My Last Day as a 20-Year-Old

   I've made it this far. 

   I have culminated a rather long list of extracurricular involvements, fostered countless litters of kittens, felt the happiness of performing onstage, lived in several houses, and ingested well over 200 tacos in these past 20 years.

   But, more importantly, I have learned the overwhelming power of love (thanks to an incredible family), knelt at the feet of Jesus in countless church services, and felt the incomparable comfort of feeling "at home" with those I love. 

   It is a strange feeling to be so far away from my family in my final hours as a 20-year-old. It is a strange feeling to know that in a few hours, I will be celebrating my 21st birthday in Florence, Italy. I am truly blessed to have the friends I do here, who have planned some sort of mysterious get-together tomorrow night, and are traveling to the hillsides of Tuscany with me this Saturday for a horseback ride and wine tasting (not a bad way to celebrate a birthday!)

   I spent my last day as a 20-year-old bouncing from class to church to grocery store to homework session to bible study dinner. It was a busy day, but one full of many blessings!

   Every other week, our bible study group meets for a communal dinner. This week, I invited Sarah (my new gondola friend from Venice) to join, as I had talked with her briefly about faith during our trip this weekend. She and I walked together across town, as I wolfed down an artichoke, pesto, and mozzarella panini I had made in anticipation for a glutenous menu. 

   However, upon arrival at the restaurant, the server told me he would happily make me a gluten free pasta--his recommendation was the penne vodka. I took his advice, and enjoyed a delicious gluten free pasta (the best texture I have had yet) and several glasses of red wine with my friends. Don Mario approached me during dinner, smiled, and made his usual comment about the fact that I was indeed more Catholic than Methodist based on the glass of wine sitting in front of me. I laughed, and he put his hand on my shoulder, whispering, "If you have any questions about the Catholic faith, I am here to answer them."

   This sparked a discussion with the girls sitting around me, and they patiently answered my questions about the Catholic faith. We exchanged laughs, stories, and before we knew it, our complimentary dessert was being served. They gave me a special dessert of my own: a creamy coffee-flavored gelato. 

   As Sarah and I walked home (we live on the same side of town; finally someone to walk with me down the scary street!), we talked about adjusting to our new lives in Florence, and how wonderful it is to have a group of people who can gather and have a great time and talk about God openly. 

   Last night, Sarah, Megan, Renee, and I (the gondola crew) had met at Tijuana (the Florentine Mexican restaurant, which in my opinion has very delicious nachos!). I had to arrive late due to a yoga class, and they were kind enough to order my peach margarita for me in order to ensure I got the happy hour deal. As I took my seat, they beamed, saying, "We ordered you the "extra grande" size!" I looked at them, silent for a moment. 

   "What?" I asked, taken aback.

   "Well, you said the margaritas here were huge, so we ordered you one!" 

   "Their regular sized ones are huge!" I exclaimed, fearful of what they had ordered. 

   Sure, enough, they were monstrous. 12 euro worth of margarita per person. But, not to fear. They were basically fruit smoothies, with little to no alcohol in them. And, they were discounted. So, I wasn't too concerned! As we left, Meagan slipped a little bundle of yellow flowers sitting on the table center (all of Florence is covered in these bouquets in honor of International Women's Day) in her purse, as I had mentioned that I wished I had gotten some. She gave them to me later; I intend to keep them! 

   Today was a blessing indeed, full of wonderful people, great food, and time with God and appreciating the abundance of His gifts. I cannot believe that in a few hours I will be 21...I have already had a head start on the drinking, I suppose, but it was wine provided by a priest! So it's okay!

Venice and the Venetian Islands

This past weekend, the API team took students on a two-day excursion to Venice, Murano, and Burano. 

Part 1:

   The day began with a 5:45 alarm. I felt the all-too familiar pain in my stomach from some mysterious glutening. I made myself eat a banana on my way out the door, convinced that food would make me feel better—and everyone needs a little potassium! My roommates and I stumbled onto the bus, and I nestled in for the 5 hour bus ride that followed.

   I decided that, given the fact that our free time in Venice was limited, I would do my half hour of prayer on the bus ride (I have decided to do a half an hour of prayer in a church a day for Lent; my original plan was to give up chocolate, but I felt that the Lord had better plans for me. He would most definitely prefer that I not keep myself from any more food, and choose a more enriching sacrifice, such as time). The Tuscan hillsides seemed an appropriate backdrop for prayer, and it gave me something to meditate on. It was my most peaceful prayer time thus far. In order to block out the noise around me, I slipped my ear buds in and put Kristen Chenoweth’s “Just As I Am” on repeat, laid back in my chair, and started my conversation with God as the sun rose over a steeple outside my window.

   I drifted in and out of sleep throughout the prayer, feeling so calm being completely vulnerable with Him. After finishing about 15 minutes of my usual “I am not worthy of your love” routine, I decided to instead listen to “Just As I Am” one time through and actually pay attention to the lyrics.

   I had listened to this song on repeat approximately 5 times at this point in the prayer, but on the 6^th time through, I was finally struck with its meaning.

   I have somehow convinced myself that I am not worthy of God’s love, and that it is in God’s best interest not to help or love me because I am a sinner. Even if God offers His love, I believe that I am not ‘qualified’ to take it. This way of thinking must stop, because God does not expect me to come to Him in perfection. The beauty of God and His mercy is that He wants me now. God wants me to come to Him just as I am…in my mess, my confusion, and my anxieties. When I don’t know where to turn, God wants me to come to Him. Even if I have doubts; even if I am not as faithful to His will as I should be. He wants me to come and confess and draw myself closer to Him.

   As I prayed, I got the image of a shepherd calling to his sheep. A distraught and distracted sheep in the field sees the beckoning shepherd, and slowly walks over to the shepherd, fearful and unsure with every step he takes. The sheep looks around, hesitant and tempted, wanting to get to the shepherd for safety but unable to look away at all that is around him. As the sheep approaches the feet of the shepherd, the sheep has tears in its eyes, discouraged from the distracting journey.

   Yes, it is unfortunate that the sheep is distracted and feeling this emotional turmoil.

   But where is the sheep?

   Faithfully at the feet of its shepherd.

   Even though it was a struggle, even though there were distractions…the sheep is at the feet of the shepherd.

   Will the shepherd reprimand the sheep for coming to it despite the struggles it has endured? Will the shepherd hate the sheep because the sheep faced temptations and struggled with those temptations?

   No. The shepherd loves the sheep because of the sheep’s decision to obey, not in spite of it.

   To be God’s and offer myself to God as His sheep, I need to follow His bidding and dedicate what I do to Him. I need to present myself to Him as I am and accept His love and mercy with repentance and thanksgiving, but without question. I will struggle here on earth, but if I come to His feet, He will not judge the tears in my eyes, but will rather wipe them away lovingly. He doesn’t judge me because I am struggling. He sees that I am struggling and appreciate that I am kneeling at His feet.

   With these thoughts, I concluded my prayer time with the Father, and fell asleep feeling at peace.

Part 2

   After awaking in a large parking lot in Venice, we left our suitcases on the bus and boarded a private ferry to San Marco. I reunited with several friends I had made during the trip to Rome (Renee, Shea, and Taylor). The ferry ride (a little sickening at the very end when the boat started rocking) was gorgeous. The water was murky but a striking teal color—impossible to capture in photographs. We exited the boat 4 bridges away from San Marco Square, where we met with our tour guide.

   I usually love guided tours. I take notes on what the guides are saying and make a point to be attentive to every detail in order to soak in as much culture as possible. I don’t know if it was the tour guide’s monotonic voice, her strange European phrasing, or the fact that I was surrounded by gondolas and stands brimming with lace parasols and Venetian masks. But I could not focus on the tour. I know we walked by a palace, a jail of some sort, and to the church and clock tower in San Marco Square. But I will sadly never be able to recall the details of the architecture and the island’s history.

   But, I hope to be okay with that. I was overcome by the beauty of the place. The sky was a piercing, cloudless blue, and the beautiful narrow streets, canals, and steeples against the sky were just so beautiful. I could not look away.

   We watched as the clock tower struck midday. The large bronze statues at the top of the tower physically moved to make the bell sound, and the roman numerals signaling that it was 11:55 changed to 12:00. It looked strikingly similar to the fashion that “It’s A Small World” comes to life at the top of the hour, releasing dancing figures from within.

   I wanted to fill my water bottle during the tour at one of the fountains spouting natural spring water, but when we came across a street fountain, a yellow lab was having the time of his life drinking out of it. I couldn’t disrupt him.

   We stopped by a mask-making shop, where we were able to watch from outside as a man carved a large paper mache mask. The masks were abundant in this city, cluttering every storefront and kiosk.

   We also found an alley with not 1, but 2 cats—my first Italian cats, with the exception of one I saw inside a store in Florence the first month. The best moment of my life thus far.

   Shea and Taylor split away from the group halfway through, leaving Renee and I to finish the tour. We walked over to the other end of Venice overlooking the Grand Canal. There was a fish fry special in one of the squares, where 10 euro would buy a plate of fried fish and a glass of wine. I waited as the students lined up for their fish (a boisterous Italian man was working the line, shouting loudly to anyone who walked by). After waiting, Renee and I went to the waterside, where I cracked open my Tupperware container of leftover risotto.

   Following lunch, we went to the produce market, where we purchased dried fruit. I spent 1.10 on a few slices of dried kiwi, which we munched on as we walked, deciding what to do for the next 5 hours.

   The best way to get lost and explore in Venice, we decided, was to try to get back to the meeting point that was assigned for the end of the day. So, we chose the direction we thought was correct and headed forward, stopping in shops as we went to peruse the glass figurines, lace handkerchiefs, and Venetian masks.

   As we were taking pictures of our 20^th canal, a gondola driver approached us asking if we wanted a 30-minute ride for 60 euro. I wanted to find a larger group to split the ticket cost with, as it was 60 euro for one boat, which could fit up to 5 people. Sensing my hesitancy, the gondola man offered 50 euro for the two of us—25 each. I was still hesitant, but Renee was determined. The man directed us to a cash machine, and as we left, I prayed that we would catch someone else who was interested in splitting a gondola ride with us. Sure enough, as we made our way to the cash machine, I spotted two girls I had recalled seeing on the API bus. I yelled over to them, asking if they were with API and if they wanted to split a gondola with us.

   Their names were Meagan and Sarah, and as we piled into the gondola, we became instant friends. We spent the remainder of the day with them, walking through San Marco Square, into the basilica, and up to the high tower overlooking all of Venice.

   We watched the sunset from the ferry ride back to land, and made our way to the hotel (which was, thankfully, in the middle of nowhere, ensuring that no one could go out and get drunk. Our only option was to stay in—I was thrilled!).

   On the ride back, our chaperone informed us that dinner would be served in the hotel restaurant upon our arrival, and we would be treated to a three-course meal of pasta, chicken and vegetables, and cheesecake. As we exited the bus, I was handed an index card with a large red line on it, which I was to place on my plate at the hotel so the servers knew I was gluten intolerant. As she handed me my card, the chaperone whispered, “They have prepared you rice for dinner and fruit for dessert.” I was a little disappointed, but wanted to seem grateful.

   I received a surprise at dinner, however, as the restaurant changed their minds at the last minute and prepared gluten free pasta! I had my pasta as a first course, along with everyone else, and was served chicken, potatoes, and green beans as my second course (from a special serving dish that did not touch anything else). By the time the first two courses were completed, I was so full that I knew I could tolerate just having fruit for dessert.

   After the second course, a waiter approached me and said, “Would you like fruit or tiramisu for dessert?” I looked at him, and said, “Huh?” He smiled and repeated, “Fruit or tiramisu?” I laughed, and said, “Um, tiramisu…please?”

   Is that even a question?
   It was my first one, and I loved it!

   I went to sleep full, happy, and sunburnt from a full day.

Part 3

   For our second day in Venice, we were traveling to Murano and Burano—the Venetian islands of glass and lace, respectively.

   The hotel breakfast consisted of bread, deli meats, yogurt, and granola—all things I could not eat.         

   There was a bowl of cut fruit, and I went to investigate, only to find it dotted with breadcrumbs, as it was positioned directly next to the deli station.

   I recognized my waiter from the previous night, Davide, and approached him. I pointed to the deli meats (figuring that was better than nothing), and said, “Safe for Celiac?”

   He shook his head, and motioned for me to wait as he studied and memorized my face. He then said, “Okay, you go sit down. I be back.”

   I sat down as my friends got their food. In a few moments, Davide appeared with two heaping plates of food—one full of prepackaged gluten free products I never splurge on in the grocery store, and another with fresh, uncontaminated deli meats and a steaming gluten free roll—the best bread I have ever had in my life.

   Apparently, the bread everyone else had was tasteless and the yogurt tasted funny. They were all looking at my plate, jealous. It’s ironic—I would have given anything to have not been a nuisance for these poor waiters and enjoy a huge bowl of yogurt and granola and some bread, and these students, who take food so much for granted, were dissatisfied and, for once, were jealous of me!

   After breakfast, the students (still complaining about their breakfast) boarded the bus, where we headed back to the ferry station. It was a 50-minute boat ride to Murano. I sat on the upper deck in order to admire the view. As the wind picked up, students in their tee shirts and leggings retreated to the interior of the boat downstairs. Pretty soon, I was sitting alone on the deck. I’m sure I looked ridiculous sitting up there alone (there was one other student huddled in the back corner with his ear buds in and a fixed stare). Yes, it was cold. But it was a ferry ride through the Venetian lagoon…I was not about to miss out.

   The ferry spit us out right at the back entrance of a glass blowing factory, or Fornace, called “Vetreria Artistica Emmedue.” Inside, we received a 10-minute demonstration in which a glass blowing expert made a gorgeous plate, as well as a horse figurine, with expert speed and accuracy. I was astonished by how a glowing ball on the end of a long pole, with a few spins and plucks of a tweezer, could become a gorgeous work of art in less than 5 minutes.

   I don’t like buying things. I am not a ‘souvenir’ type of girl. In all my travels on this trip (Rome, Austria, and Switzerland), I have only bought myself gluten free bread and granola found in the grocery stores at lower prices than in Florence. Bread is my souvenir.

   But I spent some money in that glass factory. I purchased my mother a gift, and treated myself to a fork-and-spoon bundle that will go in my hope chest and will be used as impressive serving utensils at future parties I host.

   We then boarded the ferry and headed to Burano, the famed island of brightly colored houses, narrow canals, and lace shops.

   I loved Burano—it was my favorite place I have visited so far. Probably because I had some “me time” on the island—which is so small that it is impossible to get lost. The minute we exited the boat, I wished that I was a professional photographer so I could capture everything I was seeing. The doors, framed with stained glass, were adorned with abstract shapes and unique doorknobs.

I walked through a few shops and a lace museum with Shae and Taylor, looking for a “something new” for Juli’s wedding (I can’t post what I eventually purchased, in case she peeks at the blog).       

   However, I separated from Shae and Taylor in order to allow them to sit in a café and eat. I took my peanut butter and jelly sandwich I had packed and walked along the canal, snapping pictures along the way.

   I stopped in various shops, meeting elderly women who showed me the lace butterflies they made by hand (I purchased one—who doesn’t need a lace butterfly?)

   Before I knew it, it was time to board the ferry, and I watched as the brilliantly colored houses sank into the lagoon behind us.

   As I began my 30 minutes of prayer on the bus ride back to Florence, I closed my eyes and tried to block out the sounds of the students around me. I prayed for a patient heart—being surrounded by 300 drunk study abroad students for an entire weekend took up most of my patience, and at this point in the trip I had grown bitter and judgmental.

   I looked out the window, and watched as the sun set over the fields. I thought of the prayer I had said just a day prior as I watched the sun rise. What a blessing it was to begin and end this gorgeous trip with silent time with my Father. I was truly blessed for wonderful friendships, stunning weather, and unforgettable views that a camera could not possibly capture.

An Apology and a Promise

I must apologize, as I have been so far behind in posting my blogs. So much has happened, and it would appear that my goal of blogging my feelings and experiences every night have not been reached, as schoolwork and other distractions have gotten the better of me. However, I will begin posting more and more--starting with my most recent experiences, and gradually catching up with some older ones!

A Tour of the Duomo...and a Home Away from Home

Don Mario, the English-speaking priest of the Cattedrale di Santa Maria del Fiore, was spear-heading the first meeting of the international student bible study--St. Thomas Moore.

Yes, I joined a Catholic group.

He showed us the 'secret' spaces of the church's sanctuary, rather than the tourist-dominated side with the impressive frescoes, grand marble facade, and massive dome.

We learned about the history of the crucifix and its place within the Roman Catholic Church--that it was not used as 'decoration' until the 1,000s, and that the original crosses in churches did not show the suffering Christ.

Several ornate crucifixes are embellished with a pelican. Upon hearing this, I recalled that I had seen several crucifixes with a pelican somewhere hidden in the embellishments. The reasoning is quite beautiful: the female pelican feeds her young with her own blood, just as Christ feeds us spiritually with His blood.

I also learned that Ghiberti's Gates of Paradise that crowds hover around outside of the Baptistery are in fact copies--the originals are currently on display in the Opera del Duomo museum. I wonder if those poor Korean tourists know...

Following the tour, we all tromped over to Il Gatto e La Volpe, a restaurant located a few blocks away. Don Mario was close to the owners and, as he explained, "could hook us up with some inexpensive wine."

I liked Don Mario. He was kind, soft spoken, funny, and altogether 'hip' for a priest. He was, as it turns out, ordained in Youngstown! The students and I enjoyed hearing his stories and witnessing his love for Christ flow through his speech as he gave the tour. Also pursuing a degree in law, he explained to us that he had a rough week and was looking forward to unwinding at his favorite restaurant with all of us.

I sat next to Don Mario at dinner, which was a wise choice, as he was the man in control of the wine. He and I each had three glasses of Chianti (Leonardo), which was delicious. I couldn't believe the entire time that I was with this wonderful group of people, talking about God, talking about life, and that I was drinking with a Catholic priest.

I looked over to him halfway through the meal and said, "You know I'm a Methodist? I'm not even Catholic!"

Don Mario looked me straight in the eyes, unfaltering, and said, "No. You're not a Methodist."

I looked quizzically at him. "What do you mean?"

He pointed to my well-attended glass of wine.

I laughed. "Oh, I guess you've got a point..."

He smiled. "That's okay," he said. "This just means that if you decide to convert to Catholicism, you're already halfway there!"

(I will say, on a side note, that the St. Thomas Moore bible study is now starting a BYOW initiative for our evening studies. When with the Catholics, do as the Catholics do, I suppose.)

We finished dinner, and sat back in our chairs.

"Did I ever tell you all bout the time," Don Mario started, "that I had my camel stolen in Egypt?"

We listened to his story, laughing and joking and finding friendship in the middle of a small Italian restaurant. I knew that I had found a place where I could talk about God, and that I was not judged because I was not a Catholic. I still knew there was a God, that He made me and loved me, and that He brought me there to that place and put me in the midst of these wonderful people.

Brunelleschi's Cupola

Following dinner, some students and I went for gelato. It was a wonderful night of history and food and wine and ice cream and priests with stolen camels!

Scenes from the bible in the interior of the sanctuary--these are all made onto one piece of wood

Good Things Come To Those Who Share Their Cheese

She looked at me for a moment, thinking. 
"I don't know...I mean, there would probably be rice." 

I reassured the Lorenzo de'Medici advisor that I didn't need anything special; I was merely curious as to what would be offered at the Welcome Dinner and whether or not I should plan accordingly and eat prior to going. 

She looked up, smiled, and said, "I'm sure they can do something. Just come find me at the beginning of the dinner. We'll get something figured out."

When it came time to leave that evening for the dinner, my two roommates decided that they would rather stay in. I shrugged. It was a free dinner--I wasn't going to pass that up. I started the 25 minute walk across town to attempt to find this restaurant where the reception would be.

It wasn't a restaurant. It was a palace. 

Tables stretched across the banquet halls, full of trays with fresh bread and bruschetta, calzones, and heaping bowls of pasta. I looked for my advisor, but in the sea of thousands of students lining up for free food, she was nowhere to be found. 

I approached the table, and asked the waiter if there was food "senza glutine." He held out his hand, saying, "Wait right there. Don't leave. Don't go anywhere." He disappeared into the crowd, and I stood awkwardly as students pushed past me to reach the baked ziti. 

The server reappeared with a bowl of risotto and pomorodo. 

It was one of the best things I have ever tasted in my entire life. I had five plates of risotto that night--I'm still dreaming about it. 

I ran into one of the advisors, and mentioned that I was looking for my advisor. When she asked why, I explained briefly, and she insisted on helping me, even though I was perfectly satisfied with the risotto. She was determined, and led me through the crowds to the kitchen, where she spoke in rapid Italian to the chefs. They told me to return to the kitchen in 15 minutes for my own personal pasta. 

As I waited, the tables were cleared and dessert was served. Flan, trifles, and puddings galore. I recognized a panna cotta, which we had made in our cooking class a few days ago. I had been able to eat that, so I filed in line and scooped some on my plate. A waiter passed me, and I thought, better safe than sorry. I asked him if it was gluten free, and he left to inquire with the chef. He returned with a horrified look on his face, waving his arms shouting "No! No! Don't eat!" 

I set the plate aside as if it were poison. 

Then, I heard another girl in line ask if the dessert was gluten free. The server she asked assured her it was, and she heaped some on her plate and walked away. I looked at my discarded plate, thought about the contradicting reviews on the dessert's glutinosity, and thought, Well if she's going down, I'm going down with her.

Yeah, there was gluten in it. 

But it was delicious. Fruity and full of caramel and amazing. I regret it, but it was nice while it lasted. Sin is like a snowflake in a river. Pleasure for one second, then washed away.

I went back to the kitchen to inquire about the status of my pasta. The waiter said it would be another 15 minutes. I told him it was no trouble and that I had eaten risotto and didn't want them to go to great lengths. I thanked him and turned to walk away, but he motioned for me to stay. He disappeared, only to reappear with the largest platter of mozzarella I have ever seen in my life. It took all the waiter's upper arm strength to hold this platter. I looked at him quizzically. He smiled and said, "For you!" 

"Oh, okay...wow, thanks!" I picked up the fork to take a piece in appreciation.

"No." He shook his head. "The whole thing is for you."

I looked at him, shocked. "What am I going to do with all this mozzarella???" 

He shrugged, passing the platter to me. "Share with friends," he said. And then walked away.

I stood there, dumbfounded, with the world's largest plate of cheese ever. I waded my way through the crowd and found a table where I could set my treasure. I wasn't there long before I heard someone demand, "How did you get that mozzarella?" 

I stuttered at the group of girls who surrounded me. "I...don't know...they gave it to me." Then I remembered what the server said. "Here!" I thrust the platter towards them. Before I could think, I heard myself say, "Be my friend and have some cheese!"

The BEST risotto...ever

The girl who had demanded information regarding the acquisition of my cheese just looked at me, but her friend grabbed a handful, saying, "Don't mind if I do" as she shoved it in her mouth. She covered her mouth with her hand as she munched, and said in a thick Dutch accent: "So, where did you get this?" 

I began to speak, then stopped, too tired to explain in depth. "Oh," I shrugged, "the waiter gave it to me because of my food allergies."

"Oh, what allergies do you have?" She was genuinely curious.

I sighed. "It's called Celiac."

Her eyes lit up. "Shut. Up. I have Celiac!" 

So, we were best friends for the rest of the night. We talked about our diagnoses (she received hers at the age of 2), how we cope with it here in Italy, and what happens to us when we eat gluten. 

When you talk to another Celiac about how your symptoms manifest themselves, it is quite fascinating. You start to sound like a group of young Little League boys comparing their baseball cards:
"Well, I have extreme nassau and diarrhea."
"Oh, cool! I get bloated beyond belief and extremely cranky!"
"No way! I get really disoriented easily and sometimes I even faint!"
"I just sleep a lot."
"Ah, man, I wish I could trade you! I would love to just sleep a lot!"

As we talked, she mentioned how hard it was to participate in some of the social functions that had already been offered, such as the cooking class. I nodded in agreement, but said that I still enjoyed the cooking class because they prepared me my own plate of pasta. 

"They did?" she asked.

"Well, yeah," I said. "As soon as they knew I was Celiac, they organized the whole thing. And I even got gloves to wear to make the pasta."

"Oh." She looked down, disappointed. "I didn't even go. I figured there would be no point.

I stood there, with my huge platter of cheese and belly full of risotto, thinking about all the accommodations people had been kind enough to make for me. I felt blessed, and at the same time, like a bit of a burden. However, by making my condition known and not letting it keep me from going to restaurants, cooking classes, and food tours, I was able to experience so much. I felt proud of myself for putting myself out there and trying to do what everyone else was doing. I was proud for trying to get the most out of my experience. 

After about 20 more minutes of talking with Giorgette (my new Celiac friend), we looked around to see the hall completely abandoned. We were the last ones, with the exception of the staff, who were scooping up discarded plates and wine glasses off the floor. We laughed at the fact that we hadn't even noticed everyone leaving. We grabbed our purses and prepared to depart. 

"Wait!" I turned and looked behind me. Standing there was a waiter, grinning, holding a huge plate of pasta. 

"For you," he said, handing it to me. "Gluten free?" 

I looked down at the plate, and heard Giorgette from behind me say, "Shut. Up."

Celiac Selfie!

"Oh," I said, taken aback by their kindness. "Wow, um, thanks!"

There was no fork. Giorgette and I stood around this plate, eating the delicious gluten free pasta with our hands in an empty palace, enjoying the fellowship of someone who finally understood. 

Good things come to those who share their cheese.

Pasta...for two!

My Italian Recipes

I want to cook.
I NEED to cook.
It feeds my soul...and it is one of the only ways I can feed my body.

The first meal: gluten free pasta, spinach cooked
in olive oil, fresh tomatoes, chicken breast, garlic, and onion, all
tossed in a pesto cream sauce

So, I have decided to frequently update pictures and 'recipes' from what I create with: what I happen to pick up in the Mercato Centrale that day, and what I find in my pantry.

Of course, there are recipes I won't bother blogging. Like a little gem that has been a personal favorite/lifesaver since my arrival. It is very simple and is sure to please every time...although I have just exhausted my supply and will no longer be dining on it's exquisiteness: Reese's Cups.

Or, another personal favorite, Thai Kitchen Rice Noodles (on the stove this very moment).

I will say, this is the most finicky stove I have ever seen. Even our landlord admitted that the gas stovetop was "difficile" to ignite, and my roommates and I have on more than one occasion had to open the windows to let the gas out of the kitchen. The trick is turn the gas valve, hold the gas on until the flames ignite, then continue letting gas leak into the kitchen for approximately 5 seconds before releasing your hold on the knob. Otherwise, you let go and the flames disappear.

Resourceful cooking for dish 2:
Leftover pesto, spinach, chicken,
and tomatoes mixed with brown rice
and quinoa.

Getting the flames isn't the hardest part, though. It's finding that balance between scalding and dead cold. The pans will scream from the heat, but even budging the knob with the lightest touch to take it down a notch will result in the entire stove top going cold.

Thus far, I am the only tenant who has successfully used the oven (see the granola/apple dish). My roommate lines her frozen tortellini on the heater to defrost them. Not having a microwave is a complication. But, I've found some creative ways to get around that! (see my ghetto double boiler)

I steamed this artichoke in a clay pot...
I didn't know how it would turn out,
but it was the meatiest and most tender artichoke
I have ever had! I definitely underestimated the
 amount of time necessary to steam an artichoke,
so I was eating this little guy at about 10:30 at night. 

I crumbled a gluten free granola bar,
sprinkled it with sugar, cinnamon, and
a leftover apple. Baked in the oven for
about 20 minutes. Delicious!
#whoneedspastries

I refuse to be the person who walks around Florence with a PB&J because I cannot indulge in the powdered, cream-filled croissants. I refuse to not explore cooking simply because I'm not allowed to enroll in the cooking classes or cooking clubs here due to my allergies.

My 'double boiler' used to melt butter: a teacup with butter,
held in the water I steamed the artichoke in!

Speaking of allergies...one shout-out to the best mother ever who purchased me "toaster bags"--an innovative way to place my gluten-free bread in a glutenous toaster (or, in my apartment, panini press). It is an adorable heat-resistant plastic bag that perfectly seals in your bread, preventing any chance of contamination. I tried it today to make a caprese panini, and it worked like a charm! I have lovingly named this little doodad..."The Bread Condom."

Ladies and gentlemen..."The Bread Condom"

Fun fact about the panini press...it has a special European plug that only plugs into certain outlets. Our apartment is equipped with 2 of these special plugs, one of which is in the bathroom. So, yes, I made my panini in the bathroom. No shame. None whatsoever.

An Answer

I was sitting here, Skyping with a concerned friend who had heard that I was struggling. And I started crying as I relayed to him the frustration I've been feeling from the past week. I explained how this society revolved around food, and how it had always been my dream to travel to Italy and indulge in the best of the best, and now I couldn't. I apologized for my endless rants and complaints, and said how much I hoped he didn't think I was just being a whiny baby about this. 

I cried and said, "I just wish I knew. I wish I knew if this was God giving me a challenge for my personal journey, or if this is just an unfortunate diagnosis I received at a really bad time. I just wish I knew if He had something to do with this or if it's something He didn't plan."

Literally, as I said these words, my phone signaled that I received a Facebook message. I picked it up, read it, and my heart stuttered. It was from a good friend in my school Christian organization. It read as follows: 

"I love you and you're in my thoughts and prayers. I know you're having a rough time, but God wouldn't be having you go through it if it weren't for a good reason and purpose." 

The message continued for a few sentences, wishing me well and encouraging me to find a good church, ending with more "I love you"'s. 

I have never felt God telling me something as much as I have in these past few days. I have never felt His presence as much as I do now.

Never again will I think that this is not a part of His plan. 

Sure, I will still get frustrated time and time again. But this new knowledge--that this is in God's plan and that this is to strengthen me--will carry me through all trials associated with having Celiac. Especially having Celiac in Italy. I am overwhelmed with the abundance of His love and mercy, and hope to share with others what has happened and will continue to happen for me. 


Nothing is going to happen to me that the Lord and I together can't handle.