I had a picture to put here, but my stupid blogger account wouldn't allow it. It was a photo of a store front with a man and woman wearing designer clothing, but instead of heads, they were wearing gigantic eagle's heads. I had a great joke to go along with it about Halloween, but now the world shall be deprived of it forever. Thank you.

Things in the world are going well, I’m still living in the hostel, still looking for a job, still panicking from time to time, still having fun whenever I’m not panicking, and still wishing there were some form of silencer for plastic bags. Every morning as the rest of the room wakes up and starts rustling and bustling and shuffling around, I say a little prayer of thanks for my iPod and my headphones that minimize outside noise, and then plug it in and squeeze in another hour or two of sleep while listening to Debussy’s La Mer. It’s starting to play games with my dreams, while I’m in this shortwave sleep. This morning I dreamt that I had received a job at a school, and I was trying to find my way to the lesson through all these halls and corridors, and finally found the right spot. It was then that I noticed Mary Lou, Mary Rowell and Mary Anthony from the Chamber Players giving a concert before my English class started. I was excited to see them, and was waiting (in the dream) to talk with them, but didn’t get a chance to, because by the time the music stopped, somebody in the real world had slammed the bathroom door and brought me back into consciousness.

The job hunt continues to be a roller coaster every day. This weekend I applied for a job, and after making a follow up call to make sure they had gotten my application, I received the lamest excuse yet for hiring (or lack thereof): my age. “Well, you see, because you’re only 22, no one you teach will take you for any credibility. They just can’t believe that you would have the knowledge and know-how to teach another language, and that you’re already through university and have proper certification.” ….uh-huh. Well, I convinced her to let me come in for an interview anyway, and I’m going all out—hair up, make-up on, silk blouse, properly ironed slacks, loafers (which I have yet to locate in the black hole of Bruna’s apartment) and one hell of a determination to prove that I am suitable for this job. I may only be 22, but I’ve been told that I tend to be on the mature side, though I know those of you out there who would disagree with that statement ;-) Another school called that I forget ever having applied to, and should everything go well, not only will I secure a job with increasing hours over the winter months, but I’ll be able to work there as a full-time teacher in a bi-lingual classroom next year. This greatly intrigues me, but that’s all I’m going to say, because chances are I’ve already jinxed myself out of the position.

Let’s see, what else. Oh yes, apparently yesterday I swept a Senegalese right of his feet…which is funny, because he came over and started talking to us right after my friend Matt flipped over in his chair in the middle of the park and his feet were swinging through the air as he struggled to right himself. I thought for sure he was going to give us a sale’s pitch, because he came over and said, “I want to give these to you as a gesture, because today’s my 25^th birthday and I feel very happy today.” ‘These’ were two small carved animals, an elephant for Matt and a turtle for me, from Africa. I started waiting for the pitch, but in broken English he asked if Matt was my boyfriend, and we both said no, and then he turned straight to me and asked if he could give me his number. I said sure, knowing that I didn’t want to give him my number, and through some jumbled phrase or another, it came out that I spoke French. So we spoke French for a while, during which this guy laid it on, thick… “You are like a light that has lit up my soul. And to quote Victor Hugo…(*quote not available because this was tune out time for Annie during which she was thinking, ‘Is this guy for real??? What is going on???’*) …I’m am a man from Senegal, you are a woman from America, and here we are meeting in Rome, which means love has no boundaries.” Yeah, well, huh, see, the thing here is that I don’t want love right now. I want a job, I want that great Margherita pizza from San Giovanni, I want a cool beer and a stack of Ringos, but I don’t want ‘love that has no boundaries.’ I didn’t explain this to him, but through some moment of poor judgment I gave him my number (I believe his reasoning was, “I had the courage to come talk to you, you should have the courage to give me your number.” What the hell was I thinking?) And he said I could call him any time, day or night. I told him I didn’t want him calling me all the time, so he said, “I will call you at night, before you go to bed.” Wow, well, yeah, he called, and my phone didn’t have service, but once it did the damn thing didn’t stop ringing, so eventually I sent him a text saying, “I just received news from home and I need to think by myself right now. Maybe (maybe not) I will call in a few days. I hope you understand.” And I haven’t received a response yet. Now, I didn’t lie…I really do need time to process the news from home that Mom made baked beans this weekend, and my niece Olivia changed her mind from a kitty cat witch to an angel for her Halloween costume…that’s just, well, something I need to think about. Now if you’ll excuse me, I also received news that Mom made brown bread to go along with those baked beans, and that’s just too much for me to take right now…

Okay, so the blog from a few days ago is now null and void. Many thanks to all the friends and family who convinced me that I can make this work and that I will look back on this experience with a smile in a short time. I already look back with a smile, and it’s only been a matter of weeks, but basically I became so sick and tired of worrying that it was draining me of any and all hope…one bad day took care of that, and I decided that I’ve just gotta go back to the ‘the cup is half full’ version of myself, which is the version much-preferred by everyone, especially those who have to hang out with me day in and day out. So here I am. I’m thrilled to be in the hostel and out of the black depths of the apartment that was in San Giovanni. Granted, sometimes I wish I were in a slightly more private space (right now I’m in a room with 9 other girls) but I know that this is only temporary, and I’ll be heading to my sweet apartment in only 10 days! Woot!

Bruna the landlady has been sleeping on the couch at the apartment in San Giovanni with the other three renters who have all paid her good money to have their own space. She got a little tired of seeing my face around there all the time, so one afternoon she left a note saying, “You guys will need to pay me for having unauthorized guests here, no matter what time of day they are here.” Apparently she didn’t like the fact that, no, I was no longer sleeping and showering there, but yes, I was taking in all my meals and using the outlets to charge my computer and cell phone. So I’ve severed the ties, and all that remains of ‘the tall girl’ at the apartment are three blouses and my sunglass case.

Staying in the hostel has been an interesting experience, in that everyone is a traveler and has a story about some such thing or another. The other day a backpacker was staying in my room who used to follow the band Phish on the road. So he was thrilled to hear that I hailed from Vermont. He was extremely excited to be talking with someone from the states, and to just have human contact in general, so we had a conversation about everything. I started off chit-chatting with him, and then showered, and the second I got back out of the shower, he started right back in where we left off. I humored him for a while, and then decided that he just wasn’t going to stop, so I decided to drop a hint by pulling out my journal and to start writing. But he kept going, and this is what I managed to write:

…This journal entry is a little here and there because there’s a kid in here who keeps talking about everything and anything—how unimpressive the French Riviera is, Luchenbach, Texas, whether or not the U.S will fall like the Roman Empire, hitchhiking, gay guys at bus stations where he’s slept, fly fishing, shoes from Morocco, camel seats and ‘ass tons of money.’ I mean he just keeps going, I keep writing and he keeps talking. There’ll be a period of quietness and he’ll continue breaking the silence with, “I just can’t speak Arabic though, man, that shit’s hard.” Now I’m explaining the process of language acquisition. And now we’re on to high school and whether or not it’s a joke. I wonder what’s going to happen when it comes time for me to want to fall asleep, which is right about now…ah yes, now we’re talking about the Phish festival in Coventry-huzzah. I don’t know how to break it to this guy who has a tattoo of the band’s logo on his foot, but I just don’t really get into their music all that much. Apparently he was a part of the crowd that walked from I-91, which I still can’t believe people even did, and he can’t understand why people turned around and went home…I mean come on, given the circumstances—duh. He’s reminiscing about the days of being a Phish head and traveling all over the country. Alright, now it’s time for me to fall asleep, and I guess I’ll have his words echoing in my head, with such dynamite phrases as, “Those things are wild.” And just what would ‘those things’ be? Yeah, metros.

So yes, that’s a glimpse of some of the people I’ve had conversations with. Then there’s the pack of American girls who have a 25 minute discussion (and a loud one at that) over proper sleeve length to get into the Vatican at 8:30 on a Saturday morning. Eventually I just rolled over, picked up my aching head and said, “Uh, hate to butt in, but all you have to wear is something that covers your shoulders completely and isn’t very low-cut.” To which a girl wearing a bright pink halter top goes, “So I should go with the ¾ sleeve sweater, huh?” But by then I was already in the process of making a new puddle of drool on my pillow and decided not to respond.

Yep, I’m feeling better, I no longer feel that I will be moving home in December, and now I’m off to conquer the world…or maybe go for a walk in the park.

Okay, it's time to be honest. Am I a failure if I decide to come home in December and stay there? The past few days I've been plagued with the debate of what I should do, and moving home to the states is looking very good to me right now. This makes week three of no work...despite my trying, good LORD have I been trying. I put all my eggs in one basket, and that one mistake is causing me the most frustration I've had in a long time, if not ever. I did not come here with enough savings to be jobless like I am now, and the only school where I have been hired will not get their act together and give me hours, so I spend my time worrying. I want people to be able to visit me in the spring (especially my mom) but at the rate I'm going, she won't have any money to visit me with, because I blew it. A part of me wants to come home, where people know me, things are familiar, I have a car and can get a job no problem. I could save up money, pay off my debts and work on grad school. I went from being a big fish in a small pond to a tad pole in Lake Michigan. But then there's the side of me, the energetic, creative, ambitious side that is pleading with me to put my worries aside and wait it out, that everything will come together...but will it? I just don't know, I just don't know what to do.

When I left for Italy, a lot of people warned me about being an American, that I’d run into some issues most likely involving strong dislike, and that it may be a good idea to say I’m from Canada. I knew from the get-go I wouldn’t try to hide my nationality, and I figured I would just handle the incidents of being an American in Europe as they come along. Nothing has really happened, no one has been offensive or yelled at me for being from a country that has been involved in numerous controversial acts etc. People have said things like, “No, let’s not go to that bar, there are too many Americans.” But I’m okay with that, because I’m not here to feel like I’m in America (except for when I need a big hunk of protein cooked medium rare with cheddar cheese and a side of fries) and hang out with Americans. I’m happy with the handful of Americans I do hang out with, and then the mix of other nationalities helps spice things up.
I found it funny though, when last night as my friend and I were waiting for the metro, a couple came up to us and said, “Hey, could you…oh, you’re American…uhh…” and the guy paused. His tone was along the lines of, “You’re not going to know anything, I’m surprised you even knew how to come down stairs to the B line, Americans, psh.” I didn’t feel he would have done this with any other nationality quite in the same tone. “Oh, you’re Australian.” Hm, probably not, he seemed like the kind of guy who would give other English speakers the benefit of the doubt. But there was no benefit here.
“What’s up?” I replied.
“Nothing, well, maybe you could help us out anyway. Um, how do you get to the A line?”
“Well,” (“Well, well, well,” I thought, “Prepare to get your socks blown off.”) “Ahem, WELL, uh yes, the A line is closed because of work on the Manzoni station. It closes at 9 every night, whereas the B line stays open until 11:30. However, there is a bus line, the MA1 and the MA2 that run the metro stops of the A line until midnight, so you can still get around. They’re right out in front of Termini.” (Ha!)
“Oh wow, yeah, cool, so there’s a bus right out front? And it’s called the MA1 and MA2? They replace the A-line since it shuts down early, that’s it?” Way to go Einstein, that’s what I just said.
“Yes.”
“Great, huh, wow, you were much more helpful than I had anticipated you would be.” Yeah, that’s right, punk. Don’t judge a book by its cover. How much more impressed would you be if I had explained that in Italian, which I could have done? Huh? Or how about French? I could have done it in French, too. Don’t assume, dammit. Just because I’m American doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m doing. Fact.

Being long term hostel resident, I've started to feel more and more like a tourist and traveler rather than someone settling into a routine here in Italy. Granted, I do have my routines. A normal day precedes like this:
1) Wake up to plastic bags shuffling around, as apparently plastic has replaced all forms of luggage for the modern day traveler.
2) Wait around for the bathroom (this takes anywhere from 15 mins to 1 hour.)
3) Walk to Piazza Bologna and do some reading, or writing, while fending off the roaming street vendors who just can't seem to get a handle on the fact that I already own enough socks.
4) Meet up with my friend Matt, head to the park and play a game of cribbage.
5) Wander around the city, looking for free things to do. Yesterday I visited the Pantheon and a Gothic church, they were beautiful, and once I start feeling like enough of a tourist to bust out my camera, I'll post some photos.
6) Try to appease the rumbly in my tumbly.
7) Steal internet: look for jobs, send off resumes, explain that I'm not in possession of a working permit, lather, rinse, repeat. E-mail family and friends, check out the weather in VT, hit up CNN to make sure the world is still in it's current state, write a blog.
8) Another game of cribbage, another chapter from my book, another five pages of writing in my journal.
9) Stare at the wall for a number of hours.
10) Fall asleep in the hostel with the light on, in a room that's 80 degrees, under a down comforter, on the top bunk.
11) Wake up numerous times during the night and actually wish I was back in Cesano where I had a room to myself and bed on the floor.
12) Have weird dreams.

Yeah, that's pretty much it. So while I've been hitting up these free tourist places, I've not only felt like a tourist, but acted like one (I never really stopped, seeing as how I still carry my backpack around, only because I'm too frugal to buy a different bag that will hold all of my stuff right now). So that is the basis as to why I broke down and went to dinner at Hard Rock Cafe last night. I know many of you are shaking your heads and saying, "Annie, Annie, Annie, YOU'RE IN ITALY!!! What are you doing going for American cuisine?!?!" Well, a number of factors go into this. Firstly, I don't have a kitchen in which I can cook, so even if I could get my hands on decent meat with which to make a hamburger, I'd be out of luck because of lack of utensils. Number two, I want cheddar cheese on my burger, and a stack of fries, and water with ice, and maybe even some bacon, and I'm willing to pay for it, especially since I'm living with ten million other tourists and feel out of place everywhere I go. I might as well splurge and go somewhere where the smell even reminds me of home (and oh how I miss that fresh Vermont air.) I'm tourist enough to a point that this morning a woman came straight up to me while I was coming off the escalator and started right off into English, she could just tell. I guess that's what you get for being 5'11" with blond hair and freckles in this country. Regardless, when that plate of American beef was placed in front of me, a beam of light came down upon me as the angels sang from above...or maybe it was the burned out lightbulb that the maintenance guy just fixed, but the effect was there, and it was so delicious, oh so gosh darn delicious, and I know that it will hold me over for the next two months, until I can get into the Shed in Stowe and order my own burger and beer for only $8.95. Word.

I'm sitting in a piazza in San Giovanni right now, stealing internet. The sun has illuminated the side of an orange building, and there are about six old ladies on the benches here enjoying the Sunday afternoon. I've moved into a hostel for the next six days, and this morning Bruna the landlady offered to let me move into the apartment for a reasonable rate, so once this six day stint is up at the 'Youth Station' I'll be moving back in with the gang. I'm sleeping in a narrow room with six sets of bunkbeds, and of course, being the awkward giant that I am, I get to sleep on a top bunk--yeehaw. It's a good thing the hostel doesn't have a curfew or lockout period, because I didn't get in from a night on the town until 6am (though I was very economical about it), and I slept until about 1. Yay unemployment on the weekends. I wish I could've slept longer, but there's this one couple that decided traveling really only makes sense if you use plastic bags as luggage, so for about an hour all I heard was the rustling of plastic bags, and it wasn't a gentle rustling in a "Damn these bags are loud, I'll do my best not to wake up the 10 other people in this room" sense, but a "I'm gonna rustle around in this bag like I've never rustled before. I will be violently searching for something, and I probably won't even find it until I've gone through about 6 or 7 bags." November 6th will probably be the greatest day I've had here, simply because it means I'll be in my own apartment, where the landlady doesn't sleep on the couch for days at a time, I'll only have one roommate, there'll be space to move around, to hang out, to eat, and all those other things that are fun to do in one's own apartment.
Now I just need to get hours together to pay for rent and such. The comforting factor is that other teachers are having a tough time getting hours through their schools too, so at least I'm not the sole member of the "Holy crap what's going to happen?" club.

Apparently yesterday my parents and nieces woke up to two inches of snow in Vermont. Wow. That's hardly feasible for me to think of, seeing as this morning I was sweating through my clothes while walking around the city. Plus, in less than eight weeks I'll be home for the holidays, and that's crazy to think of too. Time has been flying by, despite the endless days of job searching and waiting. Once I get a little more settled, I know I'll be glad to come back to Rome in January--heck, maybe I'll even have enough to go on a little ski vacation. I can only dream...

Well, the gig is up. Bruna found out about the tall American hiding in the sofa bed, and left a letter written in all capitals, red pen and with a lot of exclamation points and underlining, which meant it’s time for me to move on. She was mad about other things…the water heater broke and there’s been a slight issue with stray voltage in the apartment, so she explained that if anything else broke while we were here, we would be the ones paying for it. Now, we have no leverage, especially me, because I’m not even supposed to be here, but the water heater that broke looks like it could’ve been installed in 1956 and normal wear and tear put it through its paces and it broke. That’s not our fault, the thing was going to go anyway, it just so happened that everything in the apartment decided to break while we were here. So maybe it’s a good thing I’m getting out, before the fridge explodes and throws shrapnel consisting of half filled tomato sauce jars and Fanta bottles all over the place. Now I’m out and off to a hostel, sharing a room with 11 other people, but it’s cheap, and it’s for a short period of time, and honestly, the bunk bed will probably be more comfortable, the shower will be warm, I’ll have clean sheets, and the whole place in general will be cleaner. I hope.

My friend Matt, who had also been staying in the apartment where I was freeloading, ended up moving in with his great-aunt Marisa. She speaks very little English, and he speaks very little Italian, so between the two of them there’s a lot of confused chuckling and awkward silences. The thing about Marisa’s house is that when you go into her apartment, it’s like taking a step back in time. The kitchen has been preserved in formica, with every conceivable surface being glossed with the stuff. The walls are covered in random pieces of art that are of the ‘great-aunt’ likeness: boats on water, impressionist paintings of gardens and landscapes, and there’s even a portrait of Marisa from her younger days in the living room. I told her she should be smiling in the portrait, she just said, “No, no smiling.” Bummer. The furniture is all very old—there’s a bar that looks like it belongs in a ‘50’s swingers lounge, and in the foyer there’s a very elegant ‘half table’ that looks like it’s coming out of the wall.

Marisa also has the quirk of drumming. Everything she does involves tapping her fingers, stomping her feet, or clicking her nails on something, anything, everything that will produce any sort of conceivable noise. As I spent the morning watching “Seventh Heaven” in Italian while Matt was at a job interview, I often thought someone was knocking or a mouse was scrambling around, because the tapping is incessant. Come to find out, Marisa, despite her 76 year-old frame and shuffling about the house, is a dancer, and dances for four hours six days a week. She seems very happy living in this time warp, where Glen Miller is her hero and for four hours of every day she’s kicking it up as if she were 17 again, but she’s still able to get home in time to catch CSI Miami (which a number of Italians I’ve met here seem to be obsessed with.) Go Marisa.

First and foremost: some of you may have heard about the metro crash in Rome this morning. I was not on the train, I and all of my friends are fine and there’s no cause for alarm.

Yes, that would be me handwashing the feature of this article in a bidet, more recognizable as a butt washer. Though I don't think many people use them, it was still a little gross washing my pants in one, despite having sterilized it first. Reason being: our bathroom sink drainage pipe had fallen to the floor during one of my former roommate Lindsey's extremely physical make-up application acts. My personality just screams class with this photo.

I’d like to take a few moments today to talk about all those things moms do that don’t seem like the miracles they are until their children actually try to attempt them on their own. In this case I’m focusing on ironing. Now I’ll admit it, I am a total leech on my mother when it comes to ironing my clothes. Usually I hide it behind masks of, “I’m in a hurry, could you please iron this for me so I’m not late for the CCP concert?” Or a, “Well, I’m going out with some Craftsbury friends soon, and I won’t really get the chance to do this before I have to go back to Burlington, any chance you could do it, Mom? I’d love you forever.” Then I would bat my eyelashes and be all cute like I was when I was four and had an excuse to not know how to do something like iron, and rush off into the night as she was setting up the ironing board.

Well, I’m 22 now, and the only thing I know about ironing is that black pants should be ironed inside-out so that they don’t get the shimmery sheer look to them on the outside. Okay, no problem. Today I tried to iron a pair of gray wool blend pants before a job interview. The first ten minutes were spent in dreaded fear as I increased the temperature setting on the iron, just waiting to burn a whole through them and continue my misfortunes of pants ownership. The next ten minutes were spent trying to iron the pants with the cool crease down the front that makes them look all snazzy and professional. I’d get one side of one leg done, flip them over, and discover that the ‘factory’ crease wasn’t really lining up with my ‘homemade crease.’ And the butt and front of the pants were still all wrinkly, and when I tried correcting, I caused more wrinkles than were originally there. Damn it, why can’t I be a genius like my mom and pull iron settings for fabrics and how to arrange them for the best crease factor as if they were math formulas? I swear, had I called and woken my mom up at four in the morning when I was attempting this grand feat, she would have gone straight through the grogginess and said, “Wool blend, warm to high setting, match the seams on the sides of the legs to get the best crease, hang them up afterwards, hand wash with cold water, line dry. Any other laundry questions before I get back to my night’s sleep, sweetheart?”

“Yeah, can you fly over here and do my ironing? No one makes those creases like you do.” I pulled the same guilt trip for a fried egg before I left, knowing that Mom just makes awesome fried eggs, and yes, I should make my own, but my eggs are always royally messed up somehow-the yolk starts to cook, or break, or I burn the butter before I even get the damn egg in the pan. It sounds like I’m totally domesticating my mom, but that’s not the point. The point is that I’m pathetic and don’t know how to do a lot of things I wish I did…mayhaps I’ll set up a day of “How to do all those things mom is so damn good at” when I’m home over break (though I’ll probably be too busy skiing, huzzah!) Or maybe I’m doomed forever, and won’t really get the hang of these miraculous tasks until I actually become a mother, which is still a very shaky prospect of my future. In any case, this is a salute to the Mom’s Miracles network, because you put my ironing and egg frying to shame. Sigh.

The weather here is absolutely gorgeous. Pretty much around the seventies during the day, and cooling off for great sleep at night. It hasn't rained in ages, and I'm currently sitting in the piazza where I steal my internet from in sandals, pants and a tee shirt. I mention this because I chatted with the fam yesterday, and they explained that it's been mid-thirties and cooling right off up Northeast Kingdom way. Ahhhh....the sun is nice, although I do miss the foliage, crisp mornings, and glancing at the early season snow capped Mansfield and Madonna mountains knowing that winter is on its way and with that a glorious ski season.

Today I get to act as interpreter for the landlord of the apartment I'm staying in without her knowledge. Apparently I'm just a visiting 'friend' who lives in another part of town, and am offering my Italian skills, since the couple I'm living with (or imposing on, whichever way you want to look at it) doesn't speak Italian. My roommates and I (two of the three) are trying to get me a free month of living, but I'm not sure it's going to work. We've concealed my sleeping area by putting the thin mattress underneath one of the other cots, and I've arranged all of my belongings in the mix of my friends' so as to be inconspicuous. Our apartment has had some crazy hardware issues involving electricity and its absence for many hours of the day, along with no hot water and a bedroom door that doesn't close, and so I am going to explain this all to her, pretending that I haven't been living/having to deal with it for the past seven days. We'll see how this all goes. The next three weeks will be the diary of Anne Houston, as I hide from Bruna and her money seeking hands.

Okay, so I spent the last post pouring my little heart out, and through a few e-mails and a phone call from a fabulous Emily Tully (no big deal), I feel a lot better. In my last post I mentioned a few jobs I have been turned down from that I had wanted, to establish the fact that this is a pattern in my life. My mother decides to cheer me up by writing an e-mail that goes something like this, "Annie, Annie, Annie, you left out sooooo many other things you didn't get that you wanted. Remember all-state? Remember that scholarship you applied for with the trip to D.C?" Remember exhibit c, d, e and so on. It helped me laugh, because in reality, none of those things really mean all that much any more (if anything at all.) So yeah, five year test, this job in Sardinia won't matter in the least. Thanks, Mom.

The good news is I got a job! The Washington School here in Rome took me on without even a formal interview (when I met the guy, who is a very charming Brit named Steve) he had an unlit cigarette hanging out of his mouth the entire time we talked, and he also told me that it'd be okay to miss a class due to a hangover when it comes right down to it, all I have to do is call ahead. Sweet! (Don't worry Mom and all you other moms who are reading this, I wouldn't be that irresponsible, but it's nice to know the option is there.) I also found a place to live, but unfortunately can't move in until November 6th, but that's small potatoes compared to how great this place is for how cheap the rent is. I'll be living about two blocks from the main train station in Rome, which means getting around the city will be a cinch. The apartment is spacious without feeling vacant, we've got a pullout sofa (so guests are welcome), a HUGE kitchen, and a large terrace with it's own dining set-up. My friends and I who will be moving into the apartment are very excited, for two of them it means I'll be getting off of their bedroom floor, where I am currently sleeping. Ah, c'est la vie.

Last night I ate dinner at an Italian family's house, and it was soooooo good. I really need to befriend more Italians who want to have me over for dinner because a) the food is way better than you would find in any restaurant in the entire city, and b) because it gives me a chance to work on my Italian outside of orddering things and asking questions in shops. I like being able to say, "Oh yeah, I read that book. What did you think about it? Parts of it were a little preachy?" And so on and so forth. The food was amazing, and there were about six dishes, even though I only made it to number three before I was almost Thanksgiving full, and definitely Grammie's house full, when the food is sooo good and I don't know when I'll be getting it again, so I throw all caution to the wind and dig in. The first dish was lasagna. Delicious lasagna, a huge plate full, yum. The second dish was a crepe stuffed with ricotta cheese and spinach, with a parmesan cheese sauce on the top, scrumtrelescent. The third dish was meat, I'm assuming some sort of sausage. That was also good. It was here that my eyes started lolling back in my head, the wine had taken it's toll, and I was ready for 17 hours of sleep, knowing I wouldn't have to eat for the next 5 days. But oh no, the food kept coming. Next we had tomatoes covered with slices of mozzerella and drenched in olive oil, a personal favorite, accompanied by an egg confection with spinach and cheese, somewhat like a quiche, but cut like a jelly roll. THEN there were loaves of bread, like, one loaf per person. This was followed by more wine, and a fabulous dessert of a halved peach with a scoop of ice cream drenched in caramel sauce. My God it was good. We topped it off with a drink made of green apples, limes and grain alcohol, that was one to keep a stomach warm on a cool winter's night, but very tasty too. So yeah, I'm not going to have to eat for a long time, that's the problem with Italian food, after five or six days you're hungry again. I'm sorry to have gone into such detail on this meal, but it's seriously one of the best ones I've had in Europe, and I need to have some sort of recorded memory of it, thanks for reading.

And of course, there are the embarassing moments I've been stumbling into lately. One day my friend Lindsey and I were at the grocery store, and when the clerk greeted her with a 'Buonasera' (meaning 'good evening') Lindsey, thinking she had asked if she had the coupon card or whatever, looked up and answered, "Uh, no." The clerk smiled, I laughed, gave Lindsey hell over it, and giggled the memory into my heart. A few weeks ago I went to the supermarket after a nap, and as the clerk slurred 'Buonasera', I shook my head no, and said, "I don't have one." That's right, I don't have good evenings, SO DON'T YOU DARE MUTTER THAT TO ME AGAIN!!!!! She did a double take, smiled much the same way she had with Lindsey, and I felt like a doofus. Go me.

The other situation involved Chiara, a really cool girl who is teaching with some of my friends at Berlitz. We were at a bar the other night, doing the whole 'get to know ya' thing, and she asked what I went to school for. I was already having a hard enough time hearing her, as her voice was the perfect pitch to disappear into thin air and not actually make it across the table to my ears. I responded French and Italian, and so she said something to me in French, as it's one of her four languages or whatever, and I completely missed what she said, so I just did the smile a nod thing, and I could tell something was missed, but the moment to go, "Wait, what?" had passed, so I just let it go. Later on I said something in French and she looked at me and said, "Wait a minute, so you DO speak French, awesome!" Oh, 10 minutes later, I understand the smile and nod question....fantastiiiic.

So I've decided to write a novel. Not because I feel like I really have anything worth all that much to contribute to the literary world of any sort of importance, but because I am becoming so good at dealing with rejection. That way, I'll send off my manuscript, and then when I'm not published I'll be okay with it because I knew from the beginning it wasn't going to happen anyway. In fact, "Rejection Experience" may well become a part of my resumé, as it continues to grow and grow. So yeah, I didn't get the job in Sardinia, based on the fact that I am an American and the Questura told the school director that they didn't plan on issuing any work visas to non-European Passport holders (or at least that's what he told me.) They are unwilling to support illegal workers (understandably) so therefore I'm not the right candidate for the job. Damn. Being from the 'Land of the Free' doesn't mean crap when you're not actually there, obviously, and I'm finding that this little E.U passport holders vs. non-E.U. passport holders thing is becoming more and more of a factor that's considered when people foreigners are applying for jobs here in Italy. Great. When I first read my e-mail of doom (thank God it wasn't over the phone) I had a mini-moment of devastation. My breath thickened and my throat dropped into my stomach. The past two weeks I've pined after this job, yearned for this job, thought that it was exactly where I wanted to be doing exactly what I wanted to do, knowing that it would encourage me to stay in Europe for more than a year. All of that flooded my head, along with curious e-mails from home excitedly awaiting the news. It clicked in that I am homeless, jobless, and am running out of money, fantastiiiic. So then my moment of devastation turned into furiousness, frustration, and due to that I cried for the first time in a looong time. It wasn't very long...crying out of frustration is different than crying out of sadness, but it was enough for me to feel like an idiot. Thankfully I live with cool enough people, who had already agreed to let me sleep on their couch until I found my feet in their new apartment. The thing is, there really wasn't a way for me to plan on being homeless. I'm not going to actively search for an apartment or make a huge deposit if I'm unsure of whether or not I'm even staying in the city, so I played the waiting game for this ideal job, and now that it's fallen through (the day after my TEFL course is officially finished) I have to put myself together and come up with plan B. Well, after Franklin Lamoille Bank, Smugg's Teen Center and Phillipps Andover, I know I'll find a plan B and make the best out of it...I'm just bummed that I have to do it now, it would've been nice to catch a small break in the world of employment. Well, just like Pam advised me, "A horrible thing is just a horrible thing. Whatever you do, you have to move on." Now I am.

So yes, I have successfully become certified to teach English as a second language, woot! I spent the past week building my portfolio, writing essays about certain aspects of the course (student profile and teaching evaluations) and taking methodology and grammar tests. As per my geek nature, I did fairly well in the course, which I'm pleased about...now I'm going to get the chance to find a job and put it to the test. I wanted to flip out at the final luncheon that the school took us to. The food and company were both great, but the damn cameras, holy mother of crap, I might as well have been on the red carpet, except I wasn't, I was in the basement of some restaurant eating food with the same people I normally hang out with and all of a sudden it was picture time with people I've shared maybe 20 minutes worth of conversation time with over the past four weeks. Eventually I lashed out by making faces and using props for my poses, but everyone just said, "Oh Annie, always up to your hijinks." Yep, hijinking the day away, trying to have some food, but I can't seem to find my plate because I've been blinded by 5 million digital cameras going off. Starving and temporarily blind, not a combo I want again. Well, okay, it wasn't really that bad, but close....close.

Tomorrow I will be leaving Cesano forever, and not really a moment too soon. The aroma of horse crap is starting to get to me, as are the trumpets, and the next door neighbors. Let me explain about the neighbors. They moved in at the beginning of this past week, and it was neat being like, "Oh look! Someone to welcome to the neighborhood! HOWDY NEIGHBOR!!" Strange thing number 1: There's unmistakably most definitely a tacky Christmas decoration on their front door, and it's currently October 7th. I don't know if they are using it for other purposes like warding off evil spirits of non-Santa Claus types, or if they're just a little trigger happy on the holiday season. I'll admit it, I use Thanksgiving as my cut off for Christmas music (and many of you would disagree and say earlier, but that's not the point here) but October?!?!? Woah. Cool thing (at first) about my neighbors: They have a piano, and they play, a lot, and the woman is really quite accomplished. I was a little put off by hearing "My Heart Will Go On" wondering if I'll ever escape Titanic and Jack Dawson, but still, being the piano fiend that I am, I was thrilled to think of one being played in the apartment next to mine. She really enjoys scales, almost to the point that I think she's playing them so much to say, "Hey American neighbors, I really know my scales, don't you think?" And thus the reason why our neighbors cool thing has turned into a not-so-cool thing...at ten am on the dot, "BUM, BUM, BUM, BUM, BUM, BUM, BUM, BUM...BUM, BUM, BUM, BUM, BUM, BUM, BUM, BUM." Again and again, over and over, E flat minor, A sharp major, D major, B flat minor, over and over and over, scale after scale after scale. Sigh. So yeah, okay, it was already 10am, time I should be getting out of bed anyway. So I get up, do my laundry, get my bad news of the month, eat French toast, watch a few episodes of Scrubs, watch the Big Chill, watch the extras from the Big Chill, and decide that after such a draining day, mayhaps I'll take a nap. I pad into my room, curl up under my wool horse blankey, close my eyes....and........."BUM, BUM, BUM, BUM, BUM, BUM, BUM, BUM...BUM, BUM, BUM, BUM, BUM, BUM, BUM, BUM." Mother of God. The other thing about our musical friends, is that the woman also fancies herself an opera singer. Now, I definitely am not an opera singer, and never intend to be, maybe because of some of the singing I heard oozing through the walls yesterday when I got home. She had the hardest time hitting this one note that was really not that difficult, she was sharp, she was flat, she'd play the wrong one on the piano, and it got to the point that I almost sang it to her through the wall just so she'd get it and move the hell on....man oh man. Luckily, just before I was about to do that, she gave up and started playing "My Heart Will Go On" so I turned up my iPod and did some reading. Amen.