Elodys, Whispering Her Arabica Secrets In My Ear

You know what? I love life. Right now, at least. Give me a brief minute to describe the multitude of reasons why, and then you can sympathize, and perhaps your life will be a little better because of it. But really, it probably won't, because there's little to understand concerning why I am so happy.

Just woke up (my back hurts so much, this bed is upsettingly uncomfortable), contemplated life for ten minutes or so, then was roused into an energetic fury by a particularly short new friend, for we two are going to make the breakfast of our lives in about 30 minutes. And by breakfast of our lives, I mean real, legit Mom's-at-the-frying-pan-Kids-are-upstairs breakfast. Eggs and toast, baby. And here's the best part. Here is probably 50% of the reason I love my life. Hold on to your hardhats.

I just bought a coffee maker. (Oh my Goddddddddddddd!!!!!!!) Yes, the deed has been done. As I type, it gazes fondly at me from my desktop, lustfully distracting me from my real job, writing about my life. Damn you, flighty temptress coffee machine, damn you. (But really, not damn you, because I love you.) Moving on, I know you eager readers are chomping at the bit to know the other 50% of why I am so jovial this grand Friday morning. Here follows the rest of the list:

• Seeing as it's Friday, the 5th day of the business week, we study-abroad students...don't have school. Ever. Take that, work week.
• I have an obsession with listening to new music, and the new Nickel Creek CD I just bought (new is relative here, it came out in 2006/7) is pretty orgasmic. And I don't even exaggerate, it is that good. In combo with Ben Kweller and Capital Lights? Unstoppable force of inherent good.
• I'm booking my flights/trains/just making plans for all of my trips this weekend. Carnival (where Mardi Gras began) in Venice, Cinque Terre for Spring Break, London and Ireland for my birthday, Amsterdam if there's time, also Innsbruck, Austria.

So I guess those reasons weren't as knock your socks off epic as I pictured them this morning. But they, my friends, definitely are reasons to be excited/happy about life. Especially the coffee machine. Did I mention that?

Last night was beautiful. We went to this place for dinner called Mostodolce, which, basically, was a brewery. And they made *almost* everything I had been missing. I had a) chicken wings, b) cheese sticks, c) french fries, and d) a hamburger. Know that if this was a R-rated blog, the hamburger would have included 7 expletives as adjective material. Also, I had two gigantic beers, both of which were made by this place. Going back? Obviously.

So get this story. This happened last night. In our slightly (and slightly=very), how shall I say, drunk*(see star below. Wow, I just made a footnote) states, we took a bottle of wine out to the ponte vecchio, with half a mind to sit on the bridge and chat/enjoy the view. The problem with this plan was that we didn't realize that the temperature tends to drop about 70 degrees from the close, narrow streets of the Oltr'Arno to the open, right-on-the-river bridge. Bad choice #1. So as I was quickly contracting frostbite (contracting is a word that sounds so ambiguously contagious, I love it), we happened to be approached by a guy in his mid-20s, audaciously smoking a cigarette by himself, looking eager to make friends. Why not, thought I, with my slightly (remember the parentheses above) impaired judgement. Bad choice #2. But before you get your panties in a twist about these choices I was deeming so beautiful at the time, don't, it's not about to be Rape/Stab-fest 2009. Don't fret. 

Continuing: so we began talking to this young man, whose name was Julian, pronounced French, because (ready?) he was French. But he spoke pretty good English/Italian, so we had a good time joking in both languages. Julian introduced us to his three friends, from France/Hungary and told us they were visiting until this Sunday. We had a nice conversation, and expended all the usual subjects to talk with strangers about, and then I quickly made up an excuse for us to go when it got a little too awkward. So, you say, there is nothing awkward about that. But halt, you young and naive adventurers, for there is more to this story. First, I'm pretty sure Julian had already contracted frostbite. His hands were uncontrollably shaking the entire time, from the handshake to the goodbye wave. Ominous. Secondly, Andrus (the Hungarian one, who actually was very nice and cordial) would casually slip into the scene and ask us if we knew any close bars (which we did) and if we wanted to go with them to hang out. Yikes. And number three, which in my opinion was the top-hat to our messily tucked-in shirt and tie: I happened to ask what their plans were for this weekend. Julian, oh sweet Julian, pulls this card out of his back pocket and shows us the plan. You know what I got invited to tonight? A Reggae disco. Yep. I don't even know what that would entail. And it's not in the city, no, it's an actual sponsored event that takes place in the hills of Florence. Which is about as much color commentary on that as I can give. Let your bright imaginations wander, children.

*I was trying to come up with an alternative to the harsh and no-fun 'drunk,' but I realized all the other synonyms either do not accurately describe the level of mess or instead they just make it sounds so much worse. Think about it.

So this has been night one of a four-night weekend of fun. More to come, as a day trip tomorrow is in the works, and ArtBar's happy hour is tonight. Good Times, my friends, Good Times. For now, I believe, the seductive tone this machine has is hurting me pretty bad. Guess it's time to show it who's boss. Ci vediamo dopo.

A (very) Few Times I've Been Around That Track

My ideas wing away from my head-tower right when I get them. I'm afraid to start typing, because that means that I have to have something important to say. Especially considering that this, right here, right now, is the inaugural Italia blog. Si, sono in Italia. And for the record, don't read into the inaugural comment. Just because Mr. Obama shall be inducted tomorrow at the Inaugural Ceremony (get it? Get it??) doesn't mean that I actually intended that word to be a pun. Although in retrospect it feels really nice right there.

However, here I am (sono qui), in Italia. I am thoroughly content, lounging on my exquisitely-made bed (thank you, mysterious and oddly erotic cleaning mistress that comes 5 times a week) and listening to the soothing sounds of incapacitated zombies in the office (See Left 4 Dead). To give you readers a brief layout of our apartment complex: 22 people, divide that into 3 persons/room, and a skylit hallway. At the end of the hallway, a "common room," although I've never understood the etymology of that.  Maybe because the inhabitants of the complex that share it have a slew of things in common. Which is still an unreliable meaning, because I actually don't have much in common with the people we live with. Anyway.

I bet you're thinking to yourself: "Oh my God! I'm so concerned for my sanity! I fervently believed Jordan was living with four people, not three!? Whatever shall I do?"

Fear no more, gentle denizens of the earth, for I am here to assure you all that yes, I do in fact live with four. Which brings me, conveniently, to my next point of interest. We live in a mansion.

Yep. We do. To quote Gwen Stefani, This shit is Bananas. B-a-n-a-n-a-s. We (being Mr. Jared "Antonio" Nepute, William "Michele" Spinnato, Bryan "Mario" Welnicki and myself, Mr. Jordan "Luigi" Stanley), have a killer hallway, complete with two traditional green-and-wood-shuttered windows. We have two bedrooms (count them...one...two) that both have big 'ol closets and quaint dressers. We have an office that frequently boasts of zombie killings. We have a bathroom. Which I guess is standard. We have a bookshelf. Do the other apartments have this, you ask? No. We got rooms. They got studios. Yeah, bitches.

But you know what? I'm not judging the studios, they have cool features, too. I've actually even saved the best part for last, because I know you've been waiting for the killer end-all. Every single piece of furniture in this beautiful apartment complex on Via Maffia... is from IKEA. How classic. How suave. How daring, NYU.

Besides this shit (ie. our mansion, windows, etc.) being a collection of spelled-out fruit (ie. bananas), Firenze is pretty cool. Cappuccini e espressi can be found on pretty much every block, and they are multiple times better than anything in the states (be jealous, ye olde coffee addicts). It is literally unbelievable to sashay over il fiume arno (The Arno River - the big one you see in pictures of Florence), three minutes away from the front door every morning. I say literally unbelievable and you skeptical Jordan-knowers are thinking "sure, this boy is so best-brownie-ever" (if you don't get the meaning of best-brownie-ever: one who thinks everything is the best, no matter what. Ie. Me), but aha! I have thwarted thee again, nemeses! (is that the plural for nemesis? I hope so) I truly DO mean that walking over that bridge is outrageously breathtaking. I love it, and it's one of the things that makes living here more than worthwhile. Follow all that? Sorry if I confuse, I rant. Mom used to say I go on tangents, and I guess she's definitely right. Still. Score one for Mom!

So this is my life. I came here in order to learn more about myself (insert cliche judgement here) and the stirrings of such have, you'll be happy to learn, begun. We'll see what this actually manifests itself as, but I do promise I'll keep you updated.

I met someone. Whom I believe will be making a trek to le cinque terre with me. E quello e' basta, perche non e' necesario per voi capire niente piu'. Per adesso, ragazzi, ciao. And yes, I really just did do the "I know Italian" thing. Yikes.

Keep On Keepin' On

I'm gonna start with the cliche, because that would be a good idea here. Why would a cliche beginning be a good idea? Because Familiar Phrases lull readers into a false sense of security, paving the way for mind blowing facts and hypotheses later on. Get ready to be lulled, ladies and gents.

Begin Cliche:

     Don't you ever wish you could pause your own life?

End Cliche.

In response, yes, I do in fact wish I could pause my own life, like on that Adam Sandler movie Click, in which he finds a clicker (remote control? I call it clicker. It's classier, I think) that manipulates life, sort of like television. Except I only need a clicker that pauses. Otherwise I'd get slaphappy and start rewinding and changing my own decisions, so that I would end up like Ashton Kutcher in The Butterfly Effect with no arms or legs and a lot of brain trauma. Which at this point in my life is undesirable.

However, there is one additional feature I'd like to have on my magical tool. I'd like to pause, and I'd like to be able to step out of the screen. I would like to step out of reach of the camera, and just yell. And scream. And kick. And cry. And maybe bite, but I'm not sure what there would be to sink my teeth into off-camera. I don't think I get enough time to be turned off. It's so ingrained into my subconsciousness that I'm afraid I can't power down.

I never learned how. I guess that's a skill (curse?) that accompanies the spotlight to which I've become accustomed. I realized this when I was talking with my parents at dinner, painstakingly lamenting the tasks-yet-to-be-done once I get back to the city. I never get a chance to pause, because there isn't a place for a temporary respite. Is that a problem of mine or a brother to the business? Maybe it's a sibling to my personality. That would be a fun brother to wrestle.

Speaking of, that's not really the best of times, either. See, I've learned as I've grown up that taking the absolute positive and disregarding the negative about my life works really well to keep you in an uppity mood. Not unlike speed, though (which I've never tried, don't judge), you've gotta come down after the upper, and all too soon do I realize that not only is there a negative to every positive but also it tends to slap you like an angry sugar daddy when you don't pay attention to him (it).

Still following? I hope so.

     So anyway, I came home with this optimistic air, candidly expecting christmastime with the fam (which is a generally popular slang term for family, you out-of-the-loopers) to be splendid and joyous and beautiful. Which, for the most part, it has been. If you ignore half of the hours in the day.

Which, miraculously (did you ever believe it would, naysayers?), brings me full-circle to my pause-gadget, also commonly referred to as a magical clicker. For in reality, there shall be no forgetting of time, as that would be unwise in any situation. Practical, yes. Wise, no. Nor will there be any shutting-off in my near future, as we've ruled that out as well. So instead, it would be nice to just pause. Pause, and yell, scream, kick, cry and bite (upon further review I can think of a few people I would like to bite, so I snuck it in).

Following that, I'd be more than happy to unpause and pay tribute to the Allman Brothers. Or Joe Dirt, whichever suits you better.