The End Times, Senza La Bibbia

I’m getting into this really sweet groove that involves not saying anything about my life for weeks and weeks at a time and then word-vomiting everything that comes to mind. I’ve found this method really effective, for a few key reasons: first of all, the disjunctive sense of time and sequencing completely throws the reader off guard, leaving them alone and very susceptible to relatively amazing conclusions brought to light by yours truly. How it does this, I am still unsure, but I appreciate it for what it is, because it’s probably not very true. Secondly, word-vomit is cleansing for the mind, in a way in which I find real-vomit is much more of a hassle and certainly the opposite of cleansing. And lastly, this fashionable style of retelling the events of my life allows me to sift and consider as I write about them, often times laying them to rest in their respective mind-burial-grounds. Nonetheless, in the very least it is telling of my personality and shall continue until otherwise indicated.

 So I have returned, not without a particularly painful pang of sadness. And since alliteration seems to suit the situation, I’ll try and tell you truthfully the tale of my return (honestly, that worked out about five times more eloquent than I could have hoped).

 I spent the remaining ten days of my time in Florence by roughly pulling all of my hair out, kicking and screaming. This was not, contrary to expectation, because I was leaving, but rather because the week I left happened to breed these atrocious beasts sometimes christened finals. I believe they’re also called nastier things, too, most of which can’t be posted on a blog for fear of censorship. Regardless, the beasts came with their fangs bared and we valiantly tried our hand at taming them. The outcome of which was what is called abbastanza bene, or semi-good. Surfacing for air on the other side of the sea of stress, however, I was very happy to find that I will never be forced to analyze or sing twelve-tone, serial music again, made up of ludicrous rules and compositions that sound like children screaming. This is a good feeling, which transitioned well into the last three days (nights) of the semester in Florence, in which I made some of the best friends I now have from Italia.

 Day 1: Tuesday. “Beer at the sacristy.” Explanation: Jared insisted that we should meet at “the sacristy.” I refused to believe this tomfoolery, considering the sacristy would be inside a church. Turns out the sacristy is Jared’s definition for the baptistery at the Duomo. Way to go, Jared! Beer Pong tournament in which we won third place. Dancing to Mamma Mia in a bar called the Red Garter. Realizing that your friend Meredith has stood you up and you are, in fact, dancing to Mamma Mia all by yourself. Secret Bakery (don’t get your skirts in a bundle, I’ll explain soon).

 Day 2: Wednesday. Buying presents for the family. Packing my life away. Best Thai dinner of my life, made by nothing less than noodles from Bangkok. Pad Thai may or may not be one of my favorite foods. ArtBar for the last time. About 600 pieces of fruit-on-my-drink later: EbbyShots. Directions: take oranges, coffee grinds, sugar, bananas, poppyseeds, and strawberries, mix together. Construct shot of strong, foreign-sounding liquors and coca-cola. Eat/Drink everything in front of you. TequilaShots. Directions: see above, but subtract foreign liquors and coke. Instead, use tequila. Secret Bakery.

 Day 3: Following the general progression of events, I bet you can guess what day of the week it is. Best friend’s birthday. Beer at Bar Lidia. Gnocchi and Champagne at a restaurant called Osteria Santo Spirito. Cool-ass stray dog. Dante’s, with everyone (minus one…can you guess?) from our apartment, Via Maffia. Hilarious Poem. Wine at Meredith’s. Secret Bakery. Watching Nick and Mina ride away into the Italian alleyways on a blue bicycle. Sad goodbyes. Grateful non-goodbyes. The Plane, and

 The End.

 I’ll put my money on the intellectuals out there being able to distinguish a few motifs, not the least of which is the recurring absence of sobriety. Necessarily so. Also, there exists the mysterious and clandestine Secret Bakery. What is this magical place? Think black market, Mrs. Fields, and sketchy Italians. What happens is this: since most fooderies (def: foodery, a place where one acquires food) close up shop around 8 p.m. in Florence, there exists no safe haven of nutritional goodness for the poor, much-less-than-sober kiddies that roam the streets in the wee hours of the morning. For this reason, certain bakeries, if you know where to locate them, will open their kitchen doors while baking around 2:00 a.m. to the aforementioned kiddies. This does a few things. Most importantly, the kitchen door/sketchy alleyway combo serves to dishearten those with less resolve. So those fortunate enough to make it to the doors can partake in pastry-heaven. Ie. me. For three days straight.

 Needless to say, the flight back was overly painful, having stayed up all the previous night in order to see Jared off, etc. I made a new best friend on the plane (rooting around, Miriam, rooting around). And then I fulfilled one of my fantasies, which is to meet someone I love and miss very very much at an airport: my best friend in the entire world, Natalie, came all the way to the DJ (definition: DJ, Dirty Jerz, Jerz=Jersey) to meet me. And among the audible gasps and cries of empathy from those standing by, miss Hinds and I successfully enacted a running-jump-hug upon sight. Win. I couldn’t be happier about being back with that child. She makes everything much more enjoyable in my life. Hopefully we shall never be forced to part again. Except in four days. When we leave for the summer. Damn.

But is it a good thing to be back? Yes. Am I devastated to have left? Yes. But I am truly on the transitional boundary, and I so believe I am allowed that much room to breathe. I hate to be the cliché kid here and tell you all that I learned so much about my life while I was gone and figured out a bunch of things and continued on that road to (gasp) adult-dom, but I won’t dress it up to make it sound like something it wasn’t. It was a fun-ass semester, ladies and gents, and the fact that I found a little bit more of myself is just collateral. Wouldn’t change it for the world; I mean, I’m just happy I had the chance to wear a naked-woman apron, wreck a Vespa, and get Gastro-intestinitis. Any more than that and the experience would have just gotten out of hand.