Florence the Classy Way

Venice treated us quite nicely, and saw us off with a sun shiny farewell. We spent the day continuing perusing the shops and backpacking the city. When we tired of that it was early in relation to the time which we were supposed to catch our train. We decided to head to the station anyway considering it was so close to the water.

Greetings from Venice!

We stripped ourselves of our exterior winter shells and soaked in the sun along a vacant Venetian dock with a few bottles of Bacardi Breezers. It was such a picturesque moment that we had strangers taking our pictures.

Don't be surprised if you see us on a brochure when you travel to Venice.

So after a little unprotected sun bathing, we grabbed our jackets and headed to the 4 hour train ride.

Considering this one took place during daylight hours, I was much more comfortable with taking a little nap; a night in Florence called for it.

We got to our hostel fast, and lucked out again when we realized there was a room fit for 9 that we were in. It was a perfect secure sleeping situation that was just begging us to go out and enjoy the night life.

We first had dinner though, after being completely famished due to a mere slice of pizza in Venice an approximate 8 hours earlier. I don't think we've skipped an offer for an Italian dinner since being in the country. The best part about the location in which we chose on this occasion: FREE BREAD.

To my American audience unfamiliar with the European Union, a little cultural note: when you're in a restaurant, water is not free regardless of how many perpetually flowing fountains you see on the streets, and the pre-meal bread is also not free. Lay a finger on it and you're paying 4 euro.

We roll deep. Taken by Patricia, missing Patricia.

Like I said.. except here!

I split a Caprese Salad (Dad, yours is still better) and indulged in tortellini bolognese.

As girls do, at the conclusion of the meal we took a group bathroom break. There were only two toilets available; one marked men and one marked women. My logic tells me, why leave the men's vacant when there are none in sight? So I used it. Karma got me good.

I knew I had an audience of three friends waiting outside the door, so I wasn't embarrassed to be talking. Until the fell silent.

One of them is notorious for taking very unexpected pictures and recording at inopportune moments. I immediately screamed "Are you f*#%ing recording this?"

Giggles ensued, and a "no."

Then I asked for something that, in this situation, was almost more embarrassing than asking for cocaine. I'll let you use your imagination. To this request I heard more giggles and a "I think you should stop talking now."

So I did. I retreated my little stall to find out that some guy was waiting for his appropriately labeled door the entire time.

Patricia Holliday original photo: fake David.

This is why Florence hates Americans. Just glad to know that I've still got it in me to be one!

So we payed our check and left, full from free bread and expensive pasta and ready to dance it off.


First stop, David.

We were all under the impression that Michelangelo's David was the great statue standing unprotected from elements and vandalism in an open square. Out of nine of us, only one was smart enough to let the rest of us know the real one was in a museum nearby.

It was still very beautiful to look at (above the waist...)

Jackie Herro photo: the Duomo.

We had connections to someone who is studying in Florence which made our night out run very smoothly; we didn't have to play guessing games, he took us to the bars that we would want to be in. The last of these bars was next to the massive and impressive Duomo whose entrance line during the day is overwhelmingly long. It is still very impressive, so much so that it is pretty much the face of Florence.

All is well that ends well.

The next day we all managed to get up and ready with all of our belongings and take to the leather of the city. Markets of leather galore! It felt and smelt like heaven. We would spend literally an hour at all the [reputable] stands, feeling and sniffing the wallets and belts and bags.

Somehow, I walked away from all the bags. But I did snag a belt. talked him down to 10 euro, seemed worth it.

mmm, carbohydrate and sugary goodness.

The real treasure of this trip was the breakfast that we had. The term breakfast itself is as American as it gets; they really don't do that here. But we found it: a utopia of pancakes, omelettes, and even burgers with what else but the St John's game playing on TV. Literally an absolutely to-die-for taste of home.

The walk back to the train had a much less beautiful departure scene. And by much less beautiful, I'm referring to the trees literally infested with shrieking bats. I am sure that this was a scene straight from the outer circles of Hell. It was creepy, but obviously still fascinating.

Nomelet with home fries. heaven.

When we got into the train station, it was also a lot less welcoming than Venice's and bordered on being as eccentric as New York's. For instance: I laughed for a good 2 hours about a man who rolled in on his roller blades, completely nonchalant, spinning and twirling on the information line.

Who am I kidding, I'm still laughing.

The train ride home was a breeze; no assigned seats so naturally all nine of us made home in a single car which no one else wanted to join in since we were so loud and gossipy. Perks of Being American.

All in all, the moral of the story is that all roads lead to Rome; still my favorite city... behind New York.<3

That's Amore

This weekend was the weekend of all weekends.

Perfect weather, three course [budget] meals, gondoliers, and strong drinks.


Venezia e Firenze.

We departed my beloved Rome Thursday night at 9 o'clock to take an overnight train into Venice. The train was an adventure in itself...

The nine of us girls were lucky enough to somehow be split evenly into three train cars. That means there was room for three other people to be seated in there...

Lucky enough for me, I got on the train and someone was in my seat! In an attempt to inform him politely that that was the seat I had payed for and intended to sit in during this trek, he conveniently asked "Parlez vous francais?"

Thanking God for my life and my
leather when we got to Venice.

I just can't escape it.

In a fury I pulled out my ticket and pointed to the seat number. Numbers are the same in every damn language, there was no reason he should not have understood. But a guardian angel was also seated in my car; an American girl who figured out he could also speak Italian and somehow got him up.

So I sat semi-comfortably and tried to doze off after we waited for the train to leave for minutes. Next to the four of us girls was a pair of random, unacquainted Italian dudes; one who was frantically answering phone calls and the other who seemed to want us to stop gossiping so he could get a peaceful rest.

I was not getting a peaceful rest when the cell phone guy got off and was replaced by someone I was sure was a merchant. It would be fine if he had brought his middle eastern goods to sell to help feed his family. It was not fine that every time I opened my eyes he was leaned over staring at me. At that point, I knew I couldn't close my eyes for a second. I let out a dramatic sigh of frustration and what I hoped had come off as aggression.  I took out my first generation iPod touch which could miraculously manage to allow me to type a note and furiously typed away just so he knew I wasn't gonna go to sleep with a pair of all too curious eyes in the same car as me and my leather jacket.

He got the hint that I was an assassin; the exact hint I wanted to convey. He grabbed his little rolly-bag of useless nic-nacks and left the car. I slammed the door and closed the blinds.

trekking to the water taxi at dawn. photo cred: J. Herro

By the time we arrived in Venice, it was 5:30 in the morning and I had gotten a full 15 minutes of sleep. The only thing that kept me awake in our somewhat muted scurrying of trying to figure out how to get to Campo Tomá on the middle of this island was the beautiful sunrise we got to watch from our Venetian water taxi.

However, after we found our hostel it was time for a nice nap before we began the day.

The day officially began at 12 o'clock when we went to a restaurant where everyone got pasta except me, who chose salad (for you Krystal), but of course wine.

A lot of wine. No better way to start the day!

After being vinoed we took to the streets to do as tourists do; this is not Rome, there was no chance for us to pretend we know what's going on.

Apparently, glass is a hot Venetian commodity.

Shop after shop of mardi gras masks, pinocchios, and blown glass. Throw a few 4 euro scarves in there and you have the attention of American college girls!

We ventured into St. Marco's Square, the central location of the island. A nice big piazza-esque area with lots of tourists and vendors. I was personally more awed by the water; it was gondola time.

We wound ourselves back through the narrow Venetian streets to come to the ideal spot for the boat tour. A narrow water passage allowing us to watch the sun set and provide a view of Venice's most famous bridge. Our gondolier, who is apparently a third generation gondolier looking to pass the flame to his son, showed us the house of Marco Polo and Casanova, boat garages on the water, and, by my request, a rendition of Nino Roto's "Speak Softly Love" in Italian. Nothing like murder tunes in the evening on the water, right Fredo?

It was a beautiful and romantic ride with some of the best girl friends I never thought I'd find (just missing you ave </3). In all honesty, it is kind of awkward seeing just couples in gondoliers. It is not very private, and everyone should know now how I feel about PDA. And it kind of also blows my mind that people do it anymore. I guess I just assume that all married men get sea sick since I know a certain grown married man who does. No names necessary.

It was definitely an experience that I will always remember and never regret paying XX euro for.

Pictures don't do it justice

We went to a restaurant on the water and me and my fellow Roman Catholic got calamari to honor the fasting from meat on Lenten Friday's while everyone else got chicken cutlet. God can't strike anyone dead in a city as beautiful as Venice.

I can speak only for myself when I realized I was exhausted from the 2 hours and 15 minutes of sleep I had accumulated in the last 36 hours, so we made the very rash decision of having an early night... once we got the free drink our hostel offered us.

It was definitely free for a reason.

Venetian drink... I'm sorry, no.

Having never researched or indulged in specialty city drinks besides Long Island Iced Tea, I cannot give the so-called "Venetian drink" a fair critique. So I'll just give it an amateur critique and say that it tasted like pure acid. It was bright red and I'm pretty sure there was a chili pepper in it. Who quite knows what they do on this little island.

We settled for gelato and went back from some rest. It was a long day of traveling and adventuring (hence the long post of writing).

Tomorrow [and in the next post I'm going to write after class] comes Florence.

Flavian Amphitheatre

Il Coloseo

or for you really uncultured readers (...kidding) the Colosseum!

Probably the face of ancient Roman history and the infamous setting (reconstructed in Hollywood studios) of Gladiator, the Colosseum is just a a short metro stop or 40 minute walk from my campus. And site of today's art class.

all this art I may be better off switching majors.

So anyway, man what a sight. I'm almost at a loss for words. Such a monument that everyone in the world can recognize and hardly anyone knows the truth behind it. That's what I'm for!

Built by the Flavian family (hence the name) in the time of Giulio Cesare (Julius Caesar guys, keep up) it was a stadium meant for several different types of entertainment. Of course, as we see demonstrated by Russel Crowe, it was for the gladiator games. People would line up for tickets, just as they do at any of our stadiums, except these tickets were pieces of bone engraved with their seat number.

Sports events are absolutely timeless.

Descendant of the mighty lion that once fought in this arena.

So aside from the spectacle of having wild beasts of the orient devour or be slaughtered by an ill fated gladiator, the amphitheatre could be filled with water and set a stage for naval battle reenactments. Obviously, the more famous of the routes of entertainment involves blood.

All of these forms of entertainment were part of the political movement in Rome: panem et circensis. Basically, if you feed them and entertain them they'll shut up. Works for people of all time.

The ampitheater has lasted over 2,000 years and has been used the entire time. After Emperor Constantine outlawed the Gladiator games in the 4th century AD, the ampitheater became a church, and later, when the empire completely fell, a quarry. What goes unnoticed is the fact that this collosal building (which in fact is not named for itself but for the collosal statue of Nero that once stood outside of it's walls) was once covered in marble. To cover a counter top in marble today costs a year of tuition; now imagine this immense stadium decked out in white stone. It must have been really incredible to watch it become blood splattered.

a reconstruction of the "stage" with a
view of the underlying passages.

How it stands today, it is almost completely void of all marble due to the removal of it after it was abandoned. It looks like it's completely crumbling, but what takes from the scenery, but in all fairness adds to the memorial of it, is that they are reconstructing/ preserving what they can.

Though I would have loved to be under the ground to see where the wild beasts were before they were unleashed, it is off limits.

Roman history is so vastly different from ours that it is actually very comparable. It's not very hard to recognize that we did not create the idea of pillars, but the Romans did. We took their "Senate" and even their "Capitol Hill" name (Rome was founded on 7 hills; the first of them called Capitoline.)

The fact that we still study antiquity shows that we learn from them; from their advancements, such as the arch and toga wearing statues, and from their mistakes, such as empirical leaders and mutiny (Et tu Brute?)

Even without paying the 12 euro and entering the Colosseum, there are literally thousands of opportunities to get a feeling for the Roman history that literally oozes from every square.

For instance, the very square which is the home to the popular study abroad student bar is the very spot where Caesar was killed.

That's something to drink to.

Keep the Waters Flowing

I went to bed early last night after a long, fruitful day and woke up to carpe diem again.

It was raining, but I figured that was just another way to enhance the experience of living in Rome. So I grabbed an umbrella and took a walk.

It's a Monday. I was shocked to find my street relatively busy; think downtown Manhattan during office hours. I walked with only vague intentions but more importantly, I walked by myself. I want an unfiltered digestion of this city from my own senses.

Just like New York, just because it was lightly raining, the streets are swarmed with middle eastern men with umbrellas draped from their arms. The good part was, I didn't need any italian to tell them NO since they don't even speak italian, and I proudly waved mine so they would not even bother.

So I reached the river, dry, unbothered, and still without a plan and instinctively crossed the bridge. Like in Paris, and I guess even in Queens, all the REALLY good stuff is across the river.

I waltzed into Piazza Navona like I owned the place and could easily feel like I did. The rain had driven away the art vendors and street performers and left only the surrounding tented restaurants and umbrella men. It was even more beautiful that you could hear the water of the fountain rather than the hundreds of tourist voices and the vacancy around it let you get a full view of the monument.

So then, I had an epiphany: Trevi.

I ventured through the narrow streets and busy intersections where traffic laws don't exist for the second day in a row. The rain was subsiding and reduced into sporadic drops. I was able to put away my umbrella as all of the umbrella leaches crawled back into their holes and it dawned on me.

The Pantheon first!

This square was also relatively deserted. I was actually a little upset because there was a keychain I wanted from this one guy and he wasn't there (This is not just any keychain I can get in any shop... I'll let everyone know what it is when I get it.)

So I went into the Pantheon, just after the rain, able to catch a sight of the puddle collected in the middle of the floor.

It's just a puddle...

NO, BY THE THUNDER OF ZEUS, IT IS NOT.

This puddle is inside, by no mistake. It's not a leaky roof, it's not a lot of rain boots dragging in the mud. It is a very intentional puddle that can only be experienced by those lucky enough to be in Rome during the rain. What other place on earth makes rain part of the spectacle?

ONLY HERE.

So I left the Pantheon and all of it's saturated wonder and headed towards the big guy.

How the streets are so much easier to navigate than Paris is quite a mystery. I'll just attribute it to it being in my blood.

I entered Piazza di Trevi to sunlight and a small crowd. I would finally get my real experience with it. Like the Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi, I could hear the loud crashing water, symbolized by the wild horse of the left side of fountain, but this experience was calm like right horse. The air was a perfect temperature and the sun was hitting it just right.

Another moment where I could have cried of happiness.

All the pictures in the world could never do justice to how it feels to stand in front of this fountain. This was my second trip already and I know it won't be my last. It was a perfect way to begin my day and the week.

I'm giving myself so many history and self lessons that I have no idea why I have to go to class for the whole afternoon.

Roma: A History

I didn't mean to skimp out on my first Roman post. It has certainly been a very eventful first few days. With eventfulness comes exhaustion. But I'm here on the day of the Sabbath to try to prove a little more insight into what is going on and why this place is a historical as well as contemporary Utopia.

I took a little midnight stroll the first night. I was too tired to write, but WHEN IN ROME.

I'm definitely going to be using that expression in a lot of instances during this next chapter of blogging in order to dry my humor out a little more... don't be surprised.

Anyway! The historical tour was reminiscent of my Paris art class without access to any museum. The entirety of Rome is a museum. Even the lesser known parks and piazzas hold such an ancient history that America can't even count down to.

NOT THAT I AM KNOCKING AMERICA- I would never. I still love you, Lady Liberty.

But my God is Rome beautiful. I think I may have used the term Nirvana in an instance in my travels in France. This, with the dirt cheap delicacies of pizza and gelato and the beautiful architecture and people, is truly Nirvana.

Piazza Navona

I walked to a bar and came across the most beautiful fountain I could ever dream up. It is such a surreal experience.

So this fountain that I speak of is located in Piazza de Navona. Before I get into that, let's get really deep into it.

What is a Piazza, Tara?

Funny you should ask! The only Piazza I was exposed to my entire life was Mike, and was on the opposing side. But here, the Piazzas are on my side.

They are literally squares. Not in the geometric sense, but squares of shops and bars and restuarants, all self-contained. What I didn't realize was these piazzas were build in the shape of ovals because they are ontop of what used to be stadiums... you know, for chariot races and what not. Think Russel Crowe in Gladiator.

If you're a DeVincenzo, that's no problem since dad watches it every other day...

But now, the stadium is a vast field of merchants, street performers, and gelato.

Getting the sense of Nirvana yet?

The Nile's on the right and the Ganges to the left.

Let me tell you about the fountain: This fountain that really isn't talked about, having been trumped by the Trevi, is representative of the world. Romans liked to use men and nude women to represent any idea they can. It really does work.

In this sculpted fountain, Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi, the four major rivers of the world are represented. The first is the Nile which, at the time, had no uncovered source. Therefore, the man representing the Nile's face is veiled.

Clever, eh?

Next to him is the Ganges River, representative of Asia. Between the two is a lion, the common animal of the two continents.

Our familiar Western Rivers and Italian Stallion.

Spin to the other side and we have the more familiar Western World. One man represents the Plate River of the Americas and the other represents Europe's Danube. Between these two rivers, is the horse which is common on both of our continents.

Pure brilliance, Bernini.

Leader in the period or Baroque art, his little materpieces are still talked about and studied. Our tour guide said there was some newly thought up legends concerning the Fountain of Four Rivers, but these are the forreal meanings.

In Italians I Always Trust.

Then to the Pantheon; not to be confused with the Parthenon. The Parthenon means something else that I don't remember because we weren't there. But the Pantheon, the Roman version, is a temple for the Gods.

Hadrian's Pantheon. Hadrian was basically
Rome's version of Louis XIV; don't correct me if I'm
wrong, I'm still learning.

The spectacular things about this building is that it was not only build under the reign of Emperor Hadrian, but he was actually the architect of it. Considered to be a poor man's profession, he enscribed on it the name of a famous architect Grippa as credentials. However, it was impossible for it to have been him; during his life span, the type of stone used to construct the temple was not in existence.

buuuuusted.

Another interesting thing about the Pantheon for all you math freaks, it was the first building built with a dome; in order to support the dome ceiling, it is 4 feet thick stone. The entire edifice is perfect in geometry. A perfect sphere could fit inside. The only means of ventilation in this gigantic sphere is the massive hole in the ceiling.

I sell out at churches, I call that getting dome.

What if it rains?

Wonderful question! The brilliant Hadrian considered this and made tiny holes in slightly slanted floor to serve as drainage.

... For a country this is almost completely Catholic today is is quite ironic that there would be such emphasis on various gods.

FUNNY YOU SHOULD MAKE THAT POINT!

Although Italy is its own country today, that only became so about 125 years ago. Before then, it was broken into several different country states.

The Vatican (which I have no yet explored but will be doing so very soon) is still it's own which the Pope is the leader of. Emperor, president, prime minister...all rolled in one very Holy Man. When something happens inside the walls, the Italian government has influence unless invited specifically by the Vatican. weird, huh? You thought the Pope just prayed all day. But he's the Pope so he runs the entire Catholic community of the world. His power is pretty serious.

My mind was completely saturated with new knowledge after that tour. So naturally, I brought it back down to an even keel with a bottle of Nero D'Avalo at dinner.

When in Rome...

All roads lead to Rome

…apparently all planes do too. Because when our initial flight in was cancelled, the group of 75 orphans was split across 4 groups, assigned to several different trips.

I, for example, left Paris for Barcelona and then arrived in Rome. There was a group lucky enough to have a direct flight from Paris if they waited for three hours, and there were two groups unlucky enough to have to be flown all the way to London before reaching Rome.

doesn't get any more authentic than this!

Needless to say, after all of us helpless Americans somehow found our way out of the French airport and onto Italian soil, we were tired and hungry. We got our strange electronic keys and our first taste of Italy: pizza.

GOODBYE BAGUETTE.

What Americans think of pizza is an absolute abomination that admittedly, I adore. But then I had some pizza that reminded me of L&B and died it a little inside.

Don’t worry, bridezilla, workout routine starts Monday.

After I ate this, I cried of joy.

So someone mentioned today how this is our second day in Rome. I feel like I’ve been here forever. I don’t speak any Italian besides the words that I can relate to Spanish.

Pretty sure the first night I had a full conversation with the cab driver; my end was in Spanish and his was in Italian.

Regardless, this city is absolutely breathtaking. The history of it is more extensive than that of Paris, more intricate, and for me it is much more appealing.

King Louis got beheaded but the Romans were doing much more brutal things way before he even took the throne.

I haven’t gotten to the epicenter of their murders yet; that moment is the coliseum. I did visit a few other sites though, like the Spanish steps, the Trevi fountain, the Pantheon.

NO BIG DEAL.

The best was definitely the Trevi. From seeing pictures I always assumed it was in the center of this massive spacious piazza. By the sunlight that penetrates it, I can defend my assumption. When I got there, it was in the middle of a square, of course, but enclosed by gelaterias and shops. It was still bathed in sunlight.

SUNLIGHT? It’s true. Paris was hardly providing us with dry days and Rome immediately welcomed us with 50ish degree weather and a sun that amps it.

There's the big bad Trevi.

The whole of the orphanage is sick, but hopefully some fresh air and good food will help us to kick the bug.

Rome is one of those places where you feel at home instantly. Maybe it’s because everyone reminds me of my dad and the food is exactly what I would expect at my own dinner table. It just really all hit me when the moment I landed, I had this strange sensation and all I could think was “I’m never going to want to leave.”

Now just to master the language.

City that Sets the Mood

Like I had mentioned, in all the five weeks I’ve been in Paris, I had not settled on calling it the City of Lights. I will give merit to the claim that it is the City of Love, but I even find that lacking in its true identity.

Cuddling up on the freezing boat tour.

Love can be anything: love of your boyfriend, love of your mother, of your dog, of your estranged cousin, of jump-roping. The extent of the way the emotion can be distributed is definitely what people overlook. In this city, one can certainly make claims that there is a lot of love: love of fashion, love of fitness, love of PDA.

For me, the last one is very apparent. Combine that with the sparkling Eiffel Tower and risqué lingerie billboards and you have a City That Sets the Mood.

Or maybe they're so skinny due
to the amount of stairs they climb daily.

This has been so apparent in everything I have learned about the French culture. I had recently even stumbled upon a tweet reading something to effect of “Leave it to France to make Weight Watchers Sexy” referring to a commercial that doesn't even reveal any type of human form other than the mouth. On the same page as weight loss, I read that it was suggested they are so skinny because they are more sexually active than the average American.

Or maybe they just don’t consider McDonald’s an aphrodisiac like we do?

I digress.

Paris is sexy. And not to say that I shield my eyes in the steamy scene in 300 like my young brother just looking to get his adrenaline pumping through the following scenes of violence, but Parisians don’t consider affection as a sacred thing. Metro stations, cafes, airplanes; no place is a bad place to swap spit.

David's aptly named
The Love of Helen and Paris.

Even in the 17th century, from the inside view and out, one can see the fascination. French painters like David and Delacroix painted naked women all too frequently. Just because you call her an allegory doesn’t mean you’re not trying to get a rise out of what my professor would call the “heterosexual male audience.”

Aside from the overly apparent appreciation for partnership, It is kind of a beautiful thing. Because of the prevalence of love in every day life, no one stops showing it, from teenagers to old geezers.
I’ve never seen so many enamored grandparents concentrated in one area.

It kind of proves to me, as an American, that being in love is not as difficult as we tend to make it out to be. The problem with us in America is we are so caught up in life that we forget. We think that we need to go out on dates and honor tradition of what everyone defines love as.

Love for Jim Morrison.

The reason Paris has it down to an art is because they make it the main event. The main event is not a fancy house, because the entire population of the city, save for the president, lives in apartments. The main event is not the car ride; they hold hands and walk to the Metro together.

Okay, I do absolutely skeeve hearing people making out in the seat behind me. But there are more delicate ways of doing this.

The point is, I’ve come to love Valentine’s Day in commemoration of Al Capone’s assassination of Bugs Moran’s men.

Oh, don’t get me wrong. That moment will forever be in my heart when February 14th comes around.

But people of Paris are so in love with each other that they let it all hang out every single day, not just one day of the year when Godiva makes a killing and Tiffany’s is working overtime.

This Valentine’s Day, the eve of my departure of the City that Sets the Mood, I will let wine know just how much I love it, and remember the Parisian celebration of love every other day of the year.

Walking Among the Dead

They call this the City of Lights, which I had trouble digesting considering it can't illuminate a single alley branching off Times Square.

I have nicknamed it several things, and this really never fit the bill through my experience. It is much more a City of the Dead which, in my personal opinion, isn't particularly a bad thing.

The impressive grave of Frédéric Chopin.
1810-1849

Perhaps my favorite place in the entirety of the city is Père Lachaise. I love this place so much after my first visit that I went back. Neither trip was funded nor organized by the school... not enough Catholic icons present I suppose. Nor are they Jim Morrison fans.

This, in case you're wondering by my lack of description, is the largest cemetery in all of Paris. It is exceedingly famous for being the final resting place of, as mentioned, Jim Morrison, as well as Oscar Wilde, the renovator of the French city post-revolution Haussman, the composer Chopin, and the historically unmatched artist David.

A lot of very talented and legendary corpses.

The cemetery really is an experience all of its own, regardless of who is buried or burned or memorialized in it. It isn't a massive lawn with strategically placed headstones lined for miles. Its only organization is burying people by "claim-to-fame." I.E. Jim Morrison the Lizard King is buried in the Poet's Corner.

The first time I went could not have been a more idealistic time to be present in a centuries old cemetery; cold day with cloudy skies that heightened the experience of the cawing crows. Quite picturesque experience of death.

It literally feels like a small city. All of the mausoleums, and they are more abundant than the headstones, make it seem like each is a little home for the inhabitants. Even as creepy as it is, it is so peaceful and intriguing.

It is 110 acres of stone dedicated to the deceased and open to the living. But only until 5 o'clock.

Which is what prompted my return trip with one man in mind: Oscar Wilde.

It was quite a worthy trip, through the terrible cold. It was another over-casted day, but perhaps the overcast is simply perpetual over this place.

Regardless, the 3.40 I spent on the trip was one that I can mark as my favorite moment in France, besides Normandy.

From all the adoration he received, they surrounded Big O's grave with glass to cease any erosion of the stone itself.

Love to one of the greatest writers of the century.

All the germs and glass in the world weren't going to stand between me and my gesture of respect and adoration for him.

He was definitely my favorite grave to visit. Though he didn't have a statue over him like Chopin, or an expressive lampost next to Jim Morrison inviting people to say goodbye, he his own words inscribed onto the stone concealing his corpse.

And alien tears will fill for him,

Pity's long-broken urn,

For his mourners will be outcast men,

And outcasts always mourn.

Exiled in life, and now the great outcast in the sky, may he live through my kindle purchases and lipgloss.

All Aboard the Hogwarts Express

I think I write best after I take showers. Guess I makes me more relaxed. Or clean?

I don't know.

But I have seriously been slacking, and I know that. I am returning to redeem myself!

I think the main reason I've been gone is due to the fact that artists and writers alike do their best work when they are inspired, energetic, or depressed. I really haven't been much of any of those recently.

In order to write this, I am going to take on a British accent (in my head) as I type. I expect all readers to do the same.

It was Friday, the first Friday in February. I boarded the metro outside of our humble Parisian dorm and rode it until the end of the line until we had to board a different train. Pretty much the French equivalent to LIRR.

You follow? CHEERIO.

So that makes two trains to get to the airport: Charles De Gaulle. Remember that charming fellow? He's even more of a charmer that early in the morning when the commute has just begun.

Still talking like Hermione Granger! KEEP UP!

the Tuuuuube.

So there we are, the lot of us, hung over and awaiting our plane. A one hour flight on which I turned into my own personal nap time until the flight attendant woke us near landing...speaking what other than English!

OH HOW CHARMING it sounded, after all these weeks of throaty, nasally French. It certainly was a scoop of Yorkshire pudding.

(too much? I'm honestly cracking myself up)

So landing, all the signs pointed us to a land of familiarities. English speakers, chips, and paved roads.

But there were a few shockers. The first of them being the pound. I talk such garbage of the euro, where the pound pulverizes my beloved American dollar: almost DOUBLE. That is pure rubbish if you ask me.

Oh, well enough of this poppycock. Basically, it was a traveling day of Hell.

Fish & Chips and a chalice of Stella.

What other way to cure the one hour time difference blues than some Fish and Chips?

First stop, after our hostel of course: The Globe. A quaint little spot where we could feast like kings and drink like hobos.

And then pass out in the hostel.

The second day was of the utmost importance! It was Korrie's Birthday! We spent the day on a double-decker bus that took us to all of the sights we could want to see in Foggy London Town (which was actually quite sunny).

First stop, the Queen herself.

I was actually rather disappointed by the palace. It wasn't super elaborate like that of my dear Marie Antoinette. Just very very large with a long drive way and lots of immobile guards. You know, can't make them laugh and what not.

We stood in the middle of the road just to capture how long this driveway is.

I'm truly beating around the mulberry bush. The highlight of the trip, besides the accents, was talking about Harry Potter in the accents.

I mean this quite literally. And I was not alone. Part of the perks of the bus tour was the opportunity to take walking tours. One of them being a Harry Potter themed walking tour.

In my excitement, I must have elbowed 5 kids and tripped over myself 11 times.

The tour took us to handful of locations where they literally shot scenes from the series, including the inspiration for Diagon Alley and a mock Honeydukes Sweetshop.

How they were out of chocolate frogs is beyond me...

Apparently Serta mattresses come from New Zealand. Who knew?

Quite frankly, the whole of Foggy London town is magical. Just when we thought that we had finished the tour and returned to the real world, we saw people dressed as sheep. And clowns. And ballerinas. And nerdy doctors.

When we asked the local law enforcement, they said that it was just an excuse of a day for everyone to get drunk.

It was New Zealand's independence day. The lack of open canister laws and public indecency was running rampant. And we were in the midst of this right on Westminster-Abbey.

It was the definition of a Shit Show. Had we known, we would have strapped on our own outfits and joined. But it was far too cold.

Such a pleasant experience the entire night was. Especially when we gained free access to a club due to the blizzard that decided to barrel into England. Good stuff.

It is most certainly a place that I will consider going once again when the American economy is out of the tubes.