Every time I see your face, my heart takes off on a high speed chase

Ok. Fine. I might never finish the European tales. Surprised? I'm not. There's still Florence and Paris and Volterra and Pisa to discuss and every time I try I get frustrated and abort mission. Pansy.

Anyhoo. Life in this neck of the woods got real exciting, real fast. Somehow, I survived another January and February (and those of you who work in hospitality know what I mean) and now things are crazy busy between work and networking events (ahem...cocktail parties) and the new season of Broadway shows. This week I saw Sondheim on Sondheim and Million Dollar Quartet.

In short:
Sondheim is one funny motherf'er and hearing Norm Lewis sing "Being Alive" ranks as one of my favorite moments as an audience member ever. Great show...if you like Sondheim and know his work inside and out.
Million Dollar Quartet left me pink cheeked from all the squealing. I'd rank it in top 10 for quality of performances. 4 actors portray Jerry Lee Lewis, Elvis Presley, Carl Perkins and Johnny Cash as they meet in Memphis one December evening to record their greatest songs. Heartfelt and amazing and my God, the talent. Please succeed. Please let everyone go see this and please let everyone love it and please award the talent involved the recognition they deserve.

Enough about that. I'm also here to tell you tales about how I'm becoming a real live New Yorker.
Exhibit A: Subway Behaviors
This week, I took the subway from one of my work locations to my office somewhere in the neighborhood of rush hour. (Then again, when isn't it rush hour?) As the doors opened at my destination, a crowd begin to rush the door. Nope. This is how it works people: I get off then you may get on. So. I stood there, arms folded, smile on my face until a path was cleared for me. There was some grumbling from outside, but certainly some chuckles from within.
The next morning, I boarded my subway car and to my delight found a 3 person bench with two people on it. And one person's bag. So I said hey buddy, wanna move that? He muttered something but obliged.

Exhibit B: The movies
Tonight, Megan and I saw Hot Tub Time Machine. Ridiculous. Hilarious. Definitely NOT this year's "The Hangover" but whatever will be again? The twerps in front of me thought I was too loud. (Yeah. I NEVER get that. So weird.) And when I say "twerps" that's me being polite because they were about 14 years old but in reality, complete little shits. The more they complained about my hearty laugh, the further forward I leaned and the louder I boomed.

Exhibit C: Dry Cleaner's Etiquette
My dry cleaner has a habit of losing my things. Usually it's my skirts. My jacket comes back. My pants come back. My skirts get lost. But last time, it was one of my shirts. And not one of my Filene's Basement $15 shirts. (Exhibit D: I shop at Filene's Basement.) My Calvin Klein shirt (Exhibit E: I also own LABELS and care about them). So I walked in, bitched him out, got my shirt back, and some free dry cleaning for the next go around.


My final tidbit of the evening is to tell you that I'm about to start Alli. Everyone I tell this to groans and tells me they hope I don't poop myself and to be wary of oily discharge and a bunch of other gross but delightfully humorous in a TMI way things. My friend Katie and I were talking it over, and we have decided a new turn for my blog to take will be a section I will call "Ali on Alli." It will probably go a little something like this:
Dear Blog,
Today I pooped myself!

or
Dear Blog,
Today I didn't poop myself!

I'll let you know exactly how it goes.

Something has changed within me. Something is not the same. I'm through with playing by the rules of someone else's game.

If you know me at all, you probably know at least a handful of Absolute Truths about Alison. And probably one of the best known Absolute Truths is (was?) my overwhelming fear of being alone.

Since moving to New York, the fear morphed to discomfort, and the discomfort has now settled into a considerably more tolerable "feh. I'd rather not." That being said, when I took off for Italy, I knew there'd be a solo day or two, and I knew my old fears would likely reappear when introduced to a strange new setting. I gave Taryn a preparatory talk instructing her that, under no circumstances, is she to allow Old Alison to seize control of Alison v.2.0. I would spend time alone in a foreign country and I would like it, dammit.

After our Rome adventure, I did spend a day of rest and managed a walk into Ponsacco only to discover everything was closed. But since Tuesday promised pretty blue skies, Taryn dropped me off at the train station en route to work, and I set out solo for Cinque Terre. This involved an hour or so train ride to La Spezia, and then a transfer to the "local" trains that run through these adorably quaint little mountain-on-the-beach towns.

Despite the fact that I hadn't packed proper mountain gear, I decided to take the train all the way through to town number 5, Monterosso, and then hike my way back through to Vernazza, Corniglia, Manarola and Riomaggiore. How hard could it be?

Hard.

How lucky am I to have experience it?

Extremely.

There is nothing - nothing - like taking a train from anytown, Italy through a mountain tunnel and arriving in a place that feels like it just may be on a completely different planet from anything you've ever known. And there is nothing (nothing) like a 2 hour hike over mountain cliffs dangling over the sea.


As I hiked, I laid little pieces of my former self to rest along that trail and bid them a long, eternal sleep. I said goodbye to alone-aphobic Alison, because she never would have had the guts to take in this view:

And I gave peace to 300 pound Alison, who never would have made it across the narrow paths and up and down the mountains.

I giggled at workaholic Alison and thanked her for loosening the reigns on her blackberry long enough to take this picture:

And I wished luck to bitter Alison and said a quiet prayer of thanks for the opportunity to stroll Lover's Lane at all, even without my hand in someone else's.
(And I wished luck to future Alison, in the hopes that someday, she'll get the chance to clasp hands, hearts, and clang down a lock over there here bars.)







Cinque Terre ranks high on the list of coolest things I've ever experienced. I'm glad I didn't let fear strap me to the couch that day. And in some odd little way, it's something I'm almost grateful to have experienced alone because nothing can quite touch the feeling of learning something new about yourself while you listen to your feet thud and heart race between the hills and sea.

It's got to happen, happen sometime...Maybe this time I'll win.

You know, maybe there is something to be said for this jetlag business. I was pleasantly snoozing by 9:30 last night, and wide awake at 3 this morning. After an hour of fighting it, I tossed back the covers, bid good morning to Maggie (who is still quite upset with me for abandoning her) and started my day. I've already responded to work emails, chatted with Taryn, brewed a pot of coffee, toasted a bagel, done a little light pilates and stretching, showered, and straightened my hair before the time I'm usually even out of bed. So now before I dust off my suit and prepare to fight the elements en route to the subway (there's a blizzard out there, y'all) I'll talk to you for a bit. Several people have asked when the stories will begin, and I can only get away with the "I'm re-adjusting and decompressing" excuse for so long.

So, Rome. After the previously detailed prosciutto-in-the-throat incident, we returned home, reviewed maps, and clamored into bed. We awoke the following morning to a hotel-provided continental breakfast, once again consulted the map, and set off in search of a "Roma Pass," as directed by Rick Steves.


Side note: before you go trapsing all over Europe, get yourself a guidebook. I highly recommend Rick Steves, as he as an uncanny ability to make history and mundane details funny and he does a great job of pointing out strange new customs you'll want to be familiar with before traveling.




So, Rick tells us to go back to Termini, find the Tourist Information (which I never would have found without his directions) and invest in a Roma Pass. 23 Euro, and it covers your public transportation for 3 days, free entry for the first two sites you visit, and discounted entry for all sites thereafter. Being that the Colosseum/Roman Forum are two of the most expensive sites to visit, we hopped on the metro and hit them up first.

Behold, the Colosseum. Glorious, huh? 1500 years old, and still packin' in those crowds daily. We had just enough time to arrive, point and laugh at the crowds waiting to BUY their tickets, scan in with our Roma Passes, walk into the main circle...and then run right back under cover due to a pretty heavy albeit brief rain storm. This happened the entire weekend. Little rainstorms peppered with bits of blue skies and sunlight. Thankfully, we were usually near some kind of shelter to dash under, wait five minutes, and then re-attempt our Roman exploration.




















So after the Colosseum comes the Roman Forum which we mainly used as a way to get even more kickass shots of the Colosseum. Am I right?


Don't get me wrong - ruins are cool, but once you've seen one ruin, you've basically seen them all and I could only gasp "I can't get OVER how OLD that slab of ROCK is" so many times. Although, we did see the place where Caesar's body was burned after his death, and that's pretty nifty. Marching on, we hit up the Victor Emmanuel monument and found a place to stop for lasagna (Taryn) and pizza (me). Bellies full and bodies rehydrated and recaffeinated, we consulted the map a dozen more times and set off in search of the Pantheon. Which looks like this:and should not be confused with the Parthenon, which is in Greece and looks like this:

Right, Taryn?

So the Pantheon is also called "Rome's Umbrella" (at least according to Rick Steves) and as it was time for yet another rain shower, we used it for precisely such before heading inside to St. Maria's Basilica, final resting place of Raphael and home to one incredibly large duomo.

From there, we headed over to Trevi Fountain which was crowded and incredible and we stood entirely too long snapping pictures and listening to the water bubble and the crowds delight in goodness knows what.









Next up, I got us good and lost, Taryn rescued us, and we made our way to the Spanish Steps and Shopping Triangle. As I do not shop at Gucci and Armani in New York, I elected not to in Rome, either, but it was still fun to see. And take too many pictures of.

Back to our faithful hotel, where we cleaned up a bit. After the disaster known as last night's dinner, we decided to consult a more reliable source - yup, Rick Steves. He pointed us to a restaurant not at all far from the hotel and boy hidey, once he once again right on the money. Delicious, incredible, and wonderful, with a kindhearted staff and amazing food. In Rome, it seemed that no one wanted to practice Italian with us or introduce us to their customs. They heard an American accent, and they immediately wrote us off as dumb tourists. But not at this restaurant. I could tell the waiter loved Taryn's anxiousness to learn and to try. I just sat back and smiled. And reveled in the perfect food and wine. And thanked GOD that this place was the polar opposite of the last night's "find" in every way, from the way there was plenty of time between courses to the way the waiter took made polite suggestions to the way we actually wanted to stay for dessert to the way the prosciutto slid right down my throat.

Sunday was a little more tedious and a little less adventuresome. We went and stood in line to get in free to the Vatican Museum. And spent the following two hours battling idiot tour guides who stopped their groups in doorframes and stairwells, all the way up to the Sistine Chapel. Which was beautiful, but also packed with grown-up lunchroom monitors who suuuuuussssshhhhhhed all too often. Rick Steves suggested we exit at a little door to the back right of the chapel, which led us right up to St. Peter's Basilica. Have I mentioned lately how much I love Rick Steves? So we did. And we were greeted with the Pope's voice, hosting his Sunday Papal audience to the anxious crowds gathered under umbrellas inside the Vatican City's walls. Pretty neat, huh?

Onward and into St. Peter's. Which. Is. HUGE. (Thatswhatshesaid.) I mean, this space could easily lodge about 20 of my hometown churches. And even though I'm Lutheran, which is about as anti-Catholic as Christianity can get, I don't know. There was certainly something magical lurking here. I loved every second I spent inside, and it certainly calmed all the frazzled nerves brought about by the idiot crowds of the Museum.

Outside Vatican City, Taryn managed to locate a Chinese restaurant. Being that her favorite cuisine before she moved to Italy was Chinese and that Chinese (hell, anything other than Italian) restaurants are few and far between where she lives, I indulged her. It was bad, but I got some gelato later so I don't really care. Then, it was time to head back to our hotel, grab our bags, and catch a train back to Ponsacco.

Up next: Cinque Terre and Florence!

But I don't know no love songs. And I can't sing the blues, anymore.

I really was going to blog.

I was going to tell you lots of stories of losing myself in the beauty and finding myself, and finding God and happiness too. And I hope that once I get back, I'll be able to remember clearly enough to articulate how exactly I felt while climbing in the mountains of Cinque Terre or trapsing along the rain-soaked cobblestones of Florence, how good the food and wine were while we enjoyed them for hours high atop a mountain somewhere between Livorno and Ponsacco, and what if felt like to experience Paris for the first time with two of my nearest and dearest. I hope I do, but perhaps I won't and perhaps all we really need to know is that for the past two weeks I've been just plan happy, and full of life and love and too much cheese.

Don't worry. There will at least be pictures. That, I can promise you. Sometimes I think the reason I take so damn many is because they do a much better job of doing justice to things words never can. Of course, the pictures can't come close to the memories, but I at least like the opportunity to try and share something with you.

But for now, I'm off in search of vampires. Yup.

Andiamo!

Before anybody gives me any sort of crap about "wasting" time online while in Italy - let me make something very clear. This is my vacation. So even though it will be spent largely in part by trapsing all over this GORGEOUS country, sometimes I do just want to sit down and veg out and tell you all about my adventures.

It's about 10 AM here in Ponsacco. I'm sitting here with fresh coffee and biscotti and yes, I have just done a tiiiiny bit of work. Taryn and I returned from Rome last night and boy, will there ever be lots to tell you (and show you!) in the coming days.

After 7 hours on a plane across the Atlantic Ocean (and with a rude European's seat fully reclined into my lap), 3 hours in London's Heathrow airport, and 2 more hours on a much much tinier plane, I arrived in Pisa. And luckily, finally engaged my travel instinct and found Taryn. (How in the WORLD did people live before cell phones???) Europeans are funny people. Heathrow was out of control at 6:30 in the morning, full of loud people and a myriad of languages and absolutely and positively NO QUEUES and yet somehow, things get done faster and with more expertise than any American way I've ever seen. I ordered a coffee with milk at Pret a Manger and was immediately corrected "FILTER! WHITE!" before being asked for payment. And yet, somehow, none of this was done in any sort of rude way. Europeans are just generally faster and more passionate in any crowded situation. The gate for my Pisa flight was not even announced until 10 minutes before flight time and, by-george, we still took off on time and landed early. American and their lines and 45 minute boarded processes have nothing on these people.

But I really didn't come here to talk to you about airports and queues. Upon landing in Italy, Taryn treated me to a cafe macchiato which is NOT that very large caramel flavored thing you order at Starbucks. "Cafe" means a shot of espresso, macchiato means steamed milk. Cappucini simply have even more milk than a cafe macchiato and are ONLY to be consumed at breakfast time...to order any time post noon will certainly draw gasps of exasperation. I spent the next few hours volunteering at Girl Scouts North Atlantic Headquarters, where Taryn works. Her darling coworker apologized for welcoming me to Italy and putting me to work. My take? If I have to do something mundane, might as well at least do it in Italy. Taryn drove us home and I marveled over her new Italian driving skills and mastery of traffic circles. She then welcomed me with a lovely little antipasti platter before her friend Rachel joined us. Dinner that night brought "real" pizza (yuuuum!) and a stroll through Ponsacco before limoncello and a pastry. Home again, I gotta say, having not slept in 48 hours, a bed and pajamas have never felt so good.

I awoke Friday morning and again accompanied Taryn to work, as we had planned to catch a train in the afternoon for Rome. Some packet assembly kept me nice and occupied, and then it was off to Livorno to park the car and hop a train. Taryn took some time to explain the Italian train system so that I'll be prepared for this week's solo daytrips. 4 hours later, we arrived in Rome and navigated through Termini (Rome's main train hub) and onto the rainy streets, where I navigated us to our hotel without much fanfare. (Travel tip - Romans apparently consider some streets optional and therefore elect to not put them on maps, leaving dumb tourists to wonder "Am I going the right way?" far too often. Also, this New Yorker CERTAINLY missed her gridded, numbered streets.) We checked into the Hotel Stella, which had offered a nice and low rate and proved to have clean (though tiny) rooms, private baths and ample accomodations for our needs. Being a concierge meant my first instinct was to ask the front desk for a dinner recommendation. We set off (in the rain) for La Famiglia, and were greeted with a multi-lingual menu and grumpy staff. Though the food was tasty, this was clearly a tourist trap, start to finish. Over-priced, and courses were served on top of each other, which is NOT the way it had been promised to me. My gnocchi was divine, but my cut of lamb was a joke and resulted in MAYBE 10 good bites, as the rest was all fat and bone. Also, I got a piece of prosciutto stuck in my throat during the antipasti course, which left me very uncomfortable for the duration of the meal. It's funny now (hey Alison - remember that time you got a piece of ham stuck in your throat??) but seemed a disaster at the time.

We left without bothering with dessert or cafe (a sin in Italy) and headed home to study the map, set the next day's agenda, and fall into bed. And as this entry has grown too long, I'll pause here to allow you to digest this tale's antipasti and pasta courses before I dive into the much heavier secondi pasti and meat courses. (Did I really just compare a blog entry to an Italian meal???) Besides, I'd really like to locate a camera cord so that I may begin to punctuate these stories with pictures!

And, it's high time I showered and started my day, anyhoo. You know, this is my first "grown up vacation" where I didn't just fly to Charlotte or Birmingham or simply head to the beach for the weekend. It still astounds me that I have over a week in this lovely place!

But for now, ciao ciao!

Blessed is the Fruit of the Loom.

I have several halfway witty posts saved in drafts that I never quite finished. Perhaps one day they'll get done. But then a week and a half of work got in the way and now I'm sitting here staring dumbfounded at my suitcase wondering how to place 2 weeks of life into so small a space.

I can pretty much guarantee you there will be no posts until I've returned. Maybe I'll surprise us all, though.

In the meantime, I am off to Italy to see this one.

Hey, T...remember that time you WOULDN'T LET GO OF MY HEAD??

Once I get to Italy and we go to Rome and I go to Florence and Cinque Terre and whatever else I feel like doing, Taryn and I will board a plane together to go to Paris and see this one:
(C'est ma cousine, Lexie!)

Alright, y'all. Back to this packing nonsense. Ciao!

You can fake it for a while, bite your tongue and smile, like every mother does an ugly child.

New year, new layout. If you've visited my blog this week, you've probably seen it change by the second. I think I'm finally happy.
Finally.

Maybe.

We'll see.

So the New Year has been fun. At midnight on the first, I made out with a Scottish dude. Somewhere around 2 AM, there came an Aussie. Seven days later, I bought a plane ticket from Pisa to Paris. Two days after that, a plane ticket from New York to Pisa. (I thought that might help me with the whole Paris to Pisa part.) Basically, I'm trying to tell you it's going to be a very international kind of year. And a fun one, too, with little regard for others' opinions or consequence.
I like it. I'm a fan.

I'm going to try really hard to do two things while in Europe. 1) Not be scared to try new and different things, even when alone and b) Not to be an ugly American or typical tourist. I've been extra nice to all the tourists I deal with daily in an effort to improve my tourist karma. Just in case I mess up, I'd like a little positive jou-jou stored away. I ransacked Barnes and Noble recently and am loaded up with Rick Steves guides and translation tools. I think I'm going to get a real live paper journal and sit at cafes and train stations and write about all the interesting things I'll be sure to learn while traveling. Introspection! Coming soon to an Alison near you!

I'm enjoying doing nothing lately. Except today. I woke up, took down all the Christmas decorations and the Christmas tree, resulting in a floor full of tree needles. With the tree down and an empty void, I decided the living room required rearranging. Apparently, most adults do not rearrange every 6 months. I guess I still have dorm room mentality, cause I do.

I have decided that every Sunday from here on out shall be No Pants Sunday. Sunday is the day you should rest and also the day you should not worry about things like pants. No Pants Sunday. Nice ring, huh?

I didn't make any resolutions this year. I know you're supposed to and all and I usually do but this year I did not. I simply made one life goal - be awesome. I consider it my umbrella for the year. Be awesome and everything underneath will be juuuuuuust fiiiiiine.

I've seen enough, I'm not giving up on a miracle drug

I love infomercials.

I love infomercials because they tell me about things I never knew I needed. I mean, take the one that came on 5 minutes ago. Until that faithful moment, I had no idea that making brownies was such a bother, SUCH A CHORE. But now, I'm absolutely convinced that I cannot bake one more chocolate treat until I own...THE PERFECT BROWNIE.

I mean, not only does PERFECT BROWNIE make...THE PERFECT BROWNIE...but it also comes packed with ideas on how to make everyone's favorite treat even better. I swear, I NEVER thought about making a marble brownie, or M&M coated brownies or a Christmas tree stenciled brownie until PERFECT BROWNIE came along.

I simply cannot go one more day without one.

And my favorite part of any and absolutely ALL infomercials is the part where amazing announcer guy shouts AND WAIT! and then proceeds to tell you about how they're going to double your order for free (plus shipping and handling) and throw in something not at all related to what you're ordering in the first place. I am truly lucky that my bright pink Snuggie came complete with a magnifying book light. I'd be lost without them both.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go order Miss Maggie an EmeryCat.

This is over my head, but underneath my feet

Sign of the times: I'm an adult and I know it because there's a good foot of snow on the ground and I have not once been outside to play in it. Snowball fight and snow angels were hindered by the fact that Megan has tonsillitis and I am in the mood to be lazy and sit warm and snuggly on the couch with my space heater and cat nearby.

I've been terribly MIA because the last 3 weeks have been long and ridiculous and dramatic. We had some housing drama that likened our living room to the set of Jerry Springer one week ago. Hint: housing drama NOT caused by either person pictured here:
To pile more to the drama, I was all busy acting. Note to self: do not EVER audition for a show or sign up for more stuff to do in the middle of busy season at work and right when a new property is opening. Bad judgment call, Alison. Whatever, it was fun. And Crissie and Jenn were in town too, so that just added to it all. Last Saturday night, 12 friends came to sit in the audience and cheer me along and find more reasons to make fun of me. Afterwords, we tumbled into a nearby bar and proceeded to be awesome. I loved it.
Once again, I am overwhelmed by the friendship, grace and laughter God has placed in my life. Due to aforementioned housing drama, I will not make it home for Christmas. That's ok. Megan and her parents are taking me in for the holiday, so that I will not spend it alone. And since friends are the family you choose, I will still consider the day spent with family. It's a happy ending in a sticky situation. I know now who I can count on, and who I cannot. (And who I can is a sum considerably greater than that which I feel I have lost.)

The next two weeks will be difficult, but I'll make it through. And then the "Noughties" will be over and I'll welcome a new decade and somewhere around January 6, life will slow to a crawl and I will catch up on sleep and blogs and money matters and another important things.

Twenty-four.

A couple of weeks ago, I was asked to write about home.
At the time, I rather liked my entry but now it just seems a mis-shaped mis-match of other people's words strung together with my ramblings, never quite reaching a point. The point I was trying to make is that the concept of home still completely escapes me and that suits me just fine.

But here I am in Georgia and suddenly home is everywhere. This isn't even my real home, but rather the home I've chosen for myself. And here I've been, watching my best friend in her day-to-day and holding Baby Caroline and chopping celery and driving through the suburbs and marveling over the things like the matching furniture, an adoring husband, lack of landlords, and in-house washer and dryer. This IS a home and not because of these tangible things. But because somehow, Lori found a way to still exist through it all. She's still there, behind the sterilized baby bottles and clean dishes and brand new dining room furniture.

And I think maybe THAT is my new perception of home. The place where you can exist simultaneously as best and worst case scenario you. The place that smells your morning breath and dirty clothes and produces the good hair days and positive life choices. It's what you both strive for and maintain. It's what you want, and what you've got.

I rent a room and I fill the spaces with
wood in places to make it feel like home
but all I feel's alone
It might be a quarter life crisis
or just the stirring in my soul

Either way, I wonder sometimes
about the outcome
of a still verdict-less life

Am I living it right?
Am I living it right?
Am I living it right?
Why, Georgia, why?
(John Mayer)

to be continued...