"Roming" Around the World

Bon Voyage by sophiechic831 featuring shirt tops

Barcelona by sophiechic831 featuring stackable bracelets

Porteño Living

Living with my host mother, Carolina, was one of my fondest memories of studying Spanish for a month in the glamorous city of Buenos Aires. This city oozes style, boasting a passionate and learned civil society comparable to the French, the melodic accent, warmth, and hearty cuisine of the Italians, the bustling pace of Manhattan, the ornate architecture of Paris (as it was designed by the same French architects), and finally an affordability that knocks any European city out of the water. Welcome to the Paris of South America.

Parisian Apartments on Junin

For those who have not yet experienced this fabulous ciudad, it may come as a surprise that Buenos Aires really does showcase the best of all worlds. It is modern, literate, historic, traditional (tango anyone?), and more than anything, welcomes a myriad of ethnicities, mainly mixing Spanish, Italian, and German ancestors into the contemporary porteños walking the streets in stylish leather coats and knee-high riding boots, flashing class and sophistication from head to toe.

Tango Feet

Recoleta

Calle Florida

Now it would be a lie to neglect the fact that Eva Perón (Evita), my longtime idol, had no influence on my decision to explore Buenos Aires. I had recently finished an in depth report on the country's democratic consolidation (thank you Dr. Williams), and had voraciously torn through a biography of the controversial Evita just months before, so naturally this visit stirred a sort of wonder and excitement from within. Maybe this is what provided for an extra pop in my step as I roamed the calles laden with 'caca de perro' every day.

Eva Duarte and Juan Perón

A Typical Dog Walker in BsAs

In any case, my host mother, Carolina, was a sweet lady, surprisingly preoccupied with her appearance for a widow in her early 70s, but endearing nonetheless. She spoke broken English, ate take out pasta from the amazing Italian deli on Calle Aguero every night, walked around talking to herself (as could be heard by the many "esta biens" echoing from all corners of the apartment), and loved the street mutt she found wandering into her art gallery 3 years ago, 'Chiquitita', more than life itself. Carolina seemed lonely from losing her husband to a terminal illness just a year prior, and had a swanky 3-bedroom flat in the heart of Recoleta to fill with students flocking to this city to learn about its culture and language. Within the first few days of our arrival, we would come home from Spanish class and crash from having to wake up so early, pounding 4 hours of intensive Spanish instruction into our little heads every day. Carolina didn't seem to be a fan of this, because she now had an American host daughter she wanted to paint the town red with. And so began my unique tour of Buenos Aires through the eyes of Carolina, on that 2nd day of our stay.

I was quickly swept up into the pasta shop next door to our apartment building, being introduced to the married couple who owned this scrumptious deli that fed Carolina (and shortly after, me) every night. Onwards to the next block to drop off our laundry (yes, most people in Buenos Aires drop their laundry off to be done by a specialist), as I shyly greeted the owners in Spanish behind a proud Carolina. No time for chit chat, onto the Avenida Santa Fe to find a throw rug for my mother's bedroom. After entering about eight different stores and meeting over 15 of Carolina's local shopkeeper friends, it was time to start heading back home with no rug in hand (there seemed to be something 'off' with all of them, according to my seasoned shopping accomplice.)

We had to cross the wide, busy street to get back to our neighborhood, and true to form, I never wait for the pedestrian signal to cross, regardless of the country I'm in. Carolina, trusting that I was watching, started walking across Santa Fe as she was talking to me, her back turned toward the oncoming traffic. In all fairness, I assumed we had plenty of time to cross because the cars were about 100 feet away. Somehow, I forgot that the cars in South America drive twice as fast and twice as close to objects (ie pedestrians and other cars) as in America. As we made it halfway across the five-lane street, I found it imperative to cut Carolina's sentence off and point at the traffic surging toward us as I began breaking into a sprint, leather boots and all. Carolina, already rather fidgety when calm, turned her head to the traffic and almost jumped out of her skin, releasing a raspy yelp and contorting her fingers into helpless claw-like positions as she grasped at the air to keep up with me. Given that I find humor in just about everything, I couldn't help but throw my head back and begin cackling wildly as we reached the sidewalk, in a way thumbing my nose at the "I told you so's" who are against jaywalking (we made it, didn't we?) Carolina, on the other hand, didn't seem to share the amusement until a few minutes after her heart calmed down. From this point on, I was known as the 'loca' by Carolina, and we couldn't contain our laughter for the duration of the 20 minute walk home. Although she wouldn't admit it at the time, I know she enjoyed the adrenaline rush, and for the rest of my stay, Carolina would look at me with an endearing twinkle in her eye as 'the little American girl who almost caused her a premature heart attack.' The way I look at it, what a reminder that we're alive! Esta bien.

Carolina (left), Me, and Mama

Things That Go Bump In Under the Tuscan Moon

One fine evening, my family and I were sitting around the large dinner table in the villa we were renting in Gattaiola, Italy. We had just finished an exquisite entrée consisting of fresh caprese made with basil from our own front yard, and traditional gnocci. Given my aversion to food comas, I coaxed my father and friend who had been traveling with me for a month, Donna, into taking a stroll through the windy back country roads we had not yet explored.

Our Villa

Little did I know that Gattaiola, this seemingly peaceful little region located just a few miles outside the enchanting, safe walls of Lucca, houses several wild animals, including....wild boars. Malicious, rogue boars willing to charge a victim if provoked. This minor detail was discovered after our walk.....naturally.

Gattaiola

As we turned off our driveway, heading into the Gattaiolan frontier, I felt my breath being taken away by the spectacular scenery. The moon had risen across the jet black sky, unscathed by light pollution, casting rich luminous rays of white onto the countryside. The light humidity allowed for a cardigan over my sundress to suffice, and we gazed into the endless sky as we walked, listening to my father, the astrophysicist, explain constellations, black holes, and the universe. The narrow road continued winding around hills and through fields, dotted with clouds of lightening bugs to lead the way, and we soon found ourselves walking in silence around a bend between a forest, and a walled villa. Suddenly, we heard a throaty, rumbling growl come from the trees to our left. Given that one could have heard a pin drop it was so quiet, we all jumped a little, and began walking a little faster. Donna and I, being the "girls", were of course a lot more frightened than my adventure-seeking father, and began crafting an exit strategy off the path incase said angry animal were to jump out and attack. Again, the growl sounded closer this time, and we noticed a few branches shaking about 20 feet away. Picked up the pace. Thankfully, we made it through the narrowest part of the path and felt a lot more comfortable upon reaching open land on both sides again. We walked about 100 more feet, laughing nervously about how scary and serious it would have been had that animal jumped out....and we reached a dead end. So much for our plan of finding an alternate route home. Now normally, I live to scare myself, I like the adrenaline rush. This, however, became a bit too real for me when I saw my level-headed father leave the path to find a thick branch for protection. Well, he did find a long branch and broke it into two pieces, providing Donna and himself with one, and leaving me with little more than my bare hands and pitiful shrieks to protect myself. Thank you papa.

In any case, we began walking back and soon entered the narrow bend again, tip toeing as fast as we could in silence, and ready to start sprinting within a moments notice. The grumbling went off again, this time only about 10 feet away, and we saw more branches rustling. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes for a second, imagining my father being charged and taken down without a chance to defend himself, leaving Donna and I to try and save him from being mangled with no help around us for miles. I opened my eyes, feeling the most vulnerable I have felt in ages, and heard the animal sound like it was foaming at the mouth, as if we had disturbed it's sanctuary. My heart felt like a drum beating fast, pulsating through my whole body. I could feel my adrenaline levels spike, letting off the sensation of a thousand butterflies tickling my stomach. Thankfully, being the unarmed one, I was farthest from the wild beast, and we had finally made it around the bend without the brute eating us alive.

Upon reaching our villa, we later confirmed that wild boars ARE native to the Tuscan region, and pose a threat to the quieter populations. A little late on the research.

Quiero un bombero

Among the several charming towns that dot the southern coast of Chile, my trip to Castro (located in the center of the island Chiloé in the Lagos Region) left a lasting imprint. Rickety palafitos surround Chile's third oldest city, and several smaller islands in the archipelago are only a quick bus/ferry ride away.

Chiloéan Palafitos

After a surprisingly corto bus ride from Ancud (located on the north end of the island), our bus pulled into the central station and the driver unloaded our luggage in a hurry, pressed to keep up with the tight but punctual schedule for the day. Having no real plan as to where we would lodge that night, my mom and I went strolling through town to put our negotiating skills to use, leaving my father behind at the station to guard the bags. Needless to say, we stumbled upon an extremely pleasant surprise. A hidden treasure tucked behind the tired, sea-worn buildings along the water lured us into the Hostería de Castro to inquire about the price of a room. After poking our heads into a couple of other guest houses prior, it felt as though we had just walked into an upscale ski lodge in Aspen. Now considering the lack of great options, I put my Spanish to use on the recepcionista, and was feeling quite confident in my abilities after our 2 months of traveling...haggling and showing my best uninterested face while trying to get the best deal available.....then......booked! The rooms felt like a mirage considering the surrounding architecture, and I instantly felt like I was in heaven when I opened the door to a linda vista of the bahía. Paradise!

Hostería de Castro

I wanted to spend all day and all night in the hotel, indulging in yummy room service, with an occasional trip downstairs to the state of the art gym/indoor pool. The large windows on every floor reminded me of how frigid the weather was at this time of the year, with a strong gale blowing constantly....I'm talking bone chilling, right-through-your-thick-winter-coat wind. In turn, much time had to be spent indoors, and the degree of pampering we received at this lodge felt like nirvana after being beaten up on the roads of Chile for so long.

A day later, with our exhaustion partially subsided, my mom suggested we endure the hurricane and explore the vicinity for a restaurant serving authentic Chiloéan food. Within one block, our faces had turned a mixture of pale/bright red from the wind lashing against our cheeks, and we swiftly ducked into a hole in the wall diner-type restaurant. As we took our seats, and the waitress came over to take our order, protocol went as such: my father would glance at the menu and attempt to order in English, only to find out that hardly a word of English is spoken by the waitress, and would proceed to look at me in desperation, as I would complete the order for him in Spanish. Then would come my mom, who would attempt broken Spanglish, and I would often fill in the gaps. Then would come my order, and in general it came fairly effortlessly. However, this time, after I spat off orders left and right, I waived the waitress back to the table and confidently asked: "puede traerme un bombero, por favor?" The waitress just looked at me and grinned, asking me to please repeat what I had just asked for because she did not understand. Now it hadn't even crossed my mind that maybe, just maybe I'm saying something incorrect, because I had been speaking so much! *ahem* "dije puede traerme un bombero?".....suddenly reverting my statement into a question. "Un bombero? Quiere decir un b-o-m-b-i-l-l-a?" She asked me, smiling widely. I felt my face heating up to the color of a tomato, and I anxiously agreed, realizing that I had just asked her to bring me not a straw, but a fireman....yes, a fireman. Needless to say, that was the last time I acted like I owned the room with my linguist abilities.

As we finished our dinner and scurried back to the hotel, I began to ponder language barriers, and why I wasn't perfectly native in Spanish yet. After all, I expect perfection with everything I do....from petty tasks to the people I surround myself with. Maybe this is why language appeals to us, because it is an area that one can never attain perfection. Making mistakes is part of the fun, even if it does entail a fireman in my agua.

Obrigada!

Rio de Janeiro: a metropolis overflowing with passion, from the artistic fortresses concocted out of sand on the beaches of Copacabana and Ipanama, to the funky Feira Hipe held every Sunday, showcasing unique handmade crafts from the region's finest artisans, this sprawling city has it all.

Copacabana Esplanade

Nearly every aspect of Brazilian life seems to have been sprinkled with a pinch of zest. Whether it be found in the sweet cases of Amendocrem that we sold the local grocery store out of on account of our newfound obsession, or the tangy Caipirinhas served at all hours on both beach esplanades, I had quickly fallen in love with the essence of Cariocan culture surrounding me.

Sand Castles

Crystal and I at the end of Copacabana

Given that we had rented out an apartment in Arpoador, the small accessible region at the intersection of Copacabana and Ipanema, we had been able to explore the city via walking for the first few days. Now in all honesty, trekking through Rio de Janeiro by foot can almost be described as self-inflicted suicide. Think of it as a free-for-all where everyone is expected to get out of the road when cars are coming. There is no sympathy given to slow walkers, at all. Even the sidewalk felt threatening, given the endless cars that would skim the curbs at demonic speeds. Crossing the street was quite a feat in itself, and I often found myself shrieking at my parents to watch out for the wall of cars barreling toward us, not showing any signs of acknowledgment that there were humans in the road. I would begin walking briskly across the first few lanes, nervously eyeing the approaching cars as if it were a test of wills.....who would flinch first......they wouldn't dare hit me......and it always ended in me skittering helplessly onto the curb....defeated.... as they snarled and nipped at my heels, anxious to bully their next gringa off the road. But you know, I didn't mind these little games. It's what made Rio unique to me, among other things, such as riding the local buses.

The day had finally come for us to explore Corcovado. Travel from our local Zona Sul required public transportation to reach Cristo Redondo, so we unassumingly hopped on a city bus to complete a leg of the journey. Shortly after taking our seats and rubbing elbows (literally) with the locals, I felt as though my life had shortened by 20 years. Not only was this bus traveling at ungodly speeds down a frightfully narrow and crowded street, but the driver felt it the most natural thing in the world to allow about an inch between us and all of the surrounding autos and pedestrians. Without even batting an eye, he would lurch the vehicle full of young and innocent lives forward, then slam on the brakes, then surge forward again, and screech to a halt less than a foot away from the sidewalk stop. Having been in a car accident before, I felt my hair turning white within the first few minutes, and I closed my eyes to try and block out the reality I was trapped in, all the while envisioning us slamming into one of the other buses at high speed, no seatbelts...no airbags.....just large sheets of glass windows to cushion our impact.

Bondinhos

I couldn't help but notice the casual air of the other passengers around me.....some absentmindedly gazing out the window, others flipping through pages of Lance!, numb to the fact that we were only narrowly escaping death every 10 seconds. As the bus zoomed through Botafogo, I was pleasantly distracted by the sight of the tiny bondinhos dangling over 350 meters high, connecting the peaks of Pao de Açucar and Cara de Cao. The afternoon sun reflected brightly over the Baia de Guanabara as we had finally turned inland to begin ascending into the Parque Nacional da Tijuca. After being on the bus for nearly half an hour, I had finally collected myself a little and realized that although the Brazilians may seem like crazy drivers compared to what I'm used to, they don't seem to crash......ever. So while discovering Rio by public transportation may raise the blood pressure monumentally, I came to learn that it's just the way they do things down here....and I like it.

Triumphant atop Corvocado

A Day In Paris

An Eye For An Eye

Once upon a time, I rolled into the Salzburg Hauptbahnhof for the first time ever, anxious to experience the magic behind this Disney-esque city that inspired my beloved musical, The Sound of Music (the hills really are alive folks...this wasn't a lie.) Being confronted by everything Mozart from the moment we stepped off the ÖBB (namely the ubiquitous Mozartkugeln), I tingled with excitement thinking about the musical brilliance pulsating from this unique town.

Salzkammergut

Having noticed the outlandish prices of the hotels surrounding the historic Altstadt, we decided it was a financially prudent decision to take a bus toward the outskirts of the city and enjoy a little solitude in the quaint town of Eugendorf, which lies about 10 short km outside of Salzburg. The thought of spending a mellow week in rural Austria delighted all of us, and really brought me closer to the essence of the Von Trapp family.... I could almost hear Sixteen Going On Seventeen echoing across the lush hills, as I became lost in images of Rolfe serenading me in the renowned gazebo.

Eugendorf

After being dropped off at a plank surrounded by little other than overgrown grass, we began walking into the village in search of an inn to rest our heads for a few nights. Thankfully, we found a tiny bed and breakfast located on what seemed to also be an authentic Austrian farm. "How charming!", I remember naïvely thinking...little did I know that I would soon suffer from the worst mutant bite known to humankind the following night.

It all started innocently enough.....after a good nights sleep, my brother and I (who were sharing a room adjacent to my parents bedroom) were awakened by the prototypical sound of a rooster crowing to let the Eugendorfers know that it was time to prepare frühstück and get the day going. Although it was pleasantly amusing to hear an actual rooster waking me to consciousness, the appreciation lasted for about five minutes before I longed to hurl my leftover Nusbrot out our second story window and quiet the little hooligan. Just as I rolled over onto my back and opened my eyes to appease the stubborn brute, I felt a dire itch emanating from my forearm. I gasped in horror as I perceived the swollen lump encasing my elbow, shocked at how this dramatic mutation had occurred just overnight. My brother, upon just waking up, had also been inflicted by the tenacious pests. Still in disbelief, I dressed and went downstairs for a comforting bowl of müsli....the urge to itch growing more intense every second.

The morning of...

Now in all fairness, I will admit that my body generally reacts a little severely to mosquito bites. I have been known to swell to abnormal sizes, but I am convinced that there must have been something strangely potent in these Austrian farm mosquitoes...perhaps it was the cow blood that produced these menacing imps. In any case, by lunch time, my forearm had grown to roughly the size of a mandarin orange....the hard lump of poison throbbing with pain as I attempted to enjoy the farmers market we were strolling through. As the sun fell below the Alps and we retired back to our rooms for the night, my brother and I, having suffered through an entire day suppressing violent irritations, vowed to declare war tonight on these insects... if they dared to come lurking...

My brother, being the always-prepared for battle, warrior-minded male he was, had taken all necessary steps to seal off the room during the day...hoping to keep any newcomers out, and intentionally plotting the unfortunate fate of those trapped inside. As we clicked the lamp off and watched the luminous moonlight overtake our zimmer, I began transcending reality and slipping into a dreamy slumber, only to be convulsed back to life by a piercing buzzing noise coming from my left ear. My body violently jolted upward as I slapped my face instinctually and then.........silence........... adrenaline pumping, I could feel my quick, shallow breathing and my heart racing... I knew this was it. It was now or never. Doing a quick ninja tuck across my bed and onto the floor to wake my brother, who was also already awake, we turned the lamp on to surprise the bloodsucking gremlin. In silence, each of us slowly covered our part of the room, meticulously scanning the plaster walls in search of the black insect indulging in the aftermath of its latest meal...my neck. Suddenly, I caught sight of it......plump with my blood.....satisfied.....baiting me with its spiny rostrum. For the sake of revenge, I quickly snapped a hand towel at the creature and *CRACK!*...an eruption of blood exploded into the towel, leaving remnants of gangly legs and guts stuck helplessly to the wall. Feeling quite pleased with myself, I turned around to notice my brother standing on top of the toilet in the bathroom, carefully eyeing the wall of the shower. "Here we go..." he proudly chuckled, intensely focused on the insolent vampire resting on the wall. "Gimme the towel", he asked...eyes fixed....*POP!*...as intestines spattered out in all directions. I couldn't help letting out a giggle thinking about the fact that we were in the middle of nowhere, on a farm at 2AM, skillfully towel-snapping these blood bombs all over the wall one after another. It was almost like the Fourth of July...only a slightly grotesque version. After repeating this process a few more times, hoping to weed out any last stragglers, we finally decided we had sterilized the room and lied our heads down to rest for the night. Needless to say, that was the last time they pushed their luck with these auslanders.