Roman Company

My friend Bill told me a story the other day that put a smile on my face and really made me think. But before I tell you the story, let me first give you a little introduction to Bill. Bill has been a close family friend for years, due to the fact that his father and my father are best friends. In fact, my parents are his God parents, so there's really no getting rid of him (not 

that I would ever want to). Anyway, Bill is studying history and for the last few terms, has focused on ancient history and the rise and fall of the Roman Empire, which made him very excited to know someone who was going to be living on top of the ruins he was currently studying. We talked back and forth about how great it would be for him to come to Rome, and before either of us knew it, he had a plane ticket booked for Sunday, February 26th. Earlier today, my friend flew all the way from Canada to explore Rome and allow me to have some familiar company. And in exactly one week from tomorrow, my parents arrive. I could really use some friendly faces and food smuggled in from overseas, but I'm also excited to act as a personal tour guide around the Eternal City. 
My dad decided to pay a visit to Bill's house to wish him a safe flight and spend some time with him before leaving for his trip. Bill told me that he came into the house with a huge, 

heavy box and handed it over to him. "I need you to bring this," my dad said. Not wanting to be rude, Bill went along with it and agreed to bring it to me. Then my dad opened the box, and what was it that appeared inside? A rock. "Listen. She really likes this rock and has a special attachment to it, so I need you to get it to her," my dad insisted. "It'll make her feel more at home." Bill bought the entire story, and was just nodding his head and saying, "Ok..." Then my cool, creative dad picks up the rock where 60 Euros is lying underneath it and says, "How about you just take the money instead and have a nice dinner on me?" If that isn't creative thinking, then I don't know what is.
Do you recall me complaining about what its like to be sick overseas? Well, I'm not going to go into another detailed account of how I want to lay on my couch while watching Oprah with a bowl of vegetable soup, but I am going to tell you some news I received from my doctor here in Italy. I had to go see him Thursday morning because for the past week, my throat has been in severe pain. It hurt to cough, yawn, drink, sneeze, eat, etc. I've been suffering each time I attempt to eat solid food, and had trouble falling asleep due to the extreme discomfort. Every movement I made with my mouth felt like my throat was scrapping against broken glass, and every yawn felt as though my jaw was splitting in two. Not a very fun situation. 
The doctor checked me out and did the standard stick-down-the-throat bit. Italians are sometimes dramatic at the wrong times, and this was one of them. "Oh, dear... This is not good," he said. This is never something you want to hear from your doctor. Ever. I

could feel my blood pressure rising, tears stinging my eyes, and I thought he was about to tell me I have a rare throat disease that is incurable and that I should fly home to Canada immediately to write my will. What he actually told me is that I didn't have strep throat, but something a little more serious called acute purulent tonsillitis. Its a bacterial throat infection that is more painful than anything I've ever experienced in my entire life. I broke down in tears right there in his office, and I guess he felt pretty sorry for me, because he only made me pay 40 Euros when it should've costed 60 to see him. He told me that I can't go swimming or kiss anyone for a week, which is fine. So now, I have to take antibiotics for a week, as well as this spray for my throat that I have to puff into my mouth several times a day that, by the way, tastes like cheap perfume. I will be so happy when everything is healed, but until then, I'm instructed to get plenty of rest and not go out too much because I'm contagious.

25 Things I Want To Do Before I Turn 25

After spending the last several days inside, today I finally ventured out into the slush-free streets of Rome to get some fresh air (and gelato). The family tells me that next month it will get a lot warmer and that the Spanish Steps will be flourishing with big, beautiful pots of multicoloured flowers. I can't wait for spring so that I can go outside wearing nothing but a colourful dress with leggings, a cardigan and ballet flats so that I can continue to enjoy the city of Rome without my teeth chattering. It seems like a far cry from today, especially when I saw a miserable looking mom dragging her son through the streets. He was no older than four and was happily holding his moms hand while trying to let go and jump into the puddles, while she kept tugging at him. She was carrying a couple shopping bags in the other hand and barking at someone through her cell phone.
I watched them for a bit and had a sudden spark of inspiration to write a list of things I want to do before I have children and get married. What do I want to do during the years I have left as a young, independent woman? No other question could thrill me as much. I do want to get married and have kids eventually (3 is a nice number), but I still have so many things I want to accomplish before then.

1. Spend an entire day hiking alone. Just me, mother nature, and a backpack full of water bottles and granola bars.
2. Live alone. Except for the company of a dog, of course.
3. Become fluent in Italian. 
4. Get my degree in Journalism.
5. Travel back to Europe for the third time.
6. Learn to play the harmonica (already a working progress).
7. Write a book.
8. Visit New York City.
9. Find my signature cocktail drink.
10. Have a professional portrait done of me.

11. Go canoing across Lake Erie.
12. Take a road trip somewhere - anywhere - with good company.
13. Plant a tree and visit it every year to see how much 'my tree' grows.
14. Teach someone how to read
15. Be a bridesmaid.
16. Ride in a hot air balloon.
17. Meet the one, the only, the truly inspiration and wonder woman extraordinaire - Elizabeth Gilbert.

18. Date someone who's totally not my type.
19. Make enough money from a job that I love so that I can actually afford to cross things off this list.
20. Visit the island of Santorini in Greece
21. Win something big like a fridge or the lottery. 
22. Find my own personal paradise.
23. Learn to cook. You know, real food. That doesn't come in a can.
24. Witness a miracle.
25. Become more fit with age, not less.

Home Is Where The Stomach Is

Hitting the five month mark means that my journey in Italy is past the halfway point, and now I have just under four more to go. A lot of people are asking me if I'll be excited to go home, and I actually can say that yes, I will be. Of course I'm going to be sad to leave Rome with its hot weather, extraordinary gelato, fantastic art and fashion and history, the friends I've made and of course the city itself. But I've been away from home for a really long time now, and it'll be nice to return to my natural habitat. For the past couple of days I've really been missing it, which might have something to do with the fact that I'm stuck inside of the house. Until the snow melts, I can't really go anywhere because I don't have any proper boots. 
I don't want to say that I'm homesick, because I haven't been crying or having vivid dreams of Canada. But I miss sleeping in my comfortable, familiar bed. I miss being able to walk around my house in a pair of Victoria's Secret boxer shorts and a white T shirt without  worrying about feeling under dressed. I miss happily chatting about Tyra Banks with my super cool Cuban hairdresser every other month. I miss my friends and family. I miss having a bike to ride down the trails and country roads in my area. I miss lying on the couch and watching Oprah. I miss being able to pick up the phone and know that someone actually might be calling to talk to me. I miss my big yard filled with acres of green grass and trampoline. I miss being able to drive my car. I miss having all of my clothes and belongings in one place. I miss inexpensive prices on clothes and food. I miss my diva cat Cleo and my other cat, fatso-but-unconditionally-loves-me Boo. I miss being able to speak English 24/7. And most significantly... I miss home food.
Every time I get the munchies (which is a lot), I so badly want to go to the kitchen and grab

some smartfood popcorn, goldfish crackers, crispy minis, veggies and dip, or fix myself a plate of multigrain tortillas with wholesome salsa. If I'm really hungry, I'll make some KD, Campbell's vegetable soup or Zoodles. But oh, no... Italians don't do that. Nothing that comes in a can or a box works over here. And Italian's don't snack. At least not the way that I do. They do have chips at the supermarkets, but they come in one flavour - original. Um, boring. Who even likes original chips when you have fabulous, delicious salty and crunchy options like salt & vinegar, dill pickle, sour cream & onion and ketchup? And let's not forget the phenomenon of raw cookie dough. 
I feel a bit unconfident saying the word supermarket when defying where Italians do their 

groceries because there's really nothing super about them. They're tiny, expensive, and have about two aisles. While Skyping with my friend the other night I told her that the morning after I come home, I am hopping in my car and driving straight to Sobey's where I can splurge on food. I already told my parents that when I come home, I hope the kitchen is empty so that I can enjoy shopping for groceries. Call me crazy, but I actually love doing groceries. I mean, what's more satisfying than a gigantic store filled with food?! NOTHING.
Another thing I miss is salad. When I say salad, I mean healthy, romaine lettuce done up in a variety of themes. It can be an Asian theme with Asian dressing, chai main noodles, and almonds. It can be a Greek salad with cherry tomatoes, feta cheese, black olives and a vinaigrette dressing. It can be a summer salad with poppy seed dressing with diced 

mandarin oranges and raspberry's. Or it can be an 'Italian' salad with Caesar dressing, croutons, and vegetables. But in Italy, a salad consists of small leaves, olive oil, and salt, which is... while plain... actually pretty delicious. Italians also peel the skin off of all their fruit. This is how they do it:
Step 1: Put a plate on the table. You need a plate no matter what fruit it is.
Step 2: Take the fruit, and set it on the plate. Go get a knife.
Step 3: While holding the fruit in one hand and the knife in the other, slowly and precisely cut the skin off the fruit. Banana? You need a knife. Orange? You need a knife. Apple? You betcha.
I had a discussion with my host family about it and told them how strange I thought it was 

that they didn't eat the skin on the apple. To each their own.
Before I sign off, let me first ask you a question. Where do you keep your PJ's? Probably tucked away neatly in your closet or dresser, right? The pyjamas that the Italians plan on wearing that night (probably the only thing they plan ever) are kept underneath their pillows. Which is actually a really cute concept, if you think about it.
PJ's under your pillow? Adorable.

Inside My Bedroom

My bedroom here in Rome is far more interesting than meets the eye. It's beautiful and rustic. The walls are painted a gentle shade of cream with a pale green door and hardwood flooring. I have old wooden beams stretching across my 15 foot high ceilings with a bronze and crystal chandelier hanging proudly in the centre. I have a bookshelf, a cozy bed, and a double-white wood closet with my own little snack cupboard. I have a desk with a chair and a lamp where I can read and write comfortably while having a view of the family courtyard. It's a nice room.
But one thing that really intrigued me about the room were the five drawings and paintings of Rome that featured parts of the city that I've never seen before. I asked the mom because I have a curious mind, but also because I know she loves it when I show interest in history. If I hadn't mentioned before, she's a professor in the history of architecture, so she knows a lot about Rome. I asked her this on a car ride the other day, and I got a very interesting lesson on my house and bedroom. She told me that our house was built in at least the 14th century, if not older. The house sits on top of the old Roman markets which is now where the ping pong table and wine is kept. The cobblestone in the courtyard is original and so on and so on. 
And then she introduced me to a woman named Beatrice Cenci. Figuratively speaking - she didn't actually introduce me to the real Beatrice Cenci, because she died in 1599. She was a famous Italian noblewoman who was executed for murdering her father in Rome. My bedroom and the parents bedroom (which are side by side and used to be connected to each other) is where she was imprisoned while awaiting her punishment. 
Beatrice was born to Francesco Cenci who was an aristocrat. He was known throughout Italy for his violent temper and extreme behaviour. The Cenci family lived in Rome in the Rione Regola, which was then called Palazzo Cenci. These are now the ruins built under the modern day Jewish ghetto. The residents of Palazzo Cenci included Francesco, Beatrice, her younger brother Giacomo, Francesco's second wife, Lucrezia Petroni, and a young boy named Bernardo who was the child born between Francesco and Lucrezia. The Cenci family possesses a castle called La Rocca, in a small village north of Rome.
Francesco abused his wife and sons on a daily basis, and of course Beatrice, whom he had even committed incest with. Previous to this, he was punished for other crimes, but due to 

his noble title, was released early. Although Beatrice had attempted to speak to the authorities about the situation on several occasions, nothing had happened, even though all of Rome knew what a cruel person her father was. When he found out that she had spoken out against him, he sent his family to live in the country castle. There, they all plotted to murder Francesco.
In 1558, during one of Francesco's rare visits to the castle, two vassals (one of which eventually became Beatrice's secret lover) helped the Cenci family to drug him, although this failed in killing him. Upon this, they all took turns sledging his body with a hammer and tossed his body over the balcony to make his death look like an accident. Eventually, police noticed he was missing and investigated. Beatrice's lover was held captive and died from 

torture without ever revealing the truth. Somehow the police were able to figure out that Beatrice, the two sons and Lucrezia were guilty, and were all sentenced to death. Because the citizens of Rome knew how vial the father was, they protested against the decision of execution. However, the current pope at the time (Pope Clement VIII) showed no mercy for their lives. At dawn on September 11th of 1599, the four were taken to Sant'Angelo Bridge to be killed.

On the way to Sant'Angelo, Giacomo was tortured inside of the cart where his skull was smashed with a mallet, and afterwards, his corpse was quartered. Then both Lucrezia and Beatrice were sent to the block where they were beheaded with a sword. Only the 12 year old son shared between Francesco and Lucrezia was given mercy, although he was forced to watch the execution of his family. The belongings of the Cenci's were then possessed by the pope's own family, and Bernardo was sentenced to work as a slave for the rest of his life, although he was actually released the following year. Beatrice became a symbol of resistance against the crudeness of aristocracy to the people of Rome, and a legend began in which every year on the night before her death, she visits the bridge while carrying her bloody head.

So Beatrice Cenci, symbol of resistance, once slept in the same room as I. Which might seem creepy and unsettling to some, but interesting to me. Because how many bedrooms will one have in their life in which a famous Italian noblewoman/murder was once imprisoned? Probably not many.

Practical Tips For Productive Living

I'm happy to say that I'm feeling almost 100% better, and that my fever of 317 degrees has gone down. Today, Kelsey came over and we watched Gladiator, and the whole time we couldn't believe that we were watching a movie that was based minutes away from where we sitting. We reminisced on missing good old fashioned home food like Campbell's vegetable soup and Kraft Dinner, which poses a question - is it ok to miss home food while in Italy? I know. It seems unfair, considering that this is the country in which pasta, pizza and gelato was invented. But I have to admit that sometimes, all I want is something as simple as boiling water, opening a can, and pouring its contents into the pot. 
I definitely don't miss the weather at home, but even if I did, that would be ok, since Canada and Italy have clearly swapped weather roles. There is, in fact, snow in Rome. Pretty, fat 

snow flakes that are unfortunately intertwining with the rain, which means that of course it won't stay for long. But that's ok - my wish came true after all. When I first arrived in the overwhelming heat of September, I remember telling Giulia, the girl I first was an au pair for, that I hoped it would snow at least once during my stay in Rome. She was convinced that it wasn't going to happen, but today, it did. She even called me this morning to share the excitement and said, "Hey! You told me so!"

But last night when I still had my super high fever I got a wonderful surprise call from my grandparents which was perfect, since my nana is a retired nurse and my papa is a retired a doctor. They gave me tips on how to perk myself up, but I felt better just hearing their voices. My nana told me the sweetest thing that really made me think. She said, "Your mom has been sharing your pictures with us on the computer. We're so happy to see you having fun in Europe, but its hard to look at the pictures because every time we see them you look older." I do? Well, duh. I am older. I haven't seen my family in almost five months. But has my appearance really changed that much since September? 
I guess one doesn't really notice these things about themselves because it happens slowly over a period of time. I don't notice these changes because I can look in the mirror at any given time and say, "Hey. It's me." Not that I actually talk to myself when standing in front of the mirror, or ever, for that matter. What I mean is that because I'm obviously me 24/7, I don't notice any major physical differences. But I noticed that I have gotten a little taller and leaner, thanks to all this healthy eating, daily two hour walks and recent sickness that's caused me to bring up whatever food I've attempted to keep down. And my hair's gotten longer, since every hairdresser in Rome charges an unmentionable amount that I cannot bear to shell out of my wallet. But hearing my nana say that I look older and different really makes me think about how much I've actually changed since being in Italy.
My nana also gave me the name of this incredible blog that she's been reading lately, and I'm also going to share it with you. Its called Marc and Angel Hack Life: Practical Tips For Productive Living. I recommend it to absolutely every person on the face of the planet who has a brain. I spent my entire rainy-sick day in bed reading it and I can honestly say that I have never gained so much knowledge about life, love and choices in the course of one day. Why don't they teach this stuff in high school? Articles include things like, "30 Books You Should Read Before You Turn 30", "12 Ways To Get A Second Chance In Life", and "16 Harsh Truths That Make Us Stronger". 
In case you don't have the time to check it out right now, I'm going to share some of my favourite questions that Marc and Angel ask their readers. This blog will completely change 

your way of thinking and I encourage everyone to treat this blog and the articles within it as your own personal life class and bible/torah/qur'an.
1. How old would you be if you didn't know how old you are?
2. Which is worse: failing or never trying?
3. If life is so short, why do we do so many things we don't like and like so many things we don't do?
4. (My personal favourite question) If happiness was the national currency, what kind of work would make you rich?
5. If the average human life span was 40 years, how would you live your life differently?
6. If not now, then when?
7. What would you do differently if you knew that nobody would judge you?

8. Have you done something lately worth remembering?
9. When you're the same age as your grandparents, what will matter the most to you?
10. Do you ask enough questions? Or do you settle for what you know?
11. When was the last time you tried something new?
12. What is the difference between living and existing?
13. Do you feel like you've lived this day 100 times before?
14. In five years from now, will you remember what you did yesterday?
15. In one sentence, who are you?

Chicken Soup For The Sick Foreigner's Soul

Tonight, the little one surprised me with a drawing she made at school just for me. It was a coloured picture of us together holding hands with lopsided smiles and French speech bubbles of us talking about swimming. The simple gesture of her drawing a picture of us together reminded me completely of why I became an au pair. Of course I knew that this would be a cheap way to live in the heart of Rome while earning some money, but I don't think that anyone should go into this job without actually liking children. It sounds obvious, right? That would be like someone becoming a veterinarian while hating animals. It just doesn't make sense. In my opinion, there is nothing more fulfilling in my life right now than knowing that I'm making an impact on these kids lives who will remember me far longer than the day I go home to Canada.
According to the little weather update in the right hand corner of my computer screen, its going to rain in Rome for the next several days. Actually, by the end of the week, its supposed to snow. The Italians seem to be freaking out about it and are hoping that those sweet white snowflakes don't actually fall from the heavens. At least, that's how my family feels. As a Canadian, I want nothing more than a blizzard to sweep through Rome, at least for one weekend. Although I did get a white Christmas in Austria, it would definitely be an experience to see the Colosseum and Spanish Steps dusted with fresh snow. I'll keep you updated about that.
Besides everything good in life, there is one itsy bitsy little problem that I'm experiencing right now. When I woke up yesterday morning, there was a pain in my stomach so sharp that I thought someone had actually shot me square in the intestines during my pleasant dream of being best friends with Rihanna. I curled up in a ball and lay in my cozy Italian bed for an extra 10 minutes, hoping it would go away on its own. It didn't. I eventually got up because I had to get the kids ready for school, but the whole time I felt like I was going to pass out from the pain. I didn't want the kids to worry so I didn't say anything to them, but obviously Desi noticed something was wrong because I was holding my stomach and practically rocking myself in pain. Poor Desi! She was so worried about me and put her hand on my forehead and told me to stay home. I don't know what's wrong though, and I have to admit that I'm panicking a little. I have always been one of the healthiest people I know. I'm an athlete. I take vitamins. I drink plenty of water. I practice yoga. I've been a vegetarian for almost six years. I drink tea every night before bed. And lately, I've been getting the standard eight hours of sleep per night. So what gives?
If I were at home in Canada right now, I would be relaxing on my couch falling into a deep, seasick-like sleep and occasionally waking up to drink ginger ale and watch the Oprah Winfrey Show while my mom makes me vegetable soup. And if things got worse, I would probably be on my way to the hospital. But I'm not in Canada. I'm in Rome, where all I want to do is venture around, learn more Italian, and eat. But this is where I really start to worry - if I feel worse, what do I do? The most obvious answer is to go to the hospital or visit a doctor. But this isn't Canada. This is even worse than that time I was hungover at the train station in Vienna.