enjoy the attention he showed her. Thankful that I had escaped the chitchat, I opened my book and began getting lost in the drama brewing between Jean Valjean and Javert, only to be constantly interrupted by the deafening announcements from the stewardess every time I began re-reading a sentence (typical). After the short flight, I proceeded to the baggage claim to collect my belongings. As I took my eyes off my phone at the carousel, none other than Humbert was looming over me, scouring his brain for something to say. "Those are some nice boots you're wearing!" he chuckled in a familiar, overly friendly voice. "Thanks..." I muttered as I anxiously waited for my luggage to roll off the belt. I felt his look piercing into me as my eyes darted back and forth, looking for a polite way to move away without looking too rude. "What's your business in San Diego?" he said with a wide grin, accentuating the yellowness of his teeth under the fluorescent lighting. Given my predisposed feelings about Humbert from watching him attempt to strike up conversations with several young women for over an hour and a half, I quickly shot him my best 'I know what you're doing and it's gross' look. "Just visiting people.." I said. Thankfully, I saw my bag dump out onto the carousel and I swiftly grabbed it and walked out the doors. Needless to say, in that short period of about 2 minutes, I witnessed Humbert begin eyeing yet another 19-year-old girl clad in a baggy SDSU sweatshirt, ogling her up and down....REALLY!? And so the great cycle continues...

Non Capisco!

I have long been told that there is no such thing as a free lunch....this is not to say that I am a complete skeptic of altruism, but I have my doubts (a person should not believe in an ism, he should believe in himself...*name that movie*) Moving along, one would expect genuine altruism to flourish in a society as warm and friendly as Italia!

The Picturesque Dolomites

After several weeks of studying intensive German in Austria, a few friends and I decided to migrate south to the Mediterranean for the remainder of the summer. After an interesting train ride out of Werfenweng (to be noted in a later post), we found ourselves snaking our way through the scenic Dolomites of Northern Italy, and finally over the Ponte della Liberta, signifying my long-anticipated return to the enchanting "city of masks".

Upon arriving into Stazione di Venezia Santa Lucia, we were elated to have finally touched down onto lo stivale! With our overpacked luggage clumsily bouncing down the steps behind us, we quickly found ourselves directed into a sizable herd of vibrant Italians exchanging kisses and shuffling toward the exits signs. Thanks to google earth (my savior), I knew that we would pour right out near the mouth of the Grand Canal, and had purposely booked a nearby hotel just across the beautiful Ponte degli Scalzi for convenience.

Ponte degli Scalzi

Now I recall back when I was just a little bambina, on vacation in la bella Roma, my father was pickpocketed by an adolescent gypsy. Naturally, this incident taught me to keep a close eye on my belongings at all times while traveling, especially in/near the train stations of Italy. With that being said, we each had sizable pieces of luggage that needed to be hauled over this enormous bridge in front of us. Within an instant, these quaint, romantic steps had suddenly turned into the bane of my existence as I began straining my repugnant beast of a suitcase up one stair at a time, whimpering with disdain. Just as I began envisioning pleasing images of the case tumbling down the steps and into the canal so that I could finally go for a cappuccino, a pair of young men came rushing to our rescue. "Scusi! Bellas! No, no! I carry for you, yes!? Allow me! non c'e problema!" I stepped back, a bit confused, but an intrigued confused, wondering why we have so few gentlemen like these in America to alleviate a damsel in distress. As these strapping Italian stallions lifted our luggage over the steps with ease, I followed in delight, even more eager to unearth the many pleasures of this culture. After descending down the south end of the bridge, the men planted our suitcases down in front of the water with affectionate smiles, continually reassuring us that it was really no inconvenience to them at all because we were beautiful (definitely a "you know you're in Italy when...." moment!) Just as I took hold of my case, pleased with my first day in Venezia, the men expectantly put their hands out and demanded that we pay them for their service.

Having never been faced with slimy Italian conmen trying to rip me off before, I found myself speechless for what felt like an eternity, before I finally found the words to clumsily croak out a flustered 'non capisco'. Of course I capisco'ed very well what they were asking, but I didn't feel like handing out my limited collection of euro coins to a few greasy vagrants looking to pray on innocent young women. Thankfully, my friends and I had just come from Austria, and were completely comfortable having spoken in nothing but German for an entire month. My English felt surprisingly awkward to use, so I instinctually shot off a sassy "Ich verstehe nicht, und habe ich kein Geld!", hoping they would take the hint. After squabbling in an intentionally confusing linguistic row rotating between English, Italian, and German, we had finally convinced the men that we could not understand what they were asking for because we did not understand English or Italian, only German (which they thankfully did not understand/speak a word of). Succumbing to the language divide, they finally turned around, defeated, to sink their corrupt fangs into another naïve foreigner. At that moment, I couldn't help but smile at what a joy it is to speak a language that is not as mainstream. After all, it paid for a private escort over the Grand Canal!

Atop the Ponte degli Scalzi

como me duele amor

Leave it to my favorite scene in Paris Je t'aime to deliver an accurate

parody on love and relationships:

Arachnophobia in Bayern

Imagine yourself strolling down a quaint pathway, leading you through an ambrosial garden brimming with colorful flowers and carefully trimmed hedges. Sheltered from the harsh sunlight, thanks to the abundant foliage draping down from overhead, a gentle breeze tickles your nose, rousing the lingering aroma of edelweiss from the omnipresent mountains in the distance. You deeply inhale the crisp Alpine air, let out a lonnnng sigh, and gaze out over the Bodensee......mmm it's a great day. Wilkommen in Friedrichshafen, Germany. This picturesque dorf adorns the Northern lip of the Bodensee, tucked away from the hustle and bustle of everyday life in its own little lakeside community. Celebrating a common language, this see proudly showcases its international waters, serving as a liquid border between Austria, Germany, and Switzerland, and dotting its harbors with an array of flags.

I was fortunate enough to discover this popular destination in the pleasant summer month of August. My roommate from college, Erica, and I were out enjoying the final days of our glamorous vacation before we were to finish a month-long adventure through Europe and head back to California. Spoiling ourselves with tasty Italian cuisine at a number of outdoor restaurants along the water seemed to be the theme of this particular jaunt, and we were determined to make the most of the scenic beauty surrounding us. After our final dinner, consisting of a succulent plate of spaghetti bolognesi, we decided it was necessary that we climb to the top of the overlook tower at the foot of the kleine warf to watch the sunset before our morning departure. While this may seem like a genius idea in the minds of those looking to indulge in eye candy, we were in for a bit of a surprise.....

As can be seen, this structure consists of 10 stories to accommodate one's personal viewing pleasure. Now this may look like a harmless little tower built to entertain tourists, however, it was quite the contrary when experienced at dusk. We began our ascent up the wire-woven steps, carelessly chuckling at the innocence of life, ignorant to the severity of the situation looming ahead of us. "Oh my goddddd, that's a huuuuge spider!" I suddenly shrieked as we rounded the 3rd flight of stairs. Erica, a general arthropod-admiring enthusiast, turned around to get a better look at the spindly critter threatening to block my path. "Wow that's so cool!!" she said, enthralled by the size of this spotted, gangly creature heavily resting in its web. Grim premonitions aside, I took a deep breath and continued following her up the stairs. By the 5th floor, Erica's "harmless" little friend had multiplied into hundreds of fuzzy arachnids, wickedly swinging around their jungle gym of terror, forcing us to sprint up the stairs as fast as our little feet would carry us, dodging hanging webs and praying to God one wouldn't touch us with its needle-esque, seemingly infinite amount of legs. After what felt like an eternity, we burst out of the wired cage and into the open air at the top, safe from the creepy crawlies, and I must admit this blick was rather exquisite.

Following suite, we snapped the obligatory photographs to try and give the sight justice (never the case of course), all the while trying to delay our daunting journey back to ground zero. As the sun slowly began to inch below the horizon, it became apparent that our situation was intensifying with the darkness quickly encroaching. Waiting around was only prolonging the inevitable nightmare we were not yet ready to have inflicted upon us again with such little turnaround. After taking a minute to numb our overactive imaginations, we quickly began flying back down the entrapment, arms over head for protection, and bloodcurdling yelps of helplessness coming from the both of us as we skimmed past several bewildered European tourists. As we rounded the final stairwell to freedom, our feet continued running until we reached the end of the dock, far away from danger. Neither of us could control ourselves from violently jerking up and down, erratically contorting our extremities out in any direction we could manage, hoping to rid ourselves of lingering spider remnants. After we shook out the last of the ick from our clothes and slowly returned to reality, we wandered off the dock and back to human-dwelling territory, all the while wondering whether this distressing adventure was in fact worth the price of our sanity. I'd say so.

Où est le Macdo?

Years ago, I vividly remember striding along the cobblestone streets of Paris, my brother at my side, ardently in search of whatever adventure this breathtaking ville were to throw at us. Given the excitement of being on our own in a a foreign country for the first time, we meandered through the many jardins of this enchanting city, dazzling our sights with its artistic landscape and listening to the ubiquitous chirping of saluts and au revoirs echoing down the winding rues that decorated the capital.

Given the sprawling layout, we naturally decided it was time to take a break and get a bite to eat, something uniquely French of course. We set out across the Pont d'lena, through the Palais de Chaillot, and finally down the Rue Gustave Courbet before both of us knew what the other was thinking. Having both taken French with the same teacher in high school, we learned that the French, along with many other Europeans, adore McDonalds. These aren't just the regular McDonalds we're used to, folks, but the whole of the continent seems to boast several of these higher-end chains that look almost like formal restaurants at first glance. Given that we had no idea where we were in relation to la Tour Eiffel, it seemed logical to break out our French and ask for directions from a local. We unanimously agreed on what sounded polite and correct to say, and began asking pedestrians in our best French accent, "Excusez-moi monsieur, pouvez vous me dire ou est le Mcdo?" Aside from feeling like we were extremely cool for being able to complete a sentence in French, it was hard to deny that these people were reacting quite strangely to what we were asking. Picking up on this after the third person in a row shot us a quizzical look and muttered, "Je suis désolé mademoiselle, je ne sais pas...." we figured that we may have overestimated how often "ou est le Mcdo" was used, despite spending several days in class studying this alleged "template." In all fairness, we were directed back to a conventionally larger Avenue Victor Hugo, wherein we finally caught sight of the golden arches.

Still determined to utilize our language abilities, we attempted to order in French and break the stereotype of the ignorant American in Paris. After waiting our turn, we nervously stepped up to the counter to order, bright smiles and a Bonjour! to break the ice. I muttered something simple I learned in French 1, Je voudrais un hamburger, s'il vous plait, but for some reason I was given that same quizzical look by the cashier that was rampant among the pedestrians we had asked for directions from. Staring at the menu seemed to be the only logical way to avoid the utter embarrassment of admitting linguistic defeat and asking ummmm, parlez-vous anglais? Our futile attempt of trying to buy time to think in French was causing a bit of an upheaval from the locals standing in line behind us, and we quickly gave in to the fact that our order would probably be butchered, but it was worth the price of saving face in front of the entire store. After picking up our meal, and in the comfort of our own corner table, we both came to the conclusion that our sentences were grammatically sound, so it must be our étranger accents that were inspiring these confused reactions. Fair enough.

This somewhat awkward episode at a McDonalds in Paris solidified my belief that it is always better to try and fail than it is to opt for the easy way out. So what if you are only partially understood? It's worth the adrenaline rush, and who knows, you might end up surprising yourself!

Bienvenidos!

Welcome welcome my little bambinos! Well, to begin with, I can certainly say that the creation of this blog is long overdue. After dabbling around in countless travel journals, I have finally opted into joining the blogosphere! *cue foghorns*

I know I know, so what am I so excited to write about? Well, my mantra has long been to indulge in life's greatest pleasures, however small they may be. Whether it be traipsing around the world mastering languages and unearthing new treasures, or 'Basqueing' in the warm afternoon sunlight with tapas and vino tinto on a lazy Saturday, I have come to develop a deep passion for la dolce vita. After all, what is the point in living unless it is to tickle the senses and wallow in the sweetness of it all? Since I flew the coup and began learning about the finer things in life (via traveling mostly), away from the comforts of my small town and familiar environment, I have developed a veritable cornucopia of experiences.

As for a brief introduction to who I am....(a brain, an athlete, a basket case, a princess, and a criminal....sincerely yours, The Breakfast Club). Ok, pop culture aside, I grew up as an athlete. I spent a borderline despicable amount of time training for tennis under the radiant California sun (no complaints!), which actually paid off in the form of a 4-year full scholarship to my dream university. I had the time of my life playing tennis as a student-athlete in San Diego, before succumbing to a career-ending shoulder injury that surgery couldn't seem to fix. The good news was that I made a couple of unforgettable friends my freshman year while playing on the team, both were European, and were my first international amigas! I wasn't aware of it at the time, but these two impacted me greatly as far as sparking an interest in everything international. I began taking German (initially with little interest), and studying International Relations, which soon became my absolute passion, my corazón so to speak. I found it so enthralling to be studying global affairs from a classroom in sunny San Diego, but true to human nature and impulse, I wanted more. It was almost like simulated travel, one moment I would be in Cairo studying about the inception of the Muslim Brotherhood, and the next I found myself reliving the execution of King Louis XVI by guillotine in a medieval Place de la Concorde. This led me toward a humble appreciation and fascination for history. The traveling bug had suddenly bit me, unexpectedly hard. To make a long story short, this is where I began my journey, learning new languages and pursuing the sweet seduction of the unfamiliarity experienced abroad. I threw myself into the study of the culture I was brought up with (my mother, and half of my family was born and raised in Kabul, Afghanistan), along the way discovering ancient traditions and heirlooms such as the Pashtunwali, which was cleverly instilled in my siblings and I at a young age, unbeknownst to me.

So, now that I have completed my B.A., I am working toward mastering conversational Spanish and German (French and Italian in the works), and looking forward to beginning my MA in TESOL this fall!

Whew! *catches her breath*, after that slightly long 'abridged' introduction to my life, I have started this blog with the purpose of sharing my memories from traveling and meeting those who have been most influential to me. From hidden traveling treasures, to scrumptious indigenous recipes, to the pure hilarity of language learning, I wish to chronicle the adventures that have taught me how to indulge in a daily joie de vivre. Until luego, ich wünche alles eine schöne Nacht!