Re-Defined Life

Umm, Yes, I Concur

"What's the point of being appreciated if no one is naked?" -27 Dresses

Ballsy...er...Buttsy?

For future reference...this does not make us want to date you. Lesson One: Women work differently than men.

Ballsy though. And you have something written on your cheek.

The Naked Romping

I haven't had time to write much (anything?) this week. And I'm truly sorry, as there's much on mind.

But I have had time to read.

And so here you have something truly amazing.

My gift and apology in the form of a link.

Totally Straight

On New Year's Eve three of us (HB, ED, & me) went out on the town to celebrate--as you would expect. We ate Italian food, drank Italian sparkling wine (don't you dare call that champagne), and then went to the Mercury Cafe for some live music and swing dance goodness.

After some time spent chatting, teaching them some dance moves, dancing with strangers, and drinking another aquaintance of ours called and said she was coming out. She had been at a party up north and was sorely disappointed at the lack of single men to smooch her at midnight. So, in the hopes that the swing dance venue wouldn't be such slim pickings, she headed out to us.

Shortly after she arrived I was out on the dance floor getting my groove on with a nice blonde boy and being asked how I could possibly dance in those heels. Pain and beauty. Beauty and pain. Really they aren't that bad though.

While I was dancing, our Aquaintance was telling a story. HB had been talking about her camera. Saying the batteries were dying. And, speaking of dying batteries, because clearly this story fits into their conversation, Aquaintance launched into a story that began with a disclaimer.

"So, I'm totally straight, right," she began. "But this one time..."

And on she went to describe the time when she tried to have sex with another girl. But the other girl started it, so it doesn't count for Aquaintance's sexuality right? She went on to say that the other girl had really "beautiful breasts" but they didn't have sex, cause Aquaintance is totally straight.

When she finished the story HB  could only nod.  On one hand there's admiration for forthrightness, yes? On another hand: wow.

But it gets better. Because New Year's Eve couldn't be a part of my crazy life unless the craziness bled over onto me.

Aquaintance wanted a picture, so she borrowed some New Year hats from drunk boys at another table. We all donned them and put our arms around each other. I was standing next to Aquaintance and she reached around me as if to put her hand on my waist, but instead she grabbed my boob and gave it a good squeeze.

"Don't be fresh" I said, thinking that it was just another of her idiosyncrasies, which display themselves ever more each time we hang out.

I didn't hear the other story until later.

And I can only conclude that my life will continue its ridiculous course into the New Year.

I mean, who else do you know who was groped by a totally straight girl on New Year's Eve?

Next Year I Could Be Just As Good

You'll notice that I put up December's banner a few days late. This is because November lasted until the 3rd of December this year. In my mind.

You see, all time blends together when you're job-searching.

The reason I chose the popular song title for this month is that it feels fitting. Silly. Sexy. Jazzy. Me.

When I lived in Shippensburg, Erika crocheted a set of lingerie for me. Red crocheted lingerie with white feathery trim. A bit of chilly holiday cheer. Now, I've not had the opportunity to wear said lingerie, but I keep it lovingly folded in chest with the other costumy interesting things I've collected the past several years. And, when she gave me this gift, Erika made me promise that when I do wear it I have to sing Santa Baby to whomever I wear it for.

I agreed.

As I said, it has yet to be done. And won't be this winter either. But, I sit in anticipation of my debut...

And so does my blog banner.

Santa, Baby, I want a yacht and really that's not alot. Been an angel all year. Santa, Baby, hurry down the chimney tonight...

Think of all the fun I've missed. Think of all the fellas that I haven't kissed. Next year I could be just as good...if you check off my Christmas list...

France is For Lovers

We arrived in the Azure Coast last night, much later than the train was supposed to arrive. MB had been happily expounding on the scientific properties of gasoline and the expert saving of baby seals from oil spills to the Ukrainian man and the Hawaain girl in our train car. I just bonded with the hawaain girl over the trials of bra shopping.

But we arrived, nonetheless, and located our hostel in the red light district (so glad he is here for this one) and slept fitfully.

Today we were walking around Olde Town Nice after our tart french wine and our sweet sweet french Gelatto when I spotted a bar and went in to use the loo. As I walked in an older, very tanned, french man took my arm and rattled something off to me in french.

Sorry, I don't speak french.

Oh, My English is very bad. Do you have a husband? Children?

I have to go to the bathroom.

I scuttled off, waiting in a long bathroom line and then returning to MB and Bianca (a sweet and Clever australian girl we met in our hostel)outside the bar--or so I thought.

When I turned the corner to return to them I found them inside the bar, standing beside said drunk frenchman with drinks in their hands. I couldnt believe my...whats the opposite of luck?

I grimly joined them, at which point the frenchman raised his eyebrows.

These are my friends, I said.

Me too, me too! Have a drink he said.

I looked grimly at MB and Bianca.

I'll have what she's having.

Rum and coka! He hollered at the bartender. Bring rum and coka.

Bianca looked amused, MB laughed, and I resigned myself to chugging rum and coka.

The man spent the rest of our time in the bar extolling the way that Bianca puts her fingers on the side of her face, telling her she looked like Nichole Kidman, asking me if I kiss penises the same way I drink rum and coke (a question which I miserably misunderstood and mortifyingly nodded to), telling MB his penis was the size of the eiffel tower and they should compare to eachother, and extolling MB for being here with both of us.

We looked at eachother slyly (Bianca and I). Yes, yes, he's very lucky, we said. He brought us out here in fact. Paying for everything. He is very rich.

The french man looked very interested, sidled up to MB, slid his arm around him, declared how much he liked him, rich him, and then he reached up and loudly kissed a very embarrassed and chokingly laughing MB on the side of the face.

Ready to go? MB asked.

And so we did.

And our french friend picked up the tab. Aww, he must have really liked you MB...

Ostello Di Horror

This is a cautionary tale against Ostello Gioventu (youth hostel), the Hostelling International hostel in Verona, Italy.

I was happy when I first arrived. The hostel is an old villa with a garden to the side, and a view of the local castel, as well as the neon cross, which must have been the inspiration for the quirky movie version of Romeo and Juliet. It is clean. It is old. It is pretty.

And it has no locks.

Last night, when my french roommate, my spanish roommate, and myself had switched off the lights and attempted to drift into our respective dreams I found myself sleepless. The mosquitos were finding ways inside my sweaty sheet to bite my legs and arms and the room was sweltering. I put on my ipod and lay with my eyes closed.

It is amazing that I even heard the long scrape of the door handle turning.

When I opened my eyes a man had entered the room. He was tall and dark and wearing only his underwear and a loosly tied towel around his waist. My mind raced. Why was he here? What did he want? Is he lost? Looking for a girlfriend? Theif? Rapist? Drunkard?

He walked straight to my bed and I gasped and sat upright.

He seemed startled and turned toward the window.

I was too afraid to speak. I should have called out, but instead I watched him frozenly as he gazed out the window and turned to the next set of beds, peering into each one. When he got to the Spanish girls bed she sat upright, what are you looking?

He stepped back and stumbled quickly out the door, while we stared across the moonlit room at eachother wide-eyed.

It was a man!
What did he want?
Was he here to steal?
He wasnt wearing clothes!
Are you certain it was a man?
Yes, yes, I am sure!
Oh my god.
Oh my god.
Oh my god.

All three of us got up from bed and crept to the door. We slowly checked the now-quiet hallway and crept to the open-air bathroom at the end of it. We looked out on the terrace. Nothing.

I said I would go tell reception. The french girl stayed in the room and the spanish girl stood in the hallway. A chain of frightened women, trying to protect our things and get help at the same time.

I walked onto the staircase and almost ran into the man, who was staring out the window on the staircase of the womens floor. I swallowed and jumped back around the corner. Gathering my courage I made another attempt down the stairs. Unsure of what I was afraid of, and yet more afraid because of the uncertainty of his intent.

This time he was sitting on the staircase with his knees up and his underwear clearly revealed. His head was in his hands and I scuttled by and down to reception. The man at reception followed me quickly and came to the man on the stairs.

I can understand Italian most times, but not late at night with high adrenaline while the two men exchange words in our staircase. I just stared at the man and the receptionist.

He says excuse him, he was trying to get his wine.
But his wine was on the terrace.
There is no way he thought his wine had walked from the terrace and jumped into my bed.
That is not okay.
We dont feel safe.
Make him leave.

The receptionist took the man to his room, as if that would fix it. I will watch him, he said. If he comes up again we throw him out.

No, no, the french girl said angrily. You didnt see him come up before. Your desk does not even face the staircase. No! He has to leave. This is not normal. This is not okay. He was on the womens floor and in the womens room.

The receptionist told her to be quiet. Told us to go to bed.

No, we said.

We are going to call the polizia, unless you make him leave.

He threw up his hands, obviously caring less about three frightened girls than about the possibility of creating a scene. He went to the man and came back to us. He is getting his things. He will leave in five minutes.

We watched from the top of the staircase and the french girl watched from our window as he left the premises. Only then did we regress into our room, still reeling with adrenaline and sick to our stomachs.

The spanish girl wanted to blockade the door. None of us were going to fall asleep otherwise. So we moved the empty beds in front of the door and nervously laughed and talked a while before drifting into a shallow and restless sleep.

Apparrently during the night I cried out in my sleep. Both girls woke in terror. I tossed in my sleep. No one slept well. No one slept long.

So this morning at 7 I woke and showered and packed my bag. I told them I wasnt paying for a night of sleepless terror and wrote a letter to the director, who will not be back until tonight.

Even this morning they made light of our terror and the fact that their security isnt working.

You cannot tell what a person will do when you check him in, says the new reception person.

I dont blame who checked him in. I blame whoever decided we did not need a lock on our door. It isnt acceptable.

And so I am gone. I have moved to an all girls hostel with an 11pm curfew in town. So maybe tonight I will sleep.

I would like to, as a final note, ask anyone who knows my parents to please not mention this. I dont want to make them crazy and will tell them when I am safe and sound and back on US soil.

Thank you.

gg

The Italian Chasity Belt

The mosquitos of Tuscany left me with a set of sexy red bumps that remind me of the plague. And, while this has not stopped the entire male population of Italia from behaving creepily around me, I am expecting that any way it will get bad enough to warrant children's tears and gasps from the elderly. I took a photograph in the hopes of uploading it to you, since internet in Verona is half the cost of internet in Venizia, but it was so hideous I had to delete it from my camera.

Instead I will just mention that a primary count discovered something like 20 red marks not including my face and my favorite one is the one perfectly positioned (and currently scabbing) on the end of my nose. Dave called me Rudolf. And I must concur.

But you didn't get online to read about the plague, now, did you?

My last day in Venice I awoke and after the obligatory five minutes of sad staring at the plague on my face I headed downstairs to try and coo my way into staying another night. At first they weren't sure they had room, but some eye batting does wonders for roommaking, and the next thing I knew I was paying for another night in Venizia.

We (Dave and I) wandered out to the gardens at the far far end of Venice in hopes of getting into the international art show that is concentrated there. Unfortunately, Venice being so expensive and us having already spent money on a gondola ride the night before, we were unwilling to drop the Euros necessary for entrance to said art show. So we walked the perimeter and made our way to a curiously leaning tower toward the end of the end of Venice, wandered back through some neighborhoods, and U-turned toward the hostel to combat my oldladycrankiness with an afternoon nap.

On our way back to the hostel we saw what I must say is the most curious and disturbing item I have ever seen for sale. And you know, I have been around.

The item was what Dave and I inferred to be a male chastity belt. A thick metal belt was around the waist, there was a hole in the ass barely large enough to fit your finger through (not that you would want to) with spikes on the outside just in case anyone got any ideas. And the front, well, the front was a wire °cage° in the shape of, you know, the male appendage. The tip was encased in thick metal and the rest was wired.

The moral of the story being, it was wild and totally painful looking. And you definately definately wouldn't want to get aroused there. So really it wasn't just to keep from sex, but also a combatant against lust. Any movement or growth would have been rewarded with a good deal of pain.

Just imagine a community of Italian men forced to partake in this. It would be a community of Italian men with their eyes to the ground, never shouting after us °bellas°, and constantly thinking of grandpa in his tighty-whities. What a hilarious and sad scene it would indeed be.

After that hilarious tangent we made it back to the hostel and I took a nap. When I woke I was told that I needed to move beds. They had forgotten a reservation for my room was six, not five. No problem. No problem. I said. And I was lead up the thin kitchen steps to the third floor where I had been upgraded to a private room with a king sized bed and door sized windows flung open to a view of the church next door. Score!

I couldn't help but feel that my life was awesome.

Sleeping by myself for once. What a feeling!

And on that note, it is back to my awesome life.

Gg

The Amazing Maze

I arrived in Venizia yesterday to a sprinkling of rain, which then became a downpour. The cobbled streets were slick and scattered with puddles. The canals were alive with rings from the droplets. And tourists tramped on loyally through the city in bright blue plastic bags with golden belts.

From that very moment I fell in love.

When I said I was moving to Tuscany to retire, I lied. I am moving to Venice...if it isnt underwater then. I dont mind living only on the top floor of a building and dealing with torrents and flooding. Not if I could live in Venice. Wouldnt mind at all.

Today Dave (who I met in Roma, joined up with again in Florence for a day, and who came out to Venice yesterday shortly after I did), Jennifer (who I met in the hostel last night), and I set out to explore this amazing maze. We crossed bridges, ducked through alleys (I mean, they ducked--I walked normally--Oh the perks of shortness), and took photos like crazy people.

I cannot wait to upload some photos for you. Alas my internet time here costs money, so you will all have to await my return (I know, I know, you are biting your fingernails and trembling in anticipation).

-- --

In Tuscany I was staying in a small town called Tavarnelle. There is one hostel there and a handful of B&Bs, which makes for fantastic emptyness. Just enough foreign travelers to be nice and not crowded.

The hostel (Ostello Di Chianti) was an excellent choice, right outside town square with the cleanest rooms and the sweetest staff. But my favorite part, I must say, was the antics of my four night roommate.

She was an anomoly in hostelling--a woman over fifty traveling alone and staying in youth hostels. It was both brilliant and baffling. And made for interesting roommate situations.

First there was the lack of European subtlty and modesty. She was a large woman, well over 300 lbs, and had never in her life truly had to be modest. I awoke the first morning, rolled over, and almost choked on my own spit when I saw her sitting cross legged on her bottom-bunk in her pink underwear (which appeared to be a thong, though it could have also just been a wedgie) and white t-shirt playing solitaire.

Good morning, she said cheerfully and began lecturing me on the horribleness of the red swollen bug bites across her body and how they were from large mosquitos that had been driven out of Africa and into Tuscany due to a climate change.

I thought that maybe wearing pants would help with her mosquito plight. But I said nothing.

Bug bites and nakedness aside, she was also very set in her ways and motherly. Where were you? she accused when I stayed in Florence overnight after missing my bus. Why is your bag not in the locker? she asked, shaking her head.

Overall I found her rather amusing (and better than my Roma roommate who was from Brazil and continually scooted his bed toward mine while I was out of the room so we were almost sleeping together. This, I did not appreciate. And Dave helped me move his bed back away). And a grand part of the hostelling experience.

I mean, seriously, its not every day you see a half-naked overweight German in the next bed over. Am I right?

I thought so.

Gg

More Male Nudity - Welcome to Austria

I finally made it to Vienna after an excruciating night in the Dublin airport.

I thought I would save money on a hostel and time on the bus ride and sleep time (as I wouldn't have to be up at 4, but could sleep till 5:30 instead) by crashing at DUB, but the fates were against me.

1. Everyone else had the same idea. Curled up on a chair I listened as more and more people arrived, spread out blankets and sleeping pads and rotated chairs this way and that. Everyone, it would seem, sleeps at the airport. Like, this is totally normal.

2. The first leather chair I confiscated I had to abandon due to having a bladder the side of a pinhead. Instead of trying to go back to that seat I found a new one and curled up there. Ten minutes later the guy who had been sitting next to me before had moved to sit next to me again. Weird and coincidental, but not much else. My pinhead bladder called again and I lugged myself to the restroom, finding a new chair upon exiting. Again, creepyguy (as I have now dubbed him) moved to be next to me. I have no idea what he wanted, but clearly what he wanted had nothing to do with me getting a peaceful night's sleep. So I hopped up and acted like I was off to catch my flight and went downstairs to a different waiting area where I used the handy dandy bike lock I'd brought along to latch my backpack to the bench, used the carribbeaners to latch myself to my carryon, and subsequently fell sound asleep.

3. A crick in my neck and extreme cold woke me and I decided to relocate. The catch to this is that someone else took my spot and I found myself without a chair. All taken. So I relocated down a windy hall to a room just outside the bathrooms. There were a couple people sleeping on the floor and I took up residence on a gg-sized shelf outside the bathroom doors, where I slept for the next three hours or so. I need to take a vote: which is funnier, me sleeping on the shelf outside the restrooms or me sleeping in the luggage compartment of a moving bus? Let me know.

Anyway, you can see why I'd be totally shot by the time I reached Vienna, even after sleeping the entire plane ride here. Heinrich showed me around the city a while and I was struck by the character of Vienna. It is very unique and old and likeable.

During our walk in the city we turned down an alleyway/sidestreet to get something to eat at a little bar Heinrich knew (which turned out to be FANTASTIC, really) when we both noticed a man walking toward us. He was wearing a t-shirt and underpants (tighty blueys, you know) and swinging a plastic bag between his legs. Desperately trying not to laugh or look him in the eye we walked by, and as soon as he was past tears started rolling down my face. What the hell.

I laughed because it was ridiculous. I laughed because Heinrich seemed barely phased. I laughed because HOLY COW. The world has conspired to show me lots of male bodies as of late, eh? Italians, Austrians--the question only remains: will France and Ireland join the party?

Anyway, I was talking about the man later and called him "Mr. Fancy" which made Heinrich laugh and somehow stuck. So, Mr. Fancy, if you are out there reading this. I mean, if you know how to work a computer and understand made up words like tighty blueys and somehow managed to find this website in the first place--hello to you.

I dedicate this entry to anyone who has ever accidentally come across a Mr. Fancy. Or been one.

Cheers to the nakedness.

GG