In which Adrianne wears a beret and says oui a lot

If nothing else, this weekend reminded me what it was like to be back in a place where lines do exist. Where one has enough room on public transportation to turn around. Where street signs are actually obeyed.

Julia and I arrived in Paris very late Wednesday night. The rest of the three full days I was there, I was constantly restraining myself from walking out into the middle of traffic, and when strolling down the street, from assuming the dodging/darting style of walking I’ve picked up here to avoid various obstacles in the street, such as dead animals and napping men. Everything in Paris was so…orderly. Clean. Basically sparkling (aside from our hostel’s bathroom). I met Mary Kate Slattery and Justine Robinett for dinner one night and when we were walking down to the subway stop, Mary Kate nearly passed out from the “bad smell” lingering in the hallway. Bad smell? OH, she must have meant that aroma I thought was the latest scent from Lancôme. Obviously, she was not in Naples when the trash people went on strike. Now THAT is stench.

Lacey, Julia, and I had a wonderful time. So wonderful, in fact, that when I thought about returning to Rome, I was very sad. Coupled with having to wake up at 4 AM to catch my flight, I became a murderous brat. I should have appreciated it more when a guard stopped someone from cutting in front of me in line at the Paris airport because that right there was the last bit of chivalry I’m getting for a good several weeks.

I got to Milano at around 10:30 AM, and my train ride to Rome didn’t leave until 3 PM. When buying the train ticket, I thought the deal was the same as it is in Hungary where you take a gun with you on a train, and whoever is quickest to the draw gets the seat. Turns out that reservations mean you are merely guaranteed breathing room, and I had to stand for about 4 hours of the train ride. By 9 PM, I was very, very close to administering catheters to everyone. I got to watch the train conductor get in 2 fighting matches with men squashed next to me over technicalities, and slugs race past the train on our way to Rome.

I had much time to contemplate over whether or not I would have rather studied in Paris or Rome. And the final verdict is Rome. Sure, it’s disorderly here. There’s the same residue of poo that’s been stuck in the cracks of the cobblestones in front of our hotel since the beginning of the program. I am accosted with foul smells wherever I go, and by now I am so sick of panini and pizza that I’ve developed an allergic reaction to the mere smell of them. However, there is an unmistakable Romanness about everything, and compared to what I’m used to, everything reeks of character. It’s small, compact, and bursting with stuff. And at this point in my life, it’s really extremely comforting to know that something is more disorganized and ready to fall apart than me, yet still has managed to keep it together for more than a thousand years. If Rome’s made it this far, I think I’ll be ok.