In the immortal words of Billy Maddison:
"Back to shcool, back to shcool. Gonna show my daddy that I'm not a fool..."
So yes, here I am, just finished my Italian study for the night and I've finally hacked into somebody's internet connection from our apartment. I'm full from the pasta I just cooked (being full is now an hourly occurrence) and still tired from our random Tuesday night outing with a few Florentine locals. The only new thing about life here at Italian school in Florence is that (okay there are two new things) I have to get up at 7.30am (eek) and I have study to do. Besides that, drinking excessively is still a feature as is getting up to general mischief...
One of the things I've learnt about the Italian language so far is that it has distinct lack of slang and there is a true inability to make up new words and phrases. However, that hasn't stopped Loz, Phoebe and myself from putting our name to a few fine (English) phrases that I think I have to share...
1. The chocolate cake face (Origin: Marissa and Phoebe, 28/2). The first night we found the local Tratt (our brilliant local restaurant) we decided we had to sample their chocolate cake. When Phoebe and I dug our forks in, lifted the morsel to our mouths and tried the masterpiece, our eyes rolled to the backs of our heads, our lips turned up ever so slightly and we moaned the most satisfied of moans imaginable. We turned to each other, realised how ridiculous we looked (like those synchronised divers, but Italian style with food consumption), we could not stop the laughter. The very next day on a coffee break at school, we walked into a bar (an Italian bar is really just a glorified coffee shop by the way, I'm not that much of an alco) and were waiting for our macchiati when a glorious example of a Florentine man swanned in, stood at the bar, looked around for all the drooling women (we were there) and began chatting away to the barista in the sexiest Italian. Once again, Pheobe and I looked at each other, the eyes began to bulge excitedly, a grin spread across our face and we realised that the chocolate cake face had returned. Stupidly enough when we were drunk the other night, we told the Italians about the CCF. One of them wrote to Lauren today saying, 'when I got your friend request today, I got the chocolate cake face'. We have started a phenomenon.
2. Food perve (Origin: Phoebe's friend, date unknown). Pretty self explanatory this one, but we use it (and do it) constantly when in restaurants, at the food markets and in various gelaterias around the place. I've also come up with another meaning for the word. It revolves around the hot butcher at the food markets. He's sort of an Italianfied Hugh Jackman. I am not joking.
3. Jump friendly (Origin: Marissa, 5/3). Phoebe and I were talking about Prince Caspian in the latest Narnia movie (we are Disney nerds...correction, I am a nerd) and the words just came out of my mouth: "He is completely jump friendly."
Look out hot butcher.
4. Spartaco and Maximus (Origin: Phoebe and Marissa, 2/3). In honour to the real Spartaco we met on our first night here, Phoebe decided she would name my dictionary after him. Hers is called Maximus because, well, he's so tiny. He's got little man syndrome.
Lastly, because some people have been hassling us for the reason behind our blog name, I'll give it to you (Lord knows when Lauren will bother writing again).
5. Fatboy (Origin: Geoff Lynch, sometime in January). I'll admit it. You all were right. My suitcase was way too big. My big suitcase (Fatman, father of Fatboy) initially weighed 23kg. Fatboy, the 'small'/'carry-on' bag weighed 15kg. Yep, I'm quite serious. I really don't know why the woman who weighed it at customs at Brisbane airport was so nice to me, but it was more than double what it was supposed to be. She let me straight through. The man who was there two weeks later sent Loz back because she was about 1kg over. After realising both Fatman and Fatboy were not the best of travelling companions, I put the two of them on a diet. I threw out a few things, left clothes at a friend's place, lost a few more things and have offloaded a couple of books to Loz.
Anyway, too much to digest on that one. Ciao for now.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Monday, March 2, 2009
Loz finally makes an appearance on this blog...
So I’m sitting here in Florence … we’ve just cracked open another bottle of the finest Chianti and we’re cooking minestrone soup. Very Italian. Very domestic. Phoebe is our latest gal pal and our flatmate in our Firenze apartment we’re renting through the Scuola Leonardo da Vinci. She’s cool. Her parents live in Perth where she just spent the past six weeks having a raunchy love affair with the local bartender where she worked. I was instantly impressed and we became friends. When we realised we shared a mutual love of red wine, we knew it was the start of a lifelong friendship. Until Riss arrived an hour later and they started speaking Italian to each other and I was old news. As I sit here typing they are sitting there with their bloody Italian-Inglese dictionaries conversing in Italian. We start school tomorrow and we’re all freaking out a little. They serve you a test straight up. It feels like a school night so no late-night shenanigans like last night. Hmmm…last night. I got married. Well, at least the Italian guy at the pizzeria thought we were married. I told him I already had a husband but that didn’t matter … apparently he wants five wives! But I would be the special one … of course. Bloody Italians. And he wasn’t even cute. Actually, they were about 50 years old, and one was named Spartaco. Yes, like Spartacus. Like from Gladiator. Then when he found out we were Australian he proceeded to tell us he was an Aboriginal. Like we would be impressed?? Hmmm … with Spartaco chewing my ear off in Italian (help girls I have no idea what he is saying …) my future husband was telling me that because he was able to guess my name … he guessed Laura then Katie in a row … he thought it was ‘our destiny’ to be together. Idiot. He then followed up with the line … ‘you make my knees goes wobbly’ … I’m assuming he means weak at the knees. Too funny. But he did help us order from the menu. Apparently he knows what his wife likes. Haha. I was just agreeable so he’d go away and the cute boys waiting at the counter would hurry over and lavish us with bad pick up lines. Oh and we have to mention the cute waiter who leaned casually over the table, looked deep into my eyes and asked me if I wanted desert. Oh, yes please!!!
Sunday, March 1, 2009
'It is our destiny'
There are a number of things I (Marissa) can blame for the lack of posts. First and foremost, there is alcohol. I don't think I have had a night since Prague that I haven't been drinking. In excess. Secondly, I blame all you people I have either befriended or caught up with along the way. It has left very little time to get on and spend time writing.
Anyway, just to get everyone on track who keeps asking me what I'm doing, where the hell am I and where do I go next, I'll go back to Berlin and just update briefly. Basically after a week of partying in Berlin (I never woke up before 11am while I was there) Loz and I continued on our merry way to Paris with the sole purpose of seeing the Kings of Leon. I never meant to spend the entire night clubbing afterwards and never thought I would be spewing my guts up the next day in a side street near our hotel. Clearly Mum and Dad, the candle has definitely been burnt away at both ends. However, you'd be happy to know that I think my body is getting used to all the alcohol. After Paris I took off to London to visit Rachel who I'd met on Contiki (and just happened to be an equally insane former Somerville student) and I believe there was just one night that I wasn't completely drunk. On the Tuesday we went to this little wine bar near her work that was built right into a cave in the ground, and the reason I think I'm handling my alcohol better is because I managed to polish off two bottles of red and was fine the next day (well, except when I fell asleep on the bus in the afternoon and this little girl was telling her mummy about the weird girl in front who was asleep with her mouth wide open).
I am having a bit of trouble walking straight though. On my second trip ever through the London tube system, I was so engrossed telling Rach all about Rome and how crazy it is, using my typical flying hand movements that it was too late when I saw a guy coming straight towards me. I ran straight into him and it was only when I pulled back I realised the man was not only blind, but that his stick had collided with my lip and I was bleeding everywhere. For anyone who is in London and know about them, I did try to donate money to those people wearing red outside just about every tube stop (they are from the blind society or something) but they wouldn't take my money and you need to have a UK bank account to donate. I tried. I spent my money on expensive new shoes instead. That blind guy better stay clear now...I was walking in flats when I ran into him and these heels are close to 4 inches high.
So let's speed up to now. Right this very minute Loz, Phoebe (our new flatmate) and I are in some seedy Pakistani internet point close to our apartment in Florence. I have to say, I am incredibly impressed with our new Florentine apartment...it is massive! Anyone who wants to come and stay, we have a spare bed until Saturday and enough floor space for about 20 people. We're about a 15-20 minute walk to the centre of town and we have arguably the best trattoria on our street. We found it last night completely packed with locals and I ate the best spaghetti del mare (with seafood) I think I've ever had (Dad it just about beats the squid ink spaghetti in Como and Mum the soft shell crab in the Cinque Terre).
Really I must fly. There is a pile of vegetables sitting at home just waiting to be turned into minestrone. And it kind of smells funky in here. Ciao ciao belli!
Anyway, just to get everyone on track who keeps asking me what I'm doing, where the hell am I and where do I go next, I'll go back to Berlin and just update briefly. Basically after a week of partying in Berlin (I never woke up before 11am while I was there) Loz and I continued on our merry way to Paris with the sole purpose of seeing the Kings of Leon. I never meant to spend the entire night clubbing afterwards and never thought I would be spewing my guts up the next day in a side street near our hotel. Clearly Mum and Dad, the candle has definitely been burnt away at both ends. However, you'd be happy to know that I think my body is getting used to all the alcohol. After Paris I took off to London to visit Rachel who I'd met on Contiki (and just happened to be an equally insane former Somerville student) and I believe there was just one night that I wasn't completely drunk. On the Tuesday we went to this little wine bar near her work that was built right into a cave in the ground, and the reason I think I'm handling my alcohol better is because I managed to polish off two bottles of red and was fine the next day (well, except when I fell asleep on the bus in the afternoon and this little girl was telling her mummy about the weird girl in front who was asleep with her mouth wide open).
I am having a bit of trouble walking straight though. On my second trip ever through the London tube system, I was so engrossed telling Rach all about Rome and how crazy it is, using my typical flying hand movements that it was too late when I saw a guy coming straight towards me. I ran straight into him and it was only when I pulled back I realised the man was not only blind, but that his stick had collided with my lip and I was bleeding everywhere. For anyone who is in London and know about them, I did try to donate money to those people wearing red outside just about every tube stop (they are from the blind society or something) but they wouldn't take my money and you need to have a UK bank account to donate. I tried. I spent my money on expensive new shoes instead. That blind guy better stay clear now...I was walking in flats when I ran into him and these heels are close to 4 inches high.
So let's speed up to now. Right this very minute Loz, Phoebe (our new flatmate) and I are in some seedy Pakistani internet point close to our apartment in Florence. I have to say, I am incredibly impressed with our new Florentine apartment...it is massive! Anyone who wants to come and stay, we have a spare bed until Saturday and enough floor space for about 20 people. We're about a 15-20 minute walk to the centre of town and we have arguably the best trattoria on our street. We found it last night completely packed with locals and I ate the best spaghetti del mare (with seafood) I think I've ever had (Dad it just about beats the squid ink spaghetti in Como and Mum the soft shell crab in the Cinque Terre).
Really I must fly. There is a pile of vegetables sitting at home just waiting to be turned into minestrone. And it kind of smells funky in here. Ciao ciao belli!
Friday, February 13, 2009
Berlin and Vampire Weekend
So just to make a little bit of sense of this blog, this is Marissa. Right now, Lauren is sitting next to me sucking a piece of camembert. Yes, sucking. The point of this blog is to document our, so far, wild adventure across Europe...through two sets of eyes (and fingers). For example while Lauren sees her pretty gold bag from Cue, I see an evil item of clothing that screams 'rob me' or 'please, drop my bright yellow travel wallet out of me and see how much fun I have laughing at you later muhahaha'. That's a story for later though. Ow, don't smack me Loz. But in all seriousness, we are so completely different, and I write waaaay better - (Loz), that I think eventually anybody will be able to tell who is writing from the first word. There are already so many stories to tell that I think I'll start on the first day I said goodbye to Mum and Dad in Paris...(the doo doo doo music starts and the screen goes wobbly and we're going back in time exactly two weeks..). Please be patient...this is a long story
I'd just had my first tears saying goodbye to my parents as I readied myself to head to Austria for some skiing. Dad said to me in the lift going down to the cab,
"Lauren just said to me, 'don't worry Geoff, I'll look after her'. But I think you'll be the one looking after her," and I laughed along with him. Ten minutes later as we're speeding along to the airport (actually we're stuck in peak hour traffic) I realised that I had left my wallet in Brigette's bag the previous night. So there I am on the phone to my mum, crying again, and cursing my stupid self and my father for jinxing me. 60 Euro later, we finally made it to CDG airport (at the wrong terminal of course) and eventually found easyJet. Once we're done waiting in line, we're told by the snooty French girl at the desk that we have 15kg over in weight.
"But I paid extra for another whole bag," I protested. What I failed to read in the terms and conditions, was that didn't mean we were entitled to any extra weight. Hmmm, 'so how much is it per kilo,' Lauren asks.
"12 Euro a kilo," she responded curtly.
Oh shit.
Tears started to well and Lauren and I looked blankly at each other praying for a reprieve.
I honestly think the girl just didn't want a scene with the two of us grown girls having a mental breakdown in the middle of the line.
"Fine, I'll make it 5kg over. You have to go back outside to pay this."
The zipper on my bag then broke. Yay. With all my possessions falling out, Lauren made it to the queue and paid the money before we both ran back inside (my bag somehow fixed itself) and just made it in time for the final call for our flight.
With so much extra weight, Lauren decided we should drop off some of our gear at a friend's place in London (we were in London by the way to catch a bus directly to Hopfgarten where we were going skiing in Austria). We figured out the tube system and made our way to Clapham North. We were both jubilant when we made it to Lauren's friend house and the right person answered the door. We started getting rid of all our gear when Loz began to have her second nervous breakdown for the day.
"Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God" she seethed nervously, "I can't find my yellow travel wallet!". Queue evil gold bag. She'd had her travel wallet in it and somewhere along the way, it had fallen out.
We began calling the police station, the Australian Consulate, Contiki to see if Lauren could still travel without her passport (which, of course, she couldn't) while Lauren's friend offered us a stiff drink each (a Jager bomb). After at least half an hour of trying to get through to various authorities, Lauren's phone rang. All I heard from the hallway was a very high-pitched, 'YES, I'M LAUREN BARKER!'. I knew we were saved. All we knew at this point was that a lorry driver had seen the gaudy, bright thing from the side of the road and thought he'd better rescue it. We weren't 100 per cent how he had managed to call her, but we didn't care. A cab was called and the driver thought 40 quid was the appropriate fare. So we started heading to south London and finally made it to the wreckers yard where the driver worked. He'd found Lauren's number on her travel insurance documents.While Lauren was getting her stuff back, the cabbie told me he needed to call his mate to find out where the hell our Contiki bus went from. Lauren ran back to the cab and just as she jumped in, dickhead driver reversed straight into a car parked on the street.
"Oh shit, oh shit," he cried (honestly, I was a little glad someone else was having a meltdown that day too).
"This could take a while," he yelled as he jumped out of the car and started yelling at the bloke from the wreckers. I don't think he realised at that point what the wrecker was yelling back at him because he started to get irate. It was only when Lauren and I also heard the words 'don't worry, that car is getting pulled apart tomorrow,' that all of us could relax.
So...we certainly didn't believe we'd be going to Austria that night. Oh, sorry, correction. I didn't believe Lauren would be coming with me to Austria that night but by some kind twist from the fates, we got on that damn bus, only to have the girls two seats up from us spew all over themselves, all over the seats and all over the bus toilets after consuming a litre of straight vodka that night.
Sorry for the long post, but it is a long story. At least I warned you. Lauren will write soon. I'm sure she'll tell you who Fatboy is.
I'd just had my first tears saying goodbye to my parents as I readied myself to head to Austria for some skiing. Dad said to me in the lift going down to the cab,
"Lauren just said to me, 'don't worry Geoff, I'll look after her'. But I think you'll be the one looking after her," and I laughed along with him. Ten minutes later as we're speeding along to the airport (actually we're stuck in peak hour traffic) I realised that I had left my wallet in Brigette's bag the previous night. So there I am on the phone to my mum, crying again, and cursing my stupid self and my father for jinxing me. 60 Euro later, we finally made it to CDG airport (at the wrong terminal of course) and eventually found easyJet. Once we're done waiting in line, we're told by the snooty French girl at the desk that we have 15kg over in weight.
"But I paid extra for another whole bag," I protested. What I failed to read in the terms and conditions, was that didn't mean we were entitled to any extra weight. Hmmm, 'so how much is it per kilo,' Lauren asks.
"12 Euro a kilo," she responded curtly.
Oh shit.
Tears started to well and Lauren and I looked blankly at each other praying for a reprieve.
I honestly think the girl just didn't want a scene with the two of us grown girls having a mental breakdown in the middle of the line.
"Fine, I'll make it 5kg over. You have to go back outside to pay this."
The zipper on my bag then broke. Yay. With all my possessions falling out, Lauren made it to the queue and paid the money before we both ran back inside (my bag somehow fixed itself) and just made it in time for the final call for our flight.
With so much extra weight, Lauren decided we should drop off some of our gear at a friend's place in London (we were in London by the way to catch a bus directly to Hopfgarten where we were going skiing in Austria). We figured out the tube system and made our way to Clapham North. We were both jubilant when we made it to Lauren's friend house and the right person answered the door. We started getting rid of all our gear when Loz began to have her second nervous breakdown for the day.
"Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God" she seethed nervously, "I can't find my yellow travel wallet!". Queue evil gold bag. She'd had her travel wallet in it and somewhere along the way, it had fallen out.
We began calling the police station, the Australian Consulate, Contiki to see if Lauren could still travel without her passport (which, of course, she couldn't) while Lauren's friend offered us a stiff drink each (a Jager bomb). After at least half an hour of trying to get through to various authorities, Lauren's phone rang. All I heard from the hallway was a very high-pitched, 'YES, I'M LAUREN BARKER!'. I knew we were saved. All we knew at this point was that a lorry driver had seen the gaudy, bright thing from the side of the road and thought he'd better rescue it. We weren't 100 per cent how he had managed to call her, but we didn't care. A cab was called and the driver thought 40 quid was the appropriate fare. So we started heading to south London and finally made it to the wreckers yard where the driver worked. He'd found Lauren's number on her travel insurance documents.While Lauren was getting her stuff back, the cabbie told me he needed to call his mate to find out where the hell our Contiki bus went from. Lauren ran back to the cab and just as she jumped in, dickhead driver reversed straight into a car parked on the street.
"Oh shit, oh shit," he cried (honestly, I was a little glad someone else was having a meltdown that day too).
"This could take a while," he yelled as he jumped out of the car and started yelling at the bloke from the wreckers. I don't think he realised at that point what the wrecker was yelling back at him because he started to get irate. It was only when Lauren and I also heard the words 'don't worry, that car is getting pulled apart tomorrow,' that all of us could relax.
So...we certainly didn't believe we'd be going to Austria that night. Oh, sorry, correction. I didn't believe Lauren would be coming with me to Austria that night but by some kind twist from the fates, we got on that damn bus, only to have the girls two seats up from us spew all over themselves, all over the seats and all over the bus toilets after consuming a litre of straight vodka that night.
Sorry for the long post, but it is a long story. At least I warned you. Lauren will write soon. I'm sure she'll tell you who Fatboy is.
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