Siena and Arezzo

We arrived in Siena in the early afternoon, and saw San Domenico church. Inside were the relics of St. Catherine (her right thumb and head, to be exact). It was a little morbid, to be honest!

Afterwards, we had a walking tour of the city, during which our tour guide described the different neighborhoods and the 'wars' between them (the neighborhoods are named after animals; "Owl," "Goose," "Porcupine," etc.). The horse races, which happen twice a year, are the city's largest event. We learned about how the horses are drawn by lottery, kept under careful watch, and blessed prior to the race in the churches. The winning neighborhood receives bragging rights, and that is reason enough to spend ample money on each race and the festivities that accompany it.

Following the tour, I eagerly made my way with Renne to a gluten free restaurant I had read about. One review said it was the best gluten free pizza in all of Italy. After circling the same half of the village for 15 minutes, I finally discovered that the restaurant was closed indefinitely. I sat with Renme and watched as she ate pizza and french fries. I walked across the street to a small candy shop and bought 3 dry gluten free cookies. Afterwards, Renne and I wandered to a bakery the tour guide (who pitied me when I told her I was Celiac) recommended I go for the typical Siena cookie, made of almond flour and naturally gluten free. I ate cookies all that day, and loved it. They were some of the most delicious cookies I had ever had; moist on the inside and coated on the crispy outside with delicious powdered sugar!

We arrived at the thermal baths shortly after, and I spent the afternoon soaking in the sulfur-filled water as my colleagues complained about the rotten egg smell and splashed obnoxiously in the hot tub. As I watched them splashing the Europeans who were sharing the spa with us, I became so embarrassed at their lack of attention to the fact that they were being disrespectful. I finally gingerly swam over to a very annoyed-looking elderly couple, and said: "Dispiace; loro sono studente Americani, et loro sono pazzo" (I'm sorry; they are American students and they are crazy!). At this, the couple (and every other Italian within earshot) burst into laughter and welcomed my words warmly.

At the hotel, we were treated to a dinner of pasta (rice in tasteless tomato sauce for me; it tasted strikingly similar to Spaghetti-O's!), roasted chicken and potatoes, and chocolate cake for dessert (they finally brought me a very rough pear after the rest of the dining hall had been emptied, forgetting about my dessert). I went to bed feeling dissatisfied with a lack of a decent Tuscan meal, but was determined to have one the next day in Arezzo!

We toured Arezzo (with the most humorous tour guide ever), and I met up with Sarah (another Celiac on the trip). We wandered around until we found a promising restaurant I had read about that offered an entire gluten free menu. We split a pasta and pizza, both of which unfortunately tasted like they were from a frozen dinner. However, we were hopeful as we made our way towards a gluten free bakery (I do my research!). We arrived to find the "gate of doom" over it, as it was...of course...closed.

We loaded into the bus and made our way to the wine tasting at Castello Varazzano. The winery was beautiful, and I attempted to enjoy the rolling Tuscan hills despite the fact that a majority of my colleagues had "pre gamed" for the wine tasting and were acting, once again, obnoxious.

I could not even understand how something could be so beautiful. The rolling hills with the olive trees and groves, the grape vines, and an endless stretch of green and pine trees. I was so amazed, and so at peace as I prayed for a loving and patient heart.

We were seated for the wine tasting, and tried two red wines: a Classico and Riserva. Never before had I had a wine with such a drying effect! We had sheep cheese, bread, salami, prosciutto, and beans with our wine. Afterwards, we were brought gluten free biscotti to swirl in an orange dessert wine. I recognized the wine from my other wine tasting (see embarrassing 21st birthday story), and I immediately knew not to sip it in fear of getting sick; it is strong stuff! However, I enjoyed munching on the biscotti; it was delicious! I was so excited to have some of my own! Sarah and I dug in and even asked for seconds of our bread!

As I arrived home, I came to a monumental realization: I do not like people.

The people I do like, of course, I dedicate my whole heart to. I love them dearly, and would give my life for them.

But I do not like people. I don't like them. They are loud, obnoxious, stupid, and disrespectful. I don't want to talk to them, to associate with them, to hear them. I don't want to hear them laugh, chew, etc.

I pray that God may heal me from this and give me an open heart. I cannot be a choosy person when it comes to being an ambassador for the Lord. Being a disciple means talking to and loving all. While I am glad I was finally able to admit that I am an impatient and generally intolerant person, I pray that God can guide me to a different outlook.

It was a beautiful overcast weekend in the rolling hills of Tuscany!

Pompeii, Capri, and Sorrento

This past weekend, I traveled with LdM back to the Amalfi Coast! We arrived in Pompeii, where we walked through the modern side of town, walked through a Baroque church (where there was a Catholic wedding in progress), and purchased Buffalo mozzarella in balls (by far the richest and creamiest cheese I have ever eaten; I had to stop halfway through and purchase chips to eat with it).

Afterwards, we walked through the ruins of Pompeii, learning about the progression of events on that historic day. First, the volcano erupted, much to the confusion of the inhabitants, who had previously believed it to be a mountain. Ash shot up 25 miles vertically into the sky, darkening it and causing the lower half of the city to be buried in a hailstorm of volcanic rock. Those who had not fled suffered under collapsing houses. After the others returned to attempt to save them, the city was showered with ash, literally submersing the inhabitants in a heat so intense they were buried and burned alive. This allowed for the perfectly preserved plasters, which were among the creepiest but most fascinating things I have ever seen.

We walked through the old colosseum, the baths, the city center, an old brothel, the bars, the forum and saw the fronts of several old homes. It was an eerie sight, but one I will never forget.

Afterwards, we stopped for some fresh lemon and orange juices, and headed towards Sorrento. We were staying at a very nice hotel right in the city center (one I had admired on our last trip). We ate dinner in the hotel (I had gluten free pasta--unknowingly with fish sauce--, steak and potatoes, and ice cream). The girl next to me, a 'health freak' who always tries the odd regimens, tried to ask for gluten free bread once she saw that I had some. This angered me--she's not gluten free, and I never get gluten free bread at restaurants! The waiters immediately became confused, and mixed us up, thinking she was the celiac. She tried to explain to them that it was a preference rather than a necessity, and they did not understand. I panicked as they began pointing at me and her. Finally, one of the waiters understood what she was trying to say. He angrily picked up her fork, handed it to her, pointed to her food, and said, "Just eat."

I love how seriously the Italians take celiac. No other substitutions. Either you're gluten intolerant, or you eat the bread. I love it.

At dessert, the group was given delicious looking cake with pineapple cream. I got a wonderful plate of the freshest and most flavorful strawberries and pineapple I have ever had. Once again, my neighbor asked for fruit, like the celiac. They complied this time. But she ate cake, too. Whatever.

We went to a limoncello tasting, and I almost could not handle the strength of these samples. They passed out cookies and chocolates to help lighten the effect, but none of these were things I could eat. They finally brought out a tray of candies, and the man said to me, "You can eat these. Senza glutine." I greedily grabbed a handful and threw them in my mouth, eager to get the taste of limoncello out. I bit down on the hard candies, and they cracked open and spurted limoncello down my throat. Like some kind of alcoholic fruit gusher. I felt so sick.

On the walk back, my dinner neighbor complained of a tummy ache from all the sugar she ate, saying, "I wish I was Celiac so I didn't have to eat all these sweets. That way I would refrain."

Things not to say to a Celiac.

I had made a friend on the trip who lives near Granville--a fellow Ohioan! A group of us went down to the port to look at the night lights. It was the same port Deanna and Sammi and I had sat on during Spring Break. I felt nostalgic sitting there, looking at the moon and trying to pet the stray cats that walked by.

The next day, we headed towards Capri. Upon arriving, we were given a boat tour around the island, and went inside the grotto. I had a mini panic-attack inside, as we had trouble getting out of the small entrance because of the amount of waves crashing us in. However, it gave us more time to look in awe at the glowing blue water beneath us.

Afterwards, we walked through the town of Capri, and through the gardens and perfume factory. Then, Ginelle and I hiked to Anacapri, where we walked through several shops prior to returning to the port for a ride home. I had been excited all day for a gelato shop I had heard about, where there were homemade gluten free waffle cones made fresh on the spot. We descended back down the cable cars towards the port, and I went to the gelato shop. Upon arriving, the staff informed me that their shop was a "sister shop," and the one with the gluten free cones was back on top of the mountain--which meant purchasing two more tickets to ride the cable cars, and about a half hour of time that I no longer had. We had to meet our group in 15 minutes. I sighed, defeated. However, upon returning to Florence, I knew I would reward myself with a gelato with Deanna (and I did, a few nights later after our last Slow Drink/Wine Tasting with LdM).

I can see why my sister and her fiancé fell in love in this beautiful spot. Capri was by far the most breathtaking sight I had seen in all of my excursions thus far! I loved every minute of it...even those where I wasn't eating.

Fiesole: On the Other Side of the Kitchen Window

All semester, I've looked at the view out of my kitchen window and off my rooftop terrace. Far in the distance, there is a hilltop town dotted with steeples and forests. I have always thought it looked so tiny, so far away. And I was always curious what it was. It wasn't until Deanna and I had completed the 3 hour hike to the top of Fiesole that I realized I had hiked to that mysterious little town!

It was a brutal but beautiful walk. Luca, our guide, talked to us about Italian culture, studies, etc. But mainly, it was refreshing to escape Florence and get some fresh air. And the air really was difference once we got out of the city center. Our first stop on the trek was a small natural park, where we walked through the grass (very rare for us to see) and watched pigeons and turtles sunbathe alongside a small pond. Then, we continued our trek.

After arriving to Fiesole and taking a small break, we wandered through some trails off in the woods, winding up to some caves and ending at the very cliff where Leonardo da Vinci once tried his famous flying machine. After the long and exhausting hike, we rewarded ourselves with gelato.

Now, when I wash my dishes (avoiding the piles of moldy dishes left by my wonderfully hygienic roommates), I look out into the distance and see...Fiesole.

Easter in Italy: An Eye-Opening Experience

Holy Week is not something I have ever celebrated before. However, being immersed in this Catholic community, I knew that I wished to partake in all Florence had to offer. And I could not be happier with my decision.

We began with Mass on Holy Thursday. We had been told by our Catholic club that we would have reserved seating. However, after arriving, Deanna and I realized that there was no hope in finding anyone in the mass of people (pun...mass...Mass...haha).

Luckily, there were a few seats open for us, and we squeezed among the crowd as the religious officials and Cardinal processed in. I instantly became annoyed with the large groups of tourists who came in by telling the guards there were there for Mass...and then proceeded to get in our view, take pictures, walk around the sanctuary with their jaws on the floor, and walk out. It was the most disrespectful thing I had witnessed thus far in my life. I tried not to become angry, telling myself that it was not for me to judge them. However, as we began the readings, and read about the last supper and what Jesus was saying to His disciples, I could not help but burst into silent tears. Here it was Jesus's last night on earth. He knew what He would soon endure. And He was scared. He went for prayer in solitude into the garden and prayed to God, asking for help and strength. He was about to die on a cross, suffocating and beaten, because I am a sinner. Because we all are sinners. And He was doing it willingly, as a flawless human being with no sin. And here these people were tromping through His Mass. It was our time to thank Him and to praise Him. If I were Jesus, I would be flaming with uncontrollable anger. Life isn't fair. People are bad. And He died for them?

Then, I realized. I'm not Jesus. And Jesus is not angry. He forgives these people, for they know not what they do. I instead dried my tears (Deanna was kind enough to hand me a tissue halfway through), and instead I prayed for those people. And through this, I was able to see more about why Jesus is such an amazing figure.

Good Friday's service was long. And the church was cold. Needless to say, I was a frozen ball by the time we left. But I was so glad to once again be amongst this worshiping community. And I was so excited for Sunday. I was able to decipher a part of the reading and what the homily was about--particularly, how the water and blood flowing from Christ's side represented the baptism by water and blood.

On the morning of Easter Sunday, I awoke feeling like it was Christmas. The streets of Florence were bustling at the early hour of 9:00 (that's early for Florence). There were so many people packed in the city center that I could barely fight my way through to the church entrance. I entirely missed the procession with the cows pulling the cart and the bands, but there was not chance I could have seen it with the great multitude of people. Inside the church, we waited an hour and a half for Mass to start, and were happy we arrived early for seats. After the Cardinal sang the Gloria to signify the start of Mass, a fake dove ignited in the front of the sanctuary, flying in a large flame on a wire to the city center, where it ignited the cart waiting outside. The phenomenon we were all waiting for: Scoppio del Carro. We knew what to expect, and even purposefully got seats on the side aisles so we could have a good view of the dove and the cart outside. But I wasn't prepared for the firework that accompanied the igniting of the dove, or for the dove's return back to the pillar in the front of the church after lighting the cart on fire! I almost teared up; it was one of the most impressive sights I'd seen, with the exception of the fireworks and Eiffel Tower on July 14 and Elphaba ascending in "Defying Gravity" in Wicked. As the fireworks went off outside the church door, the entryway filled with flames and smoke, and our ears buzzed with loud noises from outside. It was so calming to be inside the church, in this holy place, away from the tourists and the flames but still seeing and appreciating this great tradition. A man stood on a chair, blocking our view in order to get a decent video on his iPad. Someone threw a balled up bulletin at him, resulting in laughter and relief from many.

After the service, I joined Deanna and her roommates for an Easter lunch/dinner. I had created the menu, and they willfully complied. Prosciutto-wrapped cherry tomatoes stuffed with pesto and mozzarella, zucchini and parmesan chips in an herb cream cheese dip, pesto and provolone bruschetta, and cinnamon polenta cake with Nutella cream cheese and (moldy) strawberries. We cooked and ate and played Head's Up, and then went to Lion for wine. Two glasses of wine and a free limoncello shot later (which I urged Deanna and Cara to take with the English boys sitting a few tables down), I was throwing peanuts across the aisle into Sem's mouth and hitting Cara's teeth with failed attempts. It was a wonderful and blessed Easter, to be sure.

The next day (Pasquetta), Deanna and I headed to Assisi for a day of prayer in their abundance of churches. It was a beautiful day with flawless weather. We hiked and walked and talked and at each church, we stopped and prayed. We stopped briefly in a cafe for a break before continuing on, walking through shops and looked at olive wood rosaries and crosses. My favorite church by far was not the touristy Basilica of Saint Francis, but was instead the small, empty church. We were the only people there, and spent a few moments in contemplative prayer. I was so thankful for such a fabulous week of closeness with God.

A Tour Guide at Santa Maria del Fiore

I have, for this semester, been harvesting volunteer hours for my Leadership Studies minor by working as a volunteer tour guide with Ars et Fides Firenze. Each week, I give guided tours of the Duomo, Florence's treasure.
During those times, I am forced to speak Italian and French, despite the fact that I barely speak either languages. However, when a tourist approaches me with a question, I am obligated with my badge to at least attempt to answer. I constantly surprise myself with how capable I really am. I can stumble through responses, and the conversations always end in one of three ways: 1) They smile and nod, meaning that what I said actually made sense 2) They do not understand, and I have to find someone who speaks their native language and try to explain the predicament to them 3) They finally decide to tell me they speak English, too
On several occasions, I have been complimented by tourists on my "impressive English-speaking skills." I also often have the tourists wanting to take pictures with me (don't mind if I do!). I have also received several tips, since our tours are free--these tips get donated back to Ars et Fides.
I interact with a diverse group of people. I have given tours to people from France, Austria, Switzerland, Germany, Cuba, US, the Netherlands, Italy, Spain, Jordan, England, New Zealand, Canada, and Israel. Each person has been amazingly pleasant (with the exception of the mother who could not control her ill-tempered boy, who blew out the memorial candles and cried when he couldn't play a game on her cellphone because she wanted to take pictures).
I was told last week by a tourist who had visited the church periodically throughout his life that this was the most information he had ever received.
It is a drag to have to get out of bed every Monday morning, especially when I do not have class until 3:15. However, it has been a rewarding and eye-opening experience, to say the least!

Today, I was complimented multiple times on my eloquent ways of speaking and the ease with which I give my professional tours. I have been ecstatic and honored to receive several monetary donations (all of which go back to the church, of course). It is very exciting to be told that my Communications major is making a difference!

Here It Is...The Crazy 21st Birthday Story

Horseback riding, wine tasting, and a lunch in Tuscany. Not a bad way to spend a 21^st birthday!

Deanna and I began the day meeting at Lion Café—you always need to start your day with a little Sem (cute Italian barista).

We headed over to the meeting point, getting lost on the way, but finally finding where the email said the vans would be waiting. Sammi, our third member for the outing, was nowhere to be seen, which was unlike her. The girl’s got a good head on her shoulders.

We waited for 45 minutes; the tour bus delayed leaving. I started to get worried. Deanna and I swiveled our heads frantically every second, looking for our curly-haired redhead to come bobbing around the corner. I called her. Messaged her. Nothing. I felt like a Mamma Duck who had lost her duckling. Finally, our tour leader Christian suggested we try the tour a different day—our deposit was nonrefundable, but could go towards a different booking.

This was my 21^st birthday. And I was worried sick about Sammi. And we were angry that she didn’t show up. She wasn’t answering our messages. If she was alive, I was going to kill her.

We said farewell to Christian, and Deanna and I started heading to her apartment, ready to bust down the door to make sure she was still breathing before we strangled her. As we turned the street, I received a text from Sammi: “I’m in front of the McDonald’s at the train station.”

She had the wrong meeting point.

Correction: Funintuscany.com sent her to the wrong meeting point. The confirmation email we had all received saying “Meet in front of this café” was a different email than the one Sammi said—later, the company apologized for “the technological error.”

We met up, called Christian, and caught a taxi, which took us to Via Roma, where the van was pulled over waiting for us. We received death stares from everyone waiting in the van, who had already delayed their trip 1 hour because of us. I got in the van, ready to apologize, but the ever-fiery Sammi addressed the entire bus: “Hey, y’all. Sorry you had to wait. But I am expecting an explanation from the company as to why this occurred, as well as payment for our extra taxi.”

Christian raised his eyebrows, a little frightened. But, it all smoothed over, and within a few moments we were driving through the hills of Tuscany, passing villages where scenes from “Under the Tuscan Sun” were filmed, as well as the monastery where a scene from “Twilight” was shot. Christian talked to Deanna and I in the front seat as we drove about his life in Florence, his love of American students, his interests, etc. I mentioned to him that I was the one who had previously emailed him about whether or not the “provided lunch” was able to accommodate Celiac disease. He smiled, and said, “Oh yes, I remember you! Yes, they will most definitely have something for you. You are going to love this place.”

We arrived at the horse farm, “Il Vecchio Maneggio,” where we walked around admiring the view as Christian plucked pieces of rosemary and basil off the plants for us to hold and smell. We were shown the bee farm where the honey was harvested. Finally, we were introduced to our horses, and Jacamo, our riding guide.

The horseback ride was stunning. Taking pictures from horseback is difficult, so there are minimal shots of the process. Jacamo spoke only Italian, and we talked with him about where we were from, what we liked to eat, what we cooked, who we lived with…basically everything covered in the first term of an elementary conversational linguistics class. There were multiple occasions where he would prompt us with a question, and Sammi and Deanna froze, unable to formulate a response. I knew what he was asking, but we didn’t know how to respond. I would then take a deep breath, and the words would just fall out of my mouth. He would smile, proud that I was able to respond, and continue the conversation. He laughed as we talked about food and what he liked to eat and whether or not we liked it too. After every sentence (“Si, mi piace fragole.” “Si, mi piace crepes.”), I would say, “Con Nutella!” He laughed, nodding his head, agreeing that everything tasted better with Nutella. “E vino,” I added, causing him to laugh again in agreement.

The ride lasted approximately an hour, after which we met with Christian again, and sat at a table of other English-speaking travelers while we had a honey tasting. I met a gorgeous young man who was an American study abroad student in Rome, as well as his (already slightly tipsy) mother and aunt who were visiting him.

Afterwards, Christian drove us to San Gimignano, where we toured the microscopic medieval town of old towers and stone streets.  We had the world champion winner for gelato, and traveled to the panoramic view site. Afterwards, Sammi, Deanna, and I prayed in a tiny church, and we were ushered into the car to return to the hills of Tuscany, where we were to eat lunch at a charming winery.

Let me preface the next portion of my story with a little prequel: When signing up for this (very expensive) horseback riding and wine tasting tour that boasted a full Italian meal, I was hesitant to book due to the lunch component.  I by no means expect any establishment to ever provide gluten free food. I do not have a sense of entitlement and believe that every place should have something that accommodates my allergies. I have an allergy, it’s unfortunate, but there will be places where I can’t eat and I don’t expect special treatment. However (and this is a big “however”), if an establishment guarantees that accommodations will be made and charges the same amount for my assured gluten-free four-course meal as everyone else, I expect to have a meal comparable to the gluten meals.

So, I had emailed Funintuscany.com about two weeks prior to booking inquiring about the meal. I received a lovely response stating that yes, they would indeed have food for me. So, I faced the price of the bill and paid it, gracious that my parents were urging me to have these opportunities.

We arrived at the winery and its finely decorated dining hall, with walls lined by aged bottles of Italy’s finest wines and truffle oils. At each table setting was a heaping plate of appetizers. I went to the host and quietly questioned where I was to sit, as each plate had bread on it. He motioned towards an empty spot, with no food.

The wine tasting commenced, and everyone dug in. I was finally handed my own plate, with the appetizers minus bread, and instead a Quaker’s rice cake. My friends and I snapped pictures, thinking that it was adorable that they gave me a dry rice cake in place of bread. Most places would have given me nothing!

Then, the second course came. By this point, we had worked our way through our first three (very full) glasses of wine for the tasting. The second course, a traditional Tuscan soup, featured lentils, spices, and, the star of the show, bread. I sat back patiently, knowing they had not forgotten about me. Sure enough, another appetizer plate was brought out for me, this time with tomatoes and mozzarella. I looked longingly at the soup, but was thankful for my substitution.

Two more glasses of wine later, the third/main course arrived. A very delicately layered lasagna that looked stunning, topped with truffle oil. Each person dug in, and I watched as the waiters came out of the kitchen with…another appetizer plate, this time with only some slices of prosciutto and…more rice cakes. I had eaten about 4 rice cakes thus far, as they were the main part of each of my plates. I sat back, a little dizzy from the lack of food and abundance of wine, and thought back to the email I had received about there being a 4-course meal for me. Did I misunderstand? Surely I did not pay (insert ridiculous dollar amount here) for rice cakes?

After the plates were cleared, some of the other travelers I did not know looked quizzically at me, saying, “Are they ever going to feed you? You poor thing!” I tried not to be upset, and look forward to dessert as they brought out an orange-colored dessert wine.

Before bringing the dessert, the host (quite an attractive young man) asked for a volunteer. My friends volunteered me, and I stood up (a little less stable than preferable), and he placed me on one side of the room. He then walked to the opposite end of the room, explaining to us that in the Tuscan tradition, when drinking this wine in a bar and seeing an attractive woman across the room, you take some biscotti (at this he took a piece of biscotti out of a basket at his side) and swirl it in the wine, making your way over to the woman like she was your pray. I eyeballed the biscotti as he seductively made his way over, obviously enjoying his little act. However, I had my gluten radar on. He made his way to my side, and said a pick-up line smoothly in Italian, holding the biscotti up to my mouth. He winked at the crowd, saying in a low voice, “At this point, the woman, if she accepts your display of flirtation, will…”. He then proceeded to put the biscotti near my mouth, and I (equally flirtatiously) held up one finger to stop him, and in a high and cute voice said, “Ma sono celiacha; senza glutine?”

He had lost. He had forgotten, and crumpled to his knees in defeat as the crowd applauded me. I laughed, seeing that I had completely ruined his magnificent set-up; an act that he had performed on girls day after day as they came visiting the winery. It was his favorite part of the wine tasting demonstration, and I stopped him! My friend caught this on video, and we later laughed hysterically at his response—the recognition and horror in his eyes, and the sigh of defeat.

I then had to go take my seat as another girl came up and was able to eat the biscotti. Then dessert—biscotti—was served. I drank my wine, and excused myself to go to the restroom.

I am not much of a drinker. Prior to coming to Italy, I had only dappled safely and responsibly with alcohol, and in Italy I only enjoyed wine socially. When I began to fall down in the bathroom and the room was spinning, I knew I had a problem and needed food. Unfortunately, I had not packed any granola bars, anticipating a meal. Not rice cakes. I began bawling in the bathroom, and (after finally managing to unlock the door), made my way out to the winery garden, hoping no one saw the tearstains on my face. I made a beeline for the company van, wanting to get home as fast as possible and away from this place. I was ashamed and embarrassed at everyone who was looking at the poor little tipsy celiac girl during lunch.

Instead, as I made my way towards the car, I heard Christian call in a chipper voice, “Yoohoo, birthday girl!” I whirled around (a little too fast) to see the entire group—winery staff, travelers, and all—standing in a semicircle around a bottle of strawberry champagne. I reluctantly went to the center, terrified that I would do something stupid or fall over. And then, Christian handed me…a sword. A very real and very heavy sword. I looked at my Deanna, who was already videotaping in anticipation for whatever chaos ensued, and mouthed the words, “I am SO drunk!” She laughed nervously and ushered me on, with a worried look on her face. Christian made a little speech to thank everyone for booking their trip with them, and then introduced me, the birthday girl, and declared that I was going to open bottles of champagne for everyone using a sword. It took me way to long to make my brain successfully tell my arm to move with the sword, and even then, after 4 failed attempts, Christian, recognizing the state I was in, came and helped me.

They poured the champagne in my honor, and I did not wish to be rude by refusing a glass. It was very good—my eighth of glass of wine that day. Someone offered me another, and I thought, Well, I’m in this deep.

That last glass was a good decision. It brightened me right up; put me in great spirits! Soon, I was running around the winery garden with this 60-year old lady who was on the tour with her son, Dan. I told the woman as we tromped through the garden: “Listen, l-list—listen to me! I…am going to marry your son. And not just because he’s hot. But because I want you as my mother-in-law!”

Then, my future mother-in-law and I found a goose. We tried to feed it champagne, but it didn’t want any. It almost bit us. We liked the goose.

We got on the van, and remorse hit me again as all the people noticed how drunk I was. I kept repeating, “It’s because rice cakes aren’t absorbent!”

Apparently, on that bus ride home, I told a charming young man that his eyes were gorgeous and his babies will have gorgeous eyes, and that I could tell him that openly because he had a girlfriend so I was technically okay to say it. I also announced to the entire van that Sammi, who kept trying to keep me quiet by laying my head on her chest, had a very soft and ample bosom.

We got back to Florence, and it was Deanna’s job to get me home and fed. I wanted to go to Lion Café to gawk at Sem, and she finally convinced me that I needed food.

We arrived at my apartment, where I ate cookies and potatoes for dinner.

            Fun In Tuscany, after receiving an email from me a few weeks later recommending that they no longer mislead travelers by advertising rice cakes as a meal substitute for those with gluten intolerance, kindly provided me with a 25% refund.  A few weeks later, Sammi, Deanna, and I ran into Dan at a hostel in the Amalfi Coast—it was an awkward reunion, to say the least!

            I never wanted to be one of those people with a crazy 21^st birthday story. I suppose I got one, nonetheless. I suppose when life happens, you simply need to enjoy it. That’s what I learned on my 21^st. And, even if you feel ashamed, sometimes you just need to chase a goose in the garden with champagne.