La Dolce Vita ...

Buon Giorno!

First of all, I’d just like to mention that Google’s logo imagery today is CREEPING me out. Seriously, what IS that? Wereclowns? Clowns are scary enough on their own—there is no need to give them fangs and red eyes. Sheesh.

Anway, I had to google “Buon Guiorno” to make sure I spelled it correctly. I did. Champion speller in all languages … (Hey, if you’ve got it; flaunt it—that’s my motto.)

So today, I continue regaling you with tales of my adventures through Europe. I’m assuming you’ve already read about my arrival to Basel, Switzerland, and the first two days of Amanda's and my travels in the Swiss Alps. Today we’ll begin with …

Day three: Driving from Gstaad, Switzerland to Florence, Italy

The day dawned clear, blue and brilliant, as most days in the Swiss Alps seemed to dawn (not that I ever saw the actual “dawn” … semantics). Amanda and I ate another fantastic homemade breakfast at the Posthotel Rossli, walked around Gstaad, said our farewells to one of the most magical places on earth (Walt Disney clearly wasn’t that well traveled) and headed off into the proverbial Italian sunset.

The drive was just as incredible as everything else we’d seen that week—maybe even moreso. There were vineyards for miles and miles, surrounded by mountains, castles, and the bluest/greenest/cleanest lakes I’ve ever seen. I wanted to just jump out of the car and swim in each and every one of them. But I suppose that would’ve delayed our trip quite a bit, and we really wanted to get to Italy in a timely fashion, so I restrained myself.

There is a long tunnel you have to pass through to enter Italy from Switzerland. I can’t even tell you how excited I was about going through this tunnel, and in doing so, passing through border patrol. Want to know why? Passport stamps!!! You may or may not know this about me, but I have a goal of traveling to so many places and filling my passport with so many stamps that I have to get a new passport many, many times throughout my life. Here’s how it went down:

I approach the border security agent in my rental car, smiling like the naive tourist I am, passport ready and practically thrown out the window into the awaiting guard’s hands. He asks Amanda and I where we’re from and where we’re going, then takes our passports and goes into a building, where I imagine all the stamps sit on a shelf, and at that very moment, he’s taking one down, opening up my passport, and stamping the ink on it that will forever remind me of my first time in Italy. Visions of what the stamp will look like dance around in my mind, and I nearly jump out of the car to retrieve my passport from him as he exits the building. Once again, I show restraint, though, and patiently wait until he hands it back to me. I’m dying for him to go away so I can inspect the stamp, but he insists on standing there, chit-chatting as if he doesn’t have a care in the world and I don’t have a passport to inspect! He invited Amanda and I to come into his office and have a coffee with him and his friend, which we thought sounded fun, but c'mon man! Give a girl a minute!!

Thankfully, I snuck away to the restroom ("water closet" in Europe-speak). I shut the door, pulled out my passport, and opened it, scanning the pages for the stamp that would forever commemorate this moment. I saw my four Mexico stamps first. Then I turned the page and saw my Switzerland entry stamp. Then I gleefully turned to the next page, and ...... nothing. I turned to the next page and the next and the next and …. NOT A THING.

I learned two life lessons that day that will remain with me forever. One is that when traveling within the European Union, you only get one stamp per trip there, and it’s the stamp of the first country you enter from the United States.

The second is to never let an opportunity pass you by. Why oh WHY didn’t I ask the flirty Italian border patrol man to give me a stamp in my passport?? Did he have the authority to do so? I don’t know, and now, I will never know, because I didn’t ask. Ah the sting of lifelong regret. Let this be a lesson to you, too.

Determined not to let the disappointment of my crushed dream put a damper on this experience, Amanda and I excitedly drove out of the tunnel and caught our first glimpse of Italy, which was … say it with me now … Incredible. I need to think of new synonyms because I don’t want to lose the impact of that word. But trust me, when I say the scenery was incredible, it was. And our first glimpse of the Mediterranean shortly after we crossed the border took my breath away. This was one lifelong dream that came true ...

Shortly after crossing the border, we reached a toll road, and as we rounded the on-ramp, a car came at us from the wrong direction!! We almost had an accident (in every sense of the word), but thanks to my cat-like reflexes and adept driving skills (and the fact that we’d recently used the restrooms), we avoided having an accident. Wondering what in the world possessed someone to drive the wrong way on a circular on-ramp, we pressed onward toward the toll gate. The following transpired:

I pressed a green button to extract the ticket, as I would do at any toll post in the States. Then I waited for the gate to go up. But the gate didn't move. “Well, maybe we have to pay first,” Amanda and I thought. So we looked for a place to put money or a credit card. No such luck. There were several other buttons, though, so like a five-year-old on an elevator, I randomly started pressing all of them. One of them was a cry for help apparently, and a very annoyed-sounding voice came through the box. It said something in a language I didn’t know.

So I said, “English, please!”

The voice said, “German?”

I replied, “No, just English. English, please!”

The voice said, “Italian??”

“Just English.”

“French??”

“I’m sorry for being an undereducated American, sir, but I ONLY SPEAK ENGLISH!”

“Please wait” was the response I got.

So we waited … and waited, looking around for someone to come to our rescue. Five minutes later, no one had come to save us.

So, I pressed the dreaded button again.

“PLEASE WAIT!!” was the response.

Sheesh, sorry!

Five more minutes later, and we’re getting REALLY annoyed. A car is now behind us waiting, and I’m afraid I’m about to have a cap busted in me, but then I realize I’m not in America anymore, and I relax a little. People in Europe don’t seem to suffer from road rage quite like we Americans do.

I press the button again, and still nothing. Finally, blessedly, we see a cop car park about 50 yards away. I thought maybe they were coming for us, but I didn’t care at this point. I mean, my grandpa LaRosa was born in Italy, so that has to count for something in the slammer, right??

A thought sparked for Amanda and me exactly the same moment. Drawing from our recent experience with the po-po in Gstaad, we thought, “hey! Let’s get to the cops before they get to us!”

Naturally, since I was in the driver’s seat and couldn’t abandon my post, Amanda was selected as the person to approach the boys in blue. Another veteran move on our part, because the cop was so nice, came right over to the car, spoke to the unfriendly voice on the other end of the line, and discovered that the gate had been broken all day. This explains why we saw the car driving the wrong way on the on ramp.

WHY didn’t they put a sign up or something, though?!?? I mean, not that I would have been able to read it, but I could have google-translated it, or I may have surmised that the gate was broken if there was a sign hanging on it, and if the light to approach it was red, as opposed to “come on through here” green. Anyway, the nice cop lifted the gate for us, and we were FINALLY on our way again.

In case you think I’m making up these stories, I slyly took a photo to document the event. Score another point for the American girls!

The rest of the drive was (thankfully) uneventful, and we arrived in Florence that evening. We checked into our hotel, and then set out to explore. And by “explore” I mean “find a place where we could leave the car for the next three days without fear of it being stolen or towed.” This turned out to be a much longer and more arduous process than either of us anticipated, and by the time we got back to our hotel, it was nearly midnight. But the good news is we saw a lot of Florence that we wouldn’t have seen otherwise. Translation: we were hopelessly lost. I won’t bore you with the details of that night, but let’s just say we were relieved to make it back to our hotel. (Sorry, Mom. Pretend like you didn't read that part. 0:)

Day Four: Living the dream in Tuscany—aMAZing

I did a lot of pre-reading to determine what we should do in Tuscany, and the overwhelming reviews I read about a company called Walkabout Tours convinced me that their Best of Tuscany tour was the way to see the highlights of Tuscany, while also getting some local, non-touristy flavor. So, never one to turn down great advice, I signed us up.

We walked to the train station where we were to meet up with our tour guide and group. This is when I first realized that the men in Italy are kinda pervy. Or, at least, they act like they’ve never seen a woman before in their lives. Cat-calling, whistling, ogling, nodding enthusiastically as we passed, marriage proposals, declarations of love—we each experienced these things over and over and over during our time in Italy. It was fascinating to me. And I don’t mean that in a good way, boys. So don’t get any ideas. Ick.

A quick run-down of all the places we went in Tuscany (see my Facebook page for more pictures!)

Siena
My favorite place—it’s absolutely breathtaking. The scenery that surrounds it, the cathedral, the stone streets and its ancient buildings. It’s everything you would imagine a Tuscan city to be.

And don’t even get me started on the gelato … actually, DO get me started. Because OMG I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: gelato is the nectar of the gods. It kick’s Ben and Jerry’s butt—with both hands tied behind its back. It makes Dairy Queen taste like sewage—or worse. Gelato is delicious. I had my first in Siena. And my second. Don't judge until you've walked a mile in my flip flops ... to the next gelato shop. :)

Siena felt like a real town, but part of a different world—a simpler one, where you could imagine daily life being lived. There was laundry hanging outside windows, flags proudly flying outside homes and old men sitting in the city square because that’s probably what they’ve done every morning for as long as they can remember. If you want to visit what I think of now as “quintessential Tuscany,” don’t miss out on Siena.

San Gimignano
Another ancient city that was similar to Siena in look, but not feel. It’s a really gorgeous place, but it felt so touristy. It was hard to imagine that real people, with real lives, actually lived here. Don’t get me wrong—it was beautiful, and I’m glad we went. It just wasn’t Siena. Here I am with my newest weakness (Thank GOD I'm not living in Italy for the summer--I'd need a seatbelt extender on the plane ride home).

Volterra
We only saw Volterra as we drove past it, but I had to mention it because it’s famous now, thanks to the Twilight saga. I can’t even tell you how badly I hoped our bus would break down and we’d have to stop there so that I could reenact Bella running through the fountain. Classic. Oh well, it’s probably good that I didn’t embarrass America that way. Maybe next time ...

Chianti (outside San Gimignano)
Breathtaking. The Chianti region is amazing—some of the best olive oil and wine in the world is produced here, and we were lucky enough to tour a vineyard/olive grove, do a wine tasting and eat lunch at an organic farm. I also bought olive oil and sent it to my dad for Father’s Day from here, and he LOVED it. Buy some!

Pisa
Pisa was my least favorite place in Tuscany, although it was still beautiful—the architecture is out of this world. Except for that little mishap they call the Leaning Tower. What I didn't like about Pisa, in addition to the endless line of vendors hawking their cheap, knockoff Ray Bans, were these T-shirts. Do you think my expression gives me away? Oops. But I Heart New York. So THERE, Pisa.

We didn’t spend too much time in Pisa. We got our obligatory picture with the tower (I'm not gonna lie--that was fun), then peaced out. I just want to point out that I took the obligatory picture to the next level. While those other schmucks all took their "look at me--I'm so strong, I'm holding up the tower of Pisa just like everyone else who ever visits," I was on the other side, taking a "Hehehe--I'm pushing it over!" picture.

Our whirlwind tour of Tuscany was money well spent—we really saw the best of everything. If you ever find yourself in Florence, you won’t regret spending a day this way. We met some cool people, had some really interesting conversations and saw places and things I only ever dreamed I’d see. At this point, it still felt like I was living in a dream. Actually, to be honest, it’s a month later, and I haven’t woken up yet. Life really is good. :)

Ok, well once again, I kinda rambled (shocking, I know). In the next (and final—I promise!!) installment, we’ll spend a day just outside Florence on an organic, family farm, taking a cooking class. Then we’ll explore Florence one last time and drive to Cinque Terre on the Italian Riviera for long hikes and days on the beaches of the Mediterranean.

Until then, make sure you're chasing your dreams. Whatever the cost, it's worth it when they come true ...

xoxo
C

Living in a postcard, enchanted by Switzerland ...

Hello dear readers!

I am back with yet another thrilling installment in my saga of a broad abroad (like the play on words??). Due to a debilitating finger injury, I am writing with a gimpy left-hand pointer finger. Which, as you may know, is vital to typing. I’m doing my best without said finger, but if this post has typos in it, or is shorter than anticipated, you’ll know why…

Since you’re probably morbidly curious about my finger, I’ve kindly included a photo. It’s pretty gruesome, so beware. The Swiss do a few things really well: clocks, watches, men, chocolate and … knives. My kitchen knife has viciously attacked me, not one, but TWO times in our short stay together. The most recent assault left me without a piece of my finger, and I’m not sure I’ll ever get that little bit back. Tomorrow, I think I’ll go see the school nurse (i.e. Syngenta clinic nurse) to make sure I don’t need a skin graft or something. Note the empty space where the rest of my finger used to be … :(

But back to my excellent traveling adventures. I thought I’d do a day-by-day account of the week-plus Amanda and I spent traveling around Switzerland and Italy. So, without any further ado, we begin with …

Day 1: Basel to Gstaad, Switzerland, by way of Bern (twice), a broken GPS and some really nice policemen

As I mentioned in my last post (I think), I arrived in Switzerland on a Friday morning after flying all night from North Carolina (layover in Philly). Friday was spent mainly attempting to stay awake. Oh, and I exchanged some money. Which was a COMPLETE ripoff. Actually, it’s not that I was ripped off. It’s that the dollar sucks. We get no respect in the rest of the world for our hard-earned dollars these days. Who is in charge of changing that? The Fed? Well, Fed, if you’re reading this, there is a girl living abroad this summer who would be so very happy if you could fix this little problem while I’m on the other side of the pond. Thanks!

Sorry, I keep getting side tracked. Must be the injury. Back to the story. Friday night, I slept off all the jet lag and woke up feeling pretty refreshed! Amanda and I went to the grocery store just to pick up a few supplies for my apartment (laundry detergent mainly—which proved to be a bit tricky since I couldn’t figure out which one was detergent and which was fabric softener. And I’m learning grocery-store clerks aren’t the best at English. So, I may or may not be “washing” all my clothes with fabric softener. Oh well, at least it smells good.)

Anyhoo, while the trip to the store wasn’t successful in every way, it was successful in the way that the Israeli national men’s soccer team happened to be in town that day. And they also happened to be shopping in the same grocery store. Their English also wasn’t so great, but I’m positive that if it weren’t for the language barrier, I’d probably be Mrs. Liad Amir by now (he’s on the right).

After our trip to the store, we hopped on the tram to go pick up our rental car at the airport. Keys in hand and two iPods charged up and ready to go later, we hit the road for Gstaad, Switzerland, which is a couple hours south of Basel. The plan was to arrive by about dinnertime. Well, about an hour into the drive, the GPS died. And it refused to charge. Turns out the cigarette lighter/charger was broken in the car they gave us. We debated whether or not to go on without the GPS, but I think this picture sums up my feelings about that:

Se we drove back to the hour back to Basel to exchange our car. We would’ve been ok in Switzerland without the GPS, but I wouldn’t have wanted to try to get around Italy without it. Keep that in mind if you ever go to Europe and rent a car: Pay the extra for the GPS. It is WELL worth it. And in our case, because of how inconvenienced we were, we didn’t have to pay for it! And, the other silver lining (you know how I love them) is that we got to see the city of Bern, which is just beautiful. I definitely need to go back and spend a day there sometime.

Oh yeah, and while we were driving back to Basel, we were flashed. I’m not even joking! Three guys driving on the autobahn next to us flashed us, then motioned for us to do the same. As. If. They thought it was funny, and truth be told, so did we. But, ew.

We finally arrived in Gstaad in our super-hot Volkswagon Passat station wagon at about 11 p.m. Thinking we were finally at our hotel and SO ready for bed at this point, I was just a little T.O.’d to discover that much of Gstaad is closed off the vehicle traffic. That’s great for the people walking around the quaint village. It’s not so great for foreigners already prone to getting lost, with a GPS telling us to drive up roads that are clearly not meant for driving!

As I was making yet another (possibly illegal—but who knows for sure? I couldn’t read the signs) U-turn, I looked to my right and there was a cop car. Crap! I could see that we were about to get pulled over. But, always thinking on our feet, Amanda and I made a quick decision to play the pathetic, lost tourists and get to them before they could get to us. So Amanda jumped out of the car and walked up to their window. Nothin like flipping the script! We are goooood. (This worked in every country, by the way. Tested and proven. Try it if you’re ever in a bind.) The nice cops gave us a police escort straight to our hotel’s door. Score for the American girls!

We stayed at the most adore hotel, the Posthotel Rossli. Photos below. This place was wonderful in every way—the people, the views, the free breakfasts, the cute rooms—quaint doesn’t begin to describe it. Stay here if you ever find yourself in Gstaad.

Day 2: Beauty and the Beast, Heidi and the Sound of Music--so pretty much the best day EVER


We woke up the next morning, ate our delicious breakfast, and headed for the charming town of Charmey, where we were planning to hike. First, of course, we had to get a feel for the lay of the town.

And sample the local fare.

Then the hiking began. If I hadn’t gone to Cinque Terre, Italy, just a few days later, I would’ve told you that this was the most amazing hike I’ve ever been on. Cinque Terre topped it, though. But not to take away from the Charmey-Gruyeres hike, because it was truly incredible. It felt like we were in the Sound of Music and Heidi during our hike.

The hills are alive … with the sound of music

That’s what I was singing/shouting as this photo was taken. You would’ve done it too; don’t even pretend like I’m wrong.


And then, when we arrived at the town of Gruyeres, I felt as though I stepped into a fairytale!

Bonjour! Bonjour! Bonjour! Bonjour! Bonjour!
There goes the baker with his tray like always
The same old bread and rolls to sell
Every morning just the same
Every morning since we came
To this poor, provincial town---
Good morning, Belle!


Would you judge me if I told you I just wrote all that from memory?

Ahem. Moving on.

This place was absolutely lovely. It was French speaking, and had a castle and a fountain and really, it has to be the village where they filmed Beauty and the Beast. Or, where the cartoonists went for all their inspiration for the setting. Whichever the case may be. Look at the comparisons, and then I’ll let this go.

There were even lambs! They weren’t frolicking in the city fountain, but I believe that’s a result of a health code violation after one of Belle’s lambys pooped in the water. It’s NOT because we weren’t in the middle of a fairytale. Because we were.

I had some soup and a plate of vegetables for dinner. Want to know how much it cost? About $45 American dollars. Yep. So, losing weight while I’m here should be pretty simple and come as a natural result of not being able to afford food. Again with the silver linings! I’m on a roll tonight.

After being completely enchanted by the town of Gruyeres, we headed back to Gstaad for our last night there, and our last evening in Switzerland for about a week.

In summary of our time in the Swiss Alps: the stars were brilliant, the people earthy, open and welcoming and the scenery, idyllic. I think the quote of that trip was when one of us said, "This is everything I ever imagined it would be, and more. I feel like I'm living in a post card or the pages of Heidi right now. I never want to leave."

Switzerland is an enchanting place, and I’m fortunate to have experienced such a real part of it, far away from the major cities. I didn’t want to leave as we pulled away …

Little did I know what was ahead.

Ok, that’s all I can manage with my gimpy finger for tonight. I’ve got a hitch in my typing gitalong, and I need to give it a rest. Next blog will be all about Italia! It’s going to be good, it’s going to make you hungry … it’s going to make you want to hop on a plane and fly there. I promise.

Oh! I almost forgot my last photo with the best caption ever. My brother wrote this on my facebook page under this picture, and I laughed so hard I almost peed my pants.

As far as Nick writing this, I'm not sure whether to be proud or concerned. But regardless, I share, because it would just be selfish if I didn't.

"After a night of heavy partying & LSD-fueled hallucinations, Lassie traded his reputation and dignity for a giant slab of veal, cooked just the way he liked. It wasn't until the next morning that he realized why his "veal" tasted like young... boy leg. His lack of K9 discipline had finally caught up with him.

The now-hobbled Timmy was metaphorically and literally scarred for eternity, and their relationship was never quite the same. Each time Lassie would stick his tongue out as a dog is prone to do, Timmy would reactively try and lift his other leg in a subconscious act of self-protection. The ensuing face-meets-ground moment was humiliating, and he could never quite forgive Lassie for taking away not just his leg, but his freedom. After all, legs are to a young boy what a car is to a teenager.

Tragically, the story doesn't end there as Timmy's father - embarrassed by his son's handicap and his wife's rapid weight gain after Lassie's night of debauchery - drank to ease the pain, eventually becoming so hooked on the Sauce that he was unable to be an effective father to Timmy.

Timmy went on to join a gang called the Olegs (a play on the brand name "Legos" and a reference to the one thing all gang members had in common: their possession of only one leg, apiece). Known for wearing one of their pant legs higher than the other and for their raucus parties (most ppl. referred to the parties as "one-legger keggers"), they were a force to be reckoned with, unless you ran away from them. You were OK then.

As for Timmy, he was arrested one night after trying to rob a sporting goods store. Ironically, he was arrested having robbed only a pogo stick & a jump rope. Police suspected drugs as the cause of not only the robbery, but of the poor choice of stolen items. As punishment, an unorthodox judge sentenced Timmy to stand as a beacon of caution to all the other one-legged hooligans out there.

To this day, he stands as an example of what drugs, alcohol, and gangs can do to a young man maimed by a hero dog in an LSD-inspired trip. The support post is thanks to the ACLU, who vigorously advocated on Timmy's behalf, arguing that his repeated faceplants were cruel and unusual punishment. The post, while painful due to the spikes, helps support Timmy and remind us all: Spare the rod, spoil the dog."



Auf wiedersehen and ciao!

The Innocent Abroad, post one: My grand European entrance

At the beginning of March, my boss asked if I’d like to move to Basel, Switzerland to work on a special project at my company’s global headquarters for about four months. Even if you’ve known me for five minutes, you know that I literally JUMPED at the chance. Right out of my office chair and onto the airplane. Except: WAIT! There’s this stuff Switzerland loves called bureaucratic red tape, and getting my work visa (which allows me to work in Switzerland, clearly) was not as quick a process as everyone expected. I was supposed to start my new job April 1. Then it was moved to April 24. Then May. Then, when the visa still hadn’t arrived by mid-May, we quit trying to put a date on it. Talk about frustration. The last few months brought a whole new definition to the phrase “hurry up and wait.”

Well, I FINALLY got the phone call that my Visa was approved, and everything was set into FAST motion. All of a sudden, I had a week to pack everything, buy my plane ticket and get to Switzerland! It was a whirlwind, and without my mom to help me with packing, errands and moral support, I don’t think I would’ve been able to do it all in time. Seriously, I am the WORST packer ever, and also, I love shoes. This is a bad, bad combination. Then, my mom came to the rescue and helped me be slightly less vain and slightly more practical about what I really needed to bring. I went from about 25 pairs of shoes to maybe 15. Baby steps, people …

Exhibit A: My shoe bag.

Exhibit B: The rest of my luggage. Belle is exhausted from all the packing.

My flight to Zurich from Philadelphia was long. It was uncomfortable. It was exhausting. I hated it. The only saving grace was that I had a window seat and sat next to a Swiss guy named Jerk (I am almost positive that’s not how it’s spelled, but that’s how it sounded) and we talked during much of the flight. I taught him silly American phrases and slang, and he gave me lots of practical (and some impractical) information about my new country of residence. He also bought us wine, thinking it would help us sleep. It didn’t, but it was pretty tasty as far as airplane beverages go. He also taught me how Europeans toast (or “cheer” as he put it). Apparently they look into each other’s eyes and say “cheers”—rather than flippantly, Americanly toasting just because you’re supposed to, without making eye contact. It's supposed to be more meaningful, I guess. He had really pretty blue eyes, in case you were wondering. So many of the Swiss do. It’s quite lovely!

Note to readers: let’s revolutionize the toast, Euro-style!

When I arrived in Zurich and collected my luggage, I realized there was no way on earth I’d be able to manage my bags alone, unless I grew a third arm, hand and a lot of muscle, which I didn’t imagine was very likely. In my sleep-deprived state, I nearly started panicking, but I maintained my composure and decided it would just work out. It had to. Somehow, I was going to roll all my bags to the train Station in Zurich, buy a ticket to Basel, then pick up the bags and get them up the train stairs and onto the train.

Then I saw the escalator and nearly got trapped in it trying to get my bags off. My huge suitcase fell over in the process, tripped me and another traveler, and as I nearly got sucked under the edge of the escalator, I lost the will to live.

Then, three knights in shining armor (there was no way just one would do) seemed to appear as if from nowhere to rescue me. They laughed at me a little, but mainly just helped me (and my luggage) get on the train. Thank God chivalry is not dead in Europe! I had more gentlemanly help getting off the train in Basel, and I was over the worst of it.

Note to self: Ship as much as possible home before I travel back to the U.S. in September. There is NO way I’m going through that again.

A quick aside: When I first found out I’d be living in Basel, my friend Amanda bought a plane ticket to visit me May 28 through June 7. Well, as you may have guessed, I ended up arriving the exact same day she did. AND, to make it even better, I didn’t have to start work until June 6. So, I took a few days’ vacation time, and Amanda and I were able to travel without having to worry about me needing to work. Amazing!

Anyhoo, when I got to Basel, it was 4 a.m. according to my body’s clock, and I knew that if I wanted to beat the jet lag, I had to stay awake until at least 9 p.m. local time. Yikes. It was a rough day, but I kept busy until Amanda arrived, and then she and I walked around, ate some dinner (I won’t even get into how expensive things are here—sticker shock doesn’t BEGIN to describe it) and unpacked. My apartment is really, really cute. It’s right across from a big park, and spacious according to European standards. I’m also the first person to ever live in my unit, so everything is brand new and feels clean (which you know I love). Pictures to come soon. I haven’t decorated yet, so I’ll post them once I’ve added the “Carly touch.” (No, I’m not talking about clutter—I’m talking about COLOR! Everything is very European—black, white and gray. No exceptions.)

Below is a picture of my street, though. I don’t plan on decorating that.

Amanda and I only stayed one night at my apartment before we headed off for our excellent European adventure. And excellent it was!

My next post will dish on all we did, saw and the police we met along the way (let’s just say I’ve met and spoken with more cops in the past ten days than I have in my entire life. I know. Now you’re on the edge of your seat. Right where I want you…)

In the meantime, here's a little teaser. It's a picture of me next to the Mediterranean Sea... I still can't say that without grinning. I've been swimming in the Mediterranean Sea!!!!!!

The 4-1-1 on 20/15: My Lasik experience

If you would’ve asked my yesterday afternoon at 2:30 whether or not I was glad I had Lasik surgery, I wouldn’t have answered you—because I was CRYING from the pain (and I’m not a crier, honestly.). If I had been able to speak and the tears weren’t enough for you, the answer would’ve been “unless you want to punish your eyes by unleashing the fury of a thousand fiery suns on them, NEVER do this to yourself.” However, ask me again today and my answer is “Do. IT!”

So, here is the low-down on Lasik. WARNING: What follows is a long, detailed account of my experience. I tried to make it somewhat entertaining, but it’s still a blog about surgery, so it is what it is. I mainly wrote it for anyone considering having this done or just morbidly curious about the process …

A few things pre surgery
I had to wear my glasses for seven full days before the operation to give my eyes the chance to go back to their natural, contact-free shapes. I don’t know all the science behind it, but I wanted to end up with as clear of vision as possible, so wearing my glasses for a week before the operation seemed easy enough.

I don’t particularly enjoy wearing glasses, though, for the record. I like to think I have the “cute librarian” thing going on, but let’s be honest: I don’t. To me, wearing glasses is just a pain. (If I didn’t think so, I wouldn’t have had Lasik). They slide down my face when I’m working out, they prohibit me from wearing my sunglasses and they’re just not a great look for me in general. Oh well. I toughed it out and wore them.

Also, I had to start taking eye drops three days before surgery. Two different kinds, every four hours. This should by far be the easiest part of the process, right? Technically speaking, yes—as long as the CVS pharmacy has the drops in stock. Unfortunately, they were out of one of my drops, and since as we all know, I’m a wait-til-the-last-minute kinda girl, this was a problem. I was supposed to start the drops Monday, but because of the shortage (was there a run on steroid eye drops in North Carolina this week? Weird.), I only started one of them. I began the second Tuesday afternoon.

I pride myself on my ability to wear a watch and keep track of time (a little trick my Kindergarten teacher taught me), so this part was easy as pie. The worst thing was that the drops taste nasty. My dad thought it was weird that I could taste the eye drops (since I was putting them in my eyes, not my mouth), and he said that’s never happened to him. So maybe I have anomalous eye-irrigation canals that dump into my throat. Either way, the taste was impossible to get out of my mouth. No amount of tooth-brushing helped. Chewing gum brought a slight respite though. Again, this really wasn’t a big deal, and I toughed it out like a champ.

Note to anyone considering Lasik: Get your prescriptions a week ahead of time, that way if there are any shortages at the pharmacy, you don’t have reason to panic.

Note to any procrastinators like me: I told the eye doctor I had been careless in my eye drop responsibilities and he said, “That’s ok. We tell patients to start three days ahead for people just like you. Even if you hadn’t started until yesterday, you’d be fine.”

Sneaky doctor!!

The day of surgery
I started my day as usual, except that because my surgery was at 2 p.m. and I wanted to work up until that time, I had to go to work ‘au natural;’ i.e., no make-up. That wasn’t so bad, except that I look all of 12 without make-up on. Oh well; I persevered.

I ran home right before surgery to eat a small meal (per my doctor’s recommendation). I had Annie’s organic whole grain macaroni and white cheddar cheese with a sliced tomato on the side, in case you were wondering. I’ve even included a photo here. It was delicious.

My sweet little brother had Carly-duty for the day, because my parents were at the beach for a getaway. We headed out plenty early and arrived at the surgery center at 1:45 (go us!). Pete was armed with mp3 player and a book, so he was all set.

They called me back to sign some paperwork (I don’t know what it said—is it bad that I trusted them enough that I didn’t make sure I wasn’t signing over my firstborn or something?), and then the doctor came in to take measurements and determine which lasers he was going to use on me to achieve better-than-perfect vision.

Let’s just stop here for a moment of appreciation that my doctor looks like he could star in General Hospital or ER. Dr. Karl Stonecipher, ladies and gentlemen.

Before he did the exam, he gave me a Xanax, which was supposed to help calm me before the surgery, and then combined with the Lunesta he gave me afterward, it was to help me sleep all afternoon. Then he said something that made my palms start to sweat: “How far away do you live from the office?” I answered that I lived about 20 minutes from there. “Ok good. That’ll be just enough time for the Lunesta to start working so you’ll fall asleep before the Tabasco gets to your eyes.” Me: “I’m sorry. I know it’s Cinco de Mayo and I have salsa and hot peppers on my brain. But did you just say ‘tabasco in my eyes?’”

There’s a possibility I was being naïve, but I honestly thought there wasn’t going to be pain involved in the process. Discomfort, yes. A sand-papery feeling in my eyes. Sure. But when Dr. Stonecipher mentioned Tabasco in my eyes, I was surprised. Yet I told myself that was probably just what some people experienced, so by law he had to mention it to me. I tried to forget about that as I was wheeled away toward the lasers and perfect eyesight that awaited in the adjoining room.

The procedure itself was fairly quick. If I had to guess, I’d say it lasted all of 15 minutes (you’d think Pete would have been able to tell me this part, but his first question when I came out after asking how I felt was “how long did that take?” Kids these days …) It was weird having my eyes forced open, but the worst part was the burning smell the lasers made and trying to focus on a flashing light when all I wanted to do was squint against it.

Words you never want to hear from your doctor: “I just gave your eye a hickey. Don’t worry about it, though; it’s just from the suction cups.” Again, pardon the naiveté, but I didn’t realized eyes could get hickeys. What do I know about these things, though? But hey--I suppose if your doctor is going to give you eye hickeys, at least he's cute! (Kidding of course...)

When the surgery ended, they covered my eyes with these thick, plastic guards, gave me a Lunesta and sent me on my way. Pete was the perfect nurse, and he walked me to the car with his arm around me, opening all the doors. He even had the courtesy to not play his music too loud on the drive home, or ask me too many questions.

Then the pain kicked in. Have I already mentioned it felt like the fury of a thousand suns was unleashed upon my eyeballs? It was hell under my eyelids, with no escape. I couldn’t stop crying, and all I wanted was my mom. But I tried to be brave and I didn’t say that. By the time we got home, I was seriously regretting my decision to put myself through that. Who needs perfect vision anyway?? I never thought I’d be able to get to sleep. I was laying there thinking about Bella Swan and her transformation to a vampire (If you haven’t read the Twilight books, oops. I just ruined the last one for you. Sorry.) and how she had to feel that burning all over her body. So really, I was lucky it was only my eyes. But then I realized that comparing myself to a fictional character wasn’t helping me feel any better, so I started thinking about how Lasik is just like childbirth. It hurts like mad for a little while, and then you have a sweet little baby to hold. Or, in my case, you have perfect eyesight with which to view God’s creation.

Hi, Maks.

So I pressed onward. And, eventually, blessedly, the Lunesta kicked in. Before I knew it, it was 7:30 and I woke up to a much lesser burning and a very hungry stomach. Pete ordered us some pizza, and we turned on the American Idol episode we’d missed the previous night (if I were blind, that’d be the show to “watch!”) and I tried to allow the soothing melodies take me to a place that was free of pain.

Then, to my surprise, my mom and dad came home. I didn’t want to sound like a baby and ask for them, but I was so very relieved they were there. Apparently I wasn’t as much of a champ as I thought I was being, because Pete told them what a rough time I was having right after the surgery, so they came home a day early.

Can I just say here that I have the best family ever? Pete checked on me every 15 minutes apparently while I was sleeping, my parents rushed home when they realized I wasn’t doing so great, and I’ve been waited on hand and foot ever since.

Exhibit A:

The day after surgery
I had to go back to Dr. McBeamy (get it? Like McDreamy from Grey's Anatomy but with a laser??) this morning, and he said “you did great yesterday! And just in case you were wondering, I did perfectly too.” Gotta love a little arrogance in a doctor who knows he’s good. He apologized for the eye hickeys and said they’d go away in a couple weeks (a couple WEEKS?!??), gave me a whole bunch of directives (including that I can’t wear make-up for a week), talked about his adventures in Europe, warned me to be careful (the cute doctor was concerned for my safety!) and sent me on my way. Oh, and he informed me that my vision is already 20/20, but will keep improving over the next few days and weeks. I’m going to have 20/15 vision, people!!! Now that’s what I’m talking about.

I came home, fired up my computer and did a little work with lots of rests in between. And, of course, my faithful four-legged companion by my side.

At this point in the whole process, I am 100 percent happy I took the plunge and had my eyes lasered. And if you’re considering it, I totally recommend it. I’ve talked to several people who had much less pain than I did, and even if you’re like me and have hickeys and jalapeno sauce in your eyeballs, it only lasts a little while. As far as I can see (get it? Pun intended), it’s totally worth it.

One last note to family members and loved ones of Lasik patients: No matter how funny or well-intentioned you think you are, shouting “my daughter looks like a MONSTER!” when you see your loved one’s post-operational eyes is neither encouraging nor funny.

Ok, actually, when my dad said that, I thought it was funny. But not everyone is as good-natured as I, so maybe lay off those types of jokes for say … ever.

Here is a picture of my eyes. It looks like someone aimed ten thousand beebees at each eyeball, so if you get grossed out easily or have children in the room, cover their eyes. I also look high. For the record, I’m not.

Tomorrow, I'm doing something I've wanted to do for years. No, I'm not starring in a movie opposite Ryan Reynolds (yet). But I AM about to join the ranks of those free of contact lenses, expensive solutions and red, irritated eyes. Tomorrow, I'm getting Lasik!

I'm nervous—mainly about having my eyes taped open by my eyelashes: First of all, that just seems like a good way to torture someone. Second, will the tape rip out my lashes?? If so, I'll have to get fake ones because people who don't have eyelashes always look a little odd—even frightening—to me. Gluing on fake eyelashes every day would be incredibly inconvenient and add precious minutes to my already too-long morning get-ready routine. Plus, it can’t be healthy to paste things to an area that was recently surgically invaded. So, let’s all cross our fingers, say a little prayer and hope I’m not left eyelash-less after tomorrow, because the whole purpose behind this surgery is convenience. Well, convenience and the fact that I look consistently hung-over because my eyes are so red from my contacts.

Anyway, other than having my eyes taped open and the potential for the loss of my lashes, I’m really excited about tomorrow! I’ll do a post-surgery blog (once it doesn’t hurt to look at the computer screen) with a more detailed analysis (i.e. pros/cons list) of laser eye surgery.

Here is a picture of my eyes pre-surgery (note the morning-after-a-drinking-binge look). Look out, Old Blue Eyes. You’re about to have yourself a little competition!

Grab the fattened calf: The Prodigal Blogger returns

Is this microphone on?

Hello?

Anyone?

Bueller??

BUELLER?!?

Well, nearly two years later, I’m back. I’ve been derelict in my blogging (derelict may be too kind a word for my negligence)—so much so that I considered deleting this blog altogether, coming up with a fresh new name and re-launching. But we have so much history together—this blog and me and all five of my formerly-faithful readers—that I decided I’d take the risk and dive back in full force.

And making a return couldn’t come at a better time in the life of a blogger than preceding a great adventure: I’m moving to Switzerland! Now, obviously, it’s no coincidence I’ve decided to blog again right now. But I’m hoping my content will be so inspiring, witty and downright fascinating (per the usual ;) that you will forgive me and join me on the journey. I wouldn’t want to take it with anyone else (well, except maybe him).

But I digress (Well, not really. Maksim Chmerkovskiy is no digression!). Ahem. Moving on.

Let’s do a quick re-cap of the last two years so we can move on and get this party started! I’ve opted for one of my favorite formats: the top-ten list (which may or may not include ten things.) Without any further ado, here are some of the moments of the last 24 months that in some way—big or small—changed my life. These are in no particular order, by the way.

My struggle with insomnia. (I know—way to start it off on a bad note. But, it’ll go up from here. I promise)
It sounds so innocuous to write “insomnia” that way, but up to this point in my life, I’ve never experienced anything more challenging, disheartening or all-consuming. I learned a lot about myself, my God and my true friends through the experience. And I can honestly look back and say that I am a better person for it.

“In prosperity, our friends know us; in adversity, we know our friends”
- John Heywood

I know I wasn’t easy to be around during that period, so to all of you who stuck with me, joined me for caffeine runs, forgave my forgetfulness, made me laugh, laughed at me when I needed it, and showed me what it means to really be held up and supported through a difficult time—thank you. I truly couldn’t have done it without you.

The beginning of my love affair with New York City.
I went to New York for a work conference in February (not my first trip to NYC, but the first one where I spent a significant amount of time there), then stayed for about five days afterward. My friend Amanda joined me and we did the sightseeing, touristy thing. Somewhere in the midst of the blaring horns and unrelenting sirens, I fell in love. Alicia Keys sums it up pretty well:

“Concrete jungle where dreams are made of, there's nothing you can’t do, now you're in New York.
These streets will make you feel brand new, big lights will inspire you, let's hear it for New York.”

Really, that’s how it made me feel. Something came alive, and I’ve been longing to go back ever since. Who knows what that means, other than trips to NYC as often as time and money allow... There’s something about finding that place that really speaks to your soul. I feel so alive when I’m walking the streets of New York. It’s good to have a place like that to go and be rejuvenated.

Dancing with the Stars.
Judge me if you must, but I think that show is going to change my life! And not because of this:

But because it reminded me of how much I LOVE to dance, and dancing is one of those things I dabbled with but never fully developed. I danced a lot in college, and then my friends and I went dancing in Colorado all the time when I first moved there. Then I got busy with distractions (read: dated guys who didn’t like to dance), and I just got away from it. But seeing Dancing with the Stars brought back to mind how much fun I have when I’m dancing, so when I get back from Switzerland, I’m signing up for ballroom lessons. Obvi I'd like to go pro. Look out, DWTS—here I come! (I haven’t put the final touches on my tactic for getting on the show, though: Should I get famous and become a celebrity "star," or just get crazy-good at dancing and become one of the professional dancers? Thoughts? Which is more probable?)

“We should consider every day lost on which we have not danced at least once. And we should call every truth false which was not accompanied by at least one laugh.”
- Friedrich Nietzsche

Hearing these words from my boss: “Carly, there is an opportunity for you to work in our Basel, Switzerland office on a project for about four months. Is that something you’d want to do?
After I thought about it for all of 0.000000001 seconds, the answer was clear: a VERY professional “HECK YES I DO!!!!!!!!” I’d like to say it was more dignified than that, but I really don’t think it was.

Moving to Europe has been a dream of mine almost as far back as I can remember, but it was one of those dreams I looked at as a “pipe dream,” thinking it would never happen. I could just never figure out how it would work. So, I all but let go of it, other than a few reminiscent daydreams about the “what ifs” and “maybe somedays.” Well, it turns out I didn’t have to figure it all out. Isn’t it amazing how when we let go of our dreams, if they're meant to be, they come back and find us in ways we never expected? I am so far beyond grateful and excited about this, and you can count on the fact that my future blogs are going to document every magical moment of this adventure. So, stay tuned! (Think Mark Twain’s The Innocents Abroad, in blog form, and most likely I’ll be the only one ever drawing comparisons between Twain and myself. But a girl can dream, right? I think we’ve just established that.)

Deciding that I do want to apply to graduate school, making the decision on my major (Journalism, in case you were wondering) and taking the GRE.
That’s three things, but they’re all connected. I’ve realized this year that I really love to write and edit—I’m passionate about it, and (if I do say so myself), I’m good at it. Maybe that’s an atypical thing to love, but it’s me. I also really love to learn how to be a better writer and editor. Why not learn how to be better at my passion while getting my master’s degree at the same time?? It seems like a no-brainer, so I’m going to apply for the Fall 2012 semester and see what happens.

Taylor Swift’s Speak Now CD.
Don’t judge me—for the fact that I still buy CDs or that I announced to the blogging world (and probably not for the first time) that I love T-Swift. She may be a little crazy; she may even be a terrible live singer. But by God, she can write music that gets to the heart of things, and as long as she does that, I’ll be a fan. Also, she dated Taylor Lautner (team Jacob!) and Jake Gyllenhaal (team Jacob part duex? She must have a think for that name).

If you can’t respect her music, at least respect that.

“Music expresses that which cannot be put into words and cannot remain silent.”
- Victor Hugo


My amazing family
I hope this doesn’t sound trite, but these past two years I’ve grown closer to my family than I ever imagined. Not because I didn’t think we could be close, but because I thought we already were about as tight as a family could be. But my relationships with my mom, dad, Nick and Pete have each grown in ways I hadn’t even considered they could. We’ve become more than family—we’re friends. I can’t think of any greater gift.


Well, I think I’ll stop there for now, and leave you with a song. It’s called In Your Arms by Plumb. I’m not sure at this exact moment what these lyrics are speaking to me, but the song is incredibly stirring—and it’s more than just my love for her voice ... Enjoy the playlist, enjoy these lyrics, and most of all, come back and visit. I am committing to blogging at least once every other week from this point on (and there will be fewer gratuitous pictures of my celebrity crushes, because I'll have awesome new pics of my own to share! Note that I said fewer, not "none." I gues a part of my will always be 10 :). My goal is to blog once a week, but I don’t want to be overly ambitious and disappoint. Under-promise; over-deliver: That’s my motto.

Until next time, friends …


Your baby blues
So full of wonder
Your curly cues
Your contagious smile
And as I watch
You start to grow up
All I can do is hold you tight

Knowing clouds will rage
And storms will race in
But you will be safe in my arms
Rains will pour down
Waves will crash all around
But you will be safe in my arms

Story books full of fairy tales
Of kings and queens and the bluest skies
My heart is torn just in knowing
You'll someday see the truth from lies

Knowing clouds will rage
And storms will race in
But you will be safe in my arms
Rains will pour down
Waves will crash all around
But you will be safe in my arms

Castles they might crumble
Dreams may not come true
But you are never all alone
Because I will always
Always love you

Clouds will rage
And storms will race in
But you will be safe in my arms
Rains will pour down
Waves will crash all around
But you will be safe in my arms

A friend is always there to bail you out of jail. A best friend is right there in the cell next to you, saying, "Dude, that was AWESOME!"

No, I did not go to jail this weekend. I just liked the quote.

[There are pictures at the end, so KEEP READING!!!!!]

There are a couple things to talk about today. First, the cleanse. It went great Thursday, Friday and most of Saturday. However, Saturday night and Sunday was declared cleanse-free. It was a joint decision by Jenna and me. Back to the cleanse Wednesday (after my birthday).

Now for the fun part: the weekend! It. Was. AWESOME. Best weekend I’ve had in a long time. Basically, the people I was going to the beach with from here in NC were annoying me, in the sense that they kept changing plans, when we were leaving, whether or not we were even going to the beach, etc. By the time the trip was officially “on” (for about the 5th time) I had pretty much checked out. The NC group left Friday night to head to the beach.

Rather than join them, I texted Jenna first thing Saturday morning and asked her if she wanted to hang out at the beach all weekend. She said heck yes. I said I’ll be there in less than 4 hours. I packed my swim suit(s) and hit the road. We were on the beach later that afternoon! We hit the beach Saturday with Sarah, a friend of Jenna’s who is hilar and so much fun. Then we all went out Saturday night. (There are SO many stories about it that I can’t even get started on them.) Sunday was more beach time. The weather was perfect—90 degrees and cloudless. Jenna and I even braved the water. I think braved might be an understatement. It was the COLDEST water I’ve ever felt in my life. I imagine it was about the same temperature as the water the Titanic went down in. Our feet were numb from it, but it was invigorating. To go in we had to get a running start from the beach—there was no “easing” into this hypothermic water. Sarah tried to take some pictures of us running—Baywatch style—into the ice water. See below.

Best pick-up line of the weekend:
::two boys approach us on the beach:: “Hey ladies, my friend here wants to get a massage. Do you know where he can get a good one?”

::insert Jim Halpert Face::




::blank stares all around from us girls:: “Uh, no.”

::boys starting to look a little regretful about their lame pick-up line:: “Oh, ok.” ::awkward laughter:: “Well thanks. I, uh, guess we’ll just get going now.”

::no protest from us::

Oh, did I say “best” pickup line? I meant WORST EVER. But funny.


It looks so serene and innocent, but don't buy it! Brrrrrrr!!



Our home for the day...



This is what happens when a spider tries to mess with me: he gets trapped in a straw with sand at both ends. HA!



Here we are, running into the waves Baywatch-style! There's a reason we're the only ones in the water. It's called hypothermia.