eden ;

I wanna see You face-to-face,
where being in Your arms is the permanent state...
in a sweet downpour of innocent rain.

...I remember when the stars were young,
when You breathed life into my lungs.

(Eden - Phil Wickham)

I have been listening to this song SO much over the past few days, and I think Phil Wickham is incredible. (If you're interested, you should also check out Divine Romance and Cielo. Oh, and his live version of How Great Thou Art never fails to send a million shivers down my spine). But, more than that, I think God is incredible. And this song has really become my prayer over the past few days. Sometimes it just seems like so many things get in the way of our relationship, and it makes me sad. I guess if I really call out "Abba, Daddy", then I should be treating my relationship with God the same way (if not better) as the way I treat the bond with my Dad. And, sometimes, after a really long and hard day, when every bit of me hurts - both mentally and physically - and there's no one there to give me a hug, I want to fall into God's arms. Too many times I don't do this, though. Too many times I find some other distraction - Facebook, iPlayer - and I go to bed without a hug. Similarly, when something amazing happens in my day, a phonecall home is often not enough to convey my happiness. I forget to thank God for blessing me.

I guess, essentially, I'm feeling overwhelmed by the fact that the God who hung the stars in the sky breathed life into MY lungs. And yet for the vast majority of the time I'm completely indifferent to Him.

It's a pretty big concept, I know, and I feel a bit messy about it myself. But just know that this is an AMAZING SONG!

good vibrations.

So, Italy is not sending me good vibes at the moment. It's 27°c (which is actually much cooler than the usual 35°c), but with about 50000% humidity. It's just that kind of weather where you want to do nothing, apart from maybe deposit yourself in the nearest refrigerator (ahem, I definitely didn't try and do this earlier when there was no one in the kitchen...), and stay there for a very long time. Don't get me wrong, I've had an amazing year, but I honestly think I'm ready to get back to England now. Oh, bacon sandwiches, McDonald's McMuffins, BBC iPlayer, unlimited texts, Japanese food, Sunday roasts, undubbed films - HOW I'VE MISSED YOU.

That said, however, there are several things that I'm gonna be very sad to leave behind!

This is what Pizza Hut would be like if it was actually good. It has the tastiest pizza EVER, and the freshest chips I've ever tasted (yes, I'm looking at you, McDonald's - take note!). The guy in there is an absolute sweetheart, and I should really know his name by now given the amount of times I've been there this year.


What can I say? This place has made my year abroad indimenticabile. It has, hands down, the best gelato I've EVER had. And it's cheap. And, best of all, it's just down the street from me. Honestly, just writing this post makes me wanna go out and get some gianduja ghiacciata (semi-frozen Nutella) and dulche de leche (boiled condensed milk, basically, like the stuff you put in banoffee pie) RIGHT NOW. I sense a slight pattern forming here because, once again, the oh-so-lovely Francesco has been the provider of many a banterous conversation and free icecream cup. :D (And then there was the famous friends-with-benefits situation... not with me, I hasten to add) I'm geniunally gonna miss this place - the thought of getting a pot of Ben&Jerry's Cookie Dough out of the library foyer vending machine doesn't hold quite the same allure as it once did.


Oh, the piadina. It's like a cross between a panino and a wrap, but better! Literally half of my student loan must've gone to this place this year...

As I was re-reading this, I've noticed that my three things are all food-related. I s'pose I can get away with it, given that I'm a pacioccona!

fame.

As I was writing this post's title, this is who popped into my head at the mention of 'fame'. Yes, Lady Gaga. I think she's probably the epitome of what happens when fame goes wrong. Yeah, alright, I'll admit, she has catchy songs - Bad Romance and Alejandro spend days going round and round my head on some sort of loop - but she's a mess. I think fame definitely affects different people in different ways.

Frank Turner is definitely one of the goodies. I can personally verify this, because I MET HIM. Yeah, I can attribute the slight break in posts to the fact that I went hooome! Oh, England - la terra dei miei sogni (fine, I don't actually dream about England. Maybe). :D Okay, so my mother would beg to differ with this mention of 'home', but Frank Turner was never gonna play Salt village hall, so needs must, and all that. It was a 600-strong solo acoustic gig at Academy2 in Birmingham and it was amaaazing. The support band weren't all that great - the lead vocalist looked like he should be rocking out to McFly in the privacy of his room, not actually performing - but Frank was! I don't really know what to say without sounding like a fangirl, but I will mention that when I sneakily spotted that he'd come back out onto the stage as the venue was starting to empty (there was no merchandise!) and jumped down behind the security barriers, I yanked The Boyfriend* across the room and he got a photograph, I got an autograph and got to see his beautiful new tattoo ('freedom' in sanskrit, or something) in the flesh! He was lovely, and seemed to geniunally have time for his fans.

To stop after discussing Frank Turner would not be doing this night justice, however. There was another person there who was the perfect example of what happens when power and responsibility goes crazy. I don't remember her name, but she reminded me of a Yoga instructor, so Yoga it is. Yoga started out being amicable enough. She appeared because the nice bouncers on the door asked if I could manage steps. Er, yes, I can, but going in the lift is easier and I'm lazy. So elevator it was. Yoga was then radio'd and dutifully appeared several minutes later to escort us through the venue (God forbid we run amok!). Upon arriving at the lift, she informed us not to touch the walls. Um, okay. We all shuffled a bit closer together. I'll admit right now that I have the most awful sense of direction known to (wo)man, but even I was beginning to realise that the venue was not this high up. The woman just told us to "wait and see, instead of [her] explaining." I was right. We arrived on to what I can only describe as a rather large balcony. Yoga then went on to explain that she was head of security (we needed to know this why, exactly?) and that we weren't allowed downstairs unaccompanied to get drinks from the bar (total rip-off, anyway, but that's a story for a different time) - that she'd have to come up and get us if we wanted any, or to go to the toilet, or to in any way move from our balcony-esque prison. She didn't just explain it in a matter-of-fact way, though - it was as if she took glee in explaining all of these things to us, and was generally rather patronising. Needless to say, we didn't stay there. Power fail, Yoga.

I was pretty impressed at having met one famous person in Birmingham, so imagine my surprise when The Boyfriend started staring at some really tall person.

"That's the one-liner guy off Mock the Week, Jessi." Unfortunately, I was unable to run fast enough to get in front of this guy to see his face, but I was assured it was, in fact, Stewart Francis. He was just totally unassuming and falls into the apathetically famous group, in my opinion.

I punctuated my stay in Birmingham with a trip to the BigChurchDayOut in Leicestershire, with my friend Spongebob and her sister, Flute**. The headliners were Switchfoot, and while I didn't meet Jon Foreman (I honestly probably would've cried), I'm impressed by the way they use their fame - and their new album (Hello, Hurricane) isn't half-bad, either! Although (and, okay, Flute and Spongebob are gonna be the only people who appreciate this), I did get rather sick of the continual guilt tripping by anti-poverty charities. I just wanted to see Jon Foreman Switchfoot!

The fun and frolics didn't last very long, though, sadly. All too soon, I was boarding Ryanair flight FR1702 from East Midlands to Milan Bergamo. Or, I was trying to board said flight, at least. Due to Ryanair's ridiculous money-making ways - the ways which involve having a stupidly cheap basic fare, and then adding obscene amounts of money for any passenger wanting to carry check-in luggage - my trusty purple suitcase was positively bulging with shorts, tee shirts and DVDs. There was no way this little baby was gonna hit sub-twenty kilos (just like the way I'm never gonna be a size8 model - damn you, cheddar cheese...). This posed two problems:

i) how on earth do I lug this thing up the 'plane's steps?

ii) how on earth do I make it to the 'plane's steps in the first place without having an oversized baggage charge slapped on me at some point in my East Midlands airport experience?

The answer was deceptively simple. Assistance. You know how I mentioned earlier that I like taking lifts because they're easier? It also gives you much more help. (Case in point: During my recent trip to Turin to see the Shroud, I plonked myself in a wheelchair to avoid the massive queues. I'm sorry, but there really aren't many perks. (Okay, maybe apart from the queue jumps at theme parks, and the new car that I have on order...))

After waving mamma off, I sat myself in the special pink seats. Y'know, the seats that scream, 'This girl is a retaaard!' (I was sorta bemused when some Italians came and sat next to me - I turned around and told them that they were sat in cripple seats and, boy, did they soon move! :D) So, yeah, I was whisked through security with A List'er efficiency by a very nice man, and plonked in more pink seats by my departure gate.

Given that I was feeling emotional in a way that only a woman can at this point (and that I wanted to make the most of my final opportunity to use my Orange Magic Number), I called The Boyfriend. We had a very nice conversation (so nice, in fact, that I geniunally can't remember any of what we discussed!), but out of the corner of my peripheral vision I saw a woman in a hi-viz jacket plonk herself down in one of the pink seats opposite me. Ah well, I still had another good forty minutes before my 'plane was due to board so I wasn't too fussed. But she just kept staring. Honestly, I'm sorta used to it, so I stared back. Normally that's enough to make the staring stop, but all she did was eyeball me back. Finally, after about another twenty minutes of terse staring, she loudly and obnoxiously announced that she was going to MOVE ME TO THE GATE. Like I was a retard, or something. (Oh, wait...) I took this as a cue to end my 'phonecall, and she just stood there, staring at me, long after I'd ended the call. "Are you done?" was the only conversation she made. I nodded. At this point, I feel like she should have a name. I fear the politically correct police will shoot me if I call her Hitler. And she beared a rather unfortunate resemblance to someone I used to know in relation to my school days, so let's call her J. J. wheeled me over to the correct departure gate (after shoving my suitcase between my ankles, and precariously balancing my crutch on top) and, well, left me. Why this simple manoeuvre required me to end my conversation I'll never know. After what seemed like an eternity, she took me out onto the tarmac ("SWITCH YOUR 'PHONE OFF." I dimmed the screen and put it onto standby, given that there were other passengers openly walking past still mid-conversation. Bitch.) and across to the 'plane (I did nearly kill her when she asked the staff at the departure gate if my baggage needed to be checked. Luckily for me, they said no). "Get out of the wheelchair." I obliged, feeling suspiciously like a certain character from Little Britain. She took my luggage and I started to make my way up the rickety stairs. It seemed the man in front of me was having problems boarding, so I stopped. "Please move up those steps so that I can put your bag down." God forbid you have to hold my bag for a milisecond long than is required, woman. She took my bag into the cabin and then didn't hestitate to do a runner. Fortunately for me, some nice airhostess took pity on me and helped me to stow my stuff away. Oh, and all of the quoted speech was literally the extent of our 'conversation'.

Luckily, I made it back to Italy in one piece, even if I had to be escorted across the tarmac at the other side because the bus half went without me. I did feel famous, though.

* I don't think The Boyfriend has ever made an appearance on the blog (he definitely wouldn't have appeared in the post about cheddar cheese. Random fact#1: HE HATES CHEESE?! No, I don't understand how this is possible, either), but after his admission that he follows me and my blogging adventures (I'm not sure this whether this counts as a slightly stalkerish trait?), I realised that he maybe merits a mention since it's his fault I had the opportunity to go to the show and therefore turn into a pool of fangirly mess in front of one of my favourite musicians; and also because he looks after me when I go to the homeland, and buys me sausage and egg McMuffins (with an extra hash brown and barbecue sauce, obviously) at 6:30am. I'm giggling at the fact that his first appearance is on a post about music. Random fact#2: The Boyfriend is a complete music geek (read: Frank Turner fanboy).

** While I'm sure Spongebob and Flute wouldn't mind being identified, I quite like thinking up psuedonyms.

simple things.

Since being in Italy, I've actually discovered quite a few new interesting things about England. Y'know, about how the entire population lives in London and no other places exist; about how work and life stops at 4pm on the dot, every day, for afternoon tea and, of course, everyone's best friends with the Queen. Oh, stereotypes, how I've grown to love them.

One cliché that is definitely true, however, is the fact that Britons LOVE to queue. I've always sorta laughed at this, and secretly wished we didn't have such a prim reputation. Until yesterday.

Yesterday was the day I went to Turin (to see the Shroud, actually. [/geek]) Yesterday was the day it was already 23°C at 6:45am. Yesterday was the day I became acquainted with the Autogrill at Novara, Piemonte, in aforementioned sweltering temperatures during a toilet break. Yesterday was when I wished the Italians queued British-style. It was awful. The place was packed (I still have no idea why), and upon seeing the queue for the toilet when we went in, my friend and I decided to go and stock up on drinks and snacks for the journey (and also a sneaky caffè to combat the horrifically early start) and then come back to use the toilets on our way out, in the hope that they'd be a bit quieter. No such luck. The queue was just as long as before. And the way into the toilets was incredibly narrow, so as well as the undulating queue of people waiting to go in, there was much pushing and shoving from the people coming out. Eventually, women started to go into the men's toilets, but my friend and I resisted. Finally, through the mass of people, we discovered the disabled toilet. There was one woman in front of me who was blind but, y'know, I can hack a one-woman wait. But then it seemed that everyone else had roused us, too. Half the women's queue came and joined me. Well, I guess it would be more accurate to say that they shoved in front of me. And, no, none of them had crutches. Furthermore, if you're strong enough to push someone out of the way, I don't really think you have much need for a priority toilet. This continued for some time while my friend and I stared at each other, dumbfounded and, in my case, dangerously close to passing out from the heat (I honestly don't think Italians know what air-conditioning is).

My saviour arrived in the form of a toilet attendant. She told the women in the men's queue to come out, and the women in front of me to rejoin the correct queue. And, you know what? They did so. Very quickly, and without (much) complaint. Oh, to have power.

Finally, slightly shaken but still alive, we made it out of the entrance and back to the bus (even though there was a bit of pushing on the steps on the way out) where people were queueing orderly - yes, queueing - to get back on.

Oh, the queue. I'm never underestimating you ever again.

spot the difference.

So, spot the odd one out. No, it's nothing to do with the fact that perhaps some of them use child labour, and others don't. No, it's nothing to do with the fact that the H&M logo is the only one which has a bit of colour in it. And, no it has nothing to do with the fact that some of the brands are British, some Scandanavian and some European. No, it's something much more fundamental than that. What am I talking about?

The price.

That's right, whilst the others are all high-street chains, Chloé decidely isn't. Again, which brand do you think it's easiest (at least, in the streets I walk down on a daily basis here) to find here? Yep, that's right, Chloé. In fact, I haven't seen a French Connection, Topshop or River Island here. There is a H&M, but you won't find it on the Italian high-street; instead, it's tucked away in the shopping centre on the outskirts of town, lest it blemish Brescia's boutique-lined streets.

I went for a piadina (sort of like a hot tortilla, filled with crudo, cheeses, salads, mushrooms - whatever you want, really) tonight, and walking back to my dorms from the bus stop we went past a place that has Hermès handbags in the window. My friend commented that she liked some orange one that was on display, and I casually asked the price: "4000€ - oooh, not bad." It was at this point that my chin hit the floor with a resounding thud. "Four thousand euro?", I responded, thinking that maybe my Italian wasn't up to scratch at all and that I'd put one too many zeros on the figure. "Yes", she responded, perplexed at the completely confused look that was now sitting on my face. "Actually, yeah", she continued, "I went to England one time, and there was, well, nothing." "What do you mean, 'there was nothing'?", I asked, thinking that maybe there hadn't been the nightlife she'd been hoping for (and then I promptly remembered that I'm staying in collegio and that this is therefore unlikely). "You know, there's just no shops." Turns out she'd been staying near Canterbury, and I tried to explain that not every town or city in England is a shopping mecca, much less is every street crammed full of designer labels. "Well, [her city] isn't exactly known for its shopping, but there's still Gucci", she replied indignantly. It was then that I realised that I was fighting a losing battle. I tried to explain that people in England don't judge clothes by the label they're attached to and she just went on about the higher quality. Which, y'know, may or may not be true. But I don't care if something has the ability to last for years if I'm gonna get bored of it after six months.

And then I finally came to my senses, enough of the discussion of the quality of something, but it costs FOUR THOUSAND EURO. How ON EARTH does a student afford that? I know that most people in England couldn't. She was like, "But it's not a question of money." She just couldn't understand that if you don't have enough money to pay the rent, or eat, you're not gonna spend what you do have on some over-priced item.

A Catholic country, which generally has such high moral standards yet which has such a high rate of consumerism makes for an odd juxtaposition. It's not just clothes, though. This girl is almost twenty-one and, okay, she goes to university, but she gets una borsa di studio (basically a non-repayable grant from the university) and yet her parents still pay all of her accommodation, her mobile contract (she has an iPhone 3GS) and buy all of her (all designer) clothes. And she's not alone. There's one girl I know here who doesn't dress in head-to-toe Chloé, Chanel and Fendi. It's crazy. I think it probably is a case of parents who spoil their children massively. Plus, I'm in one of the richest parts of Italy - although I've still heard similar stories from other people in other places.

Crazy times.

I seriously CANNOT WAIT to get to Primark - where stuff costs way under 4000€, and the biggest size available isn't a size6.

Saying that, I wouldn't say no to one of those Chloé Paddington bags...

giving everything.

As you've probably guessed by now, I'm on my year abroad in Brescia, Italy. For those of you whose geography is a little shaky, it's a provincial town (in the Province of Brescia, believe it or not...!) in Lombardy, northern Italy. Aside from being mentioned at the beginning of The Merchant's Tale (one of the Tales from Chaucer's The Canterbury Tales) (I KNEW English Literature 'A'-Level would come in useful somehow - even if it's just for moments like this), it's one of the richest regions of Italy (actually, that's probably why it was mentioned in the Tales), if not the richest (I haven't checked the stats recently, and don't want to have to embarrass myself by having to let Wikipedia know it for me). As well as its present-day inhabitants having more Ferraris, Lambourghinis and Hermès handbags than I've had hot dinners, it is also important in terms of Roman history.

Being the good (read: frugal) student I am, my cheap-skate radar was very fast to sniff out a notte bianca in town the other night - it basically means that the shops stay open 'til late and, more importantly (for the purposes of this post, at least!), there's free entry to the museums. Why pay 6€ when you can do something for free? (and a note to any Peruvians out there: take your passport to prove your identity, and you can get heavily discounted entry to the Inca exhibition that's currently on at the same museum!), I mused to myself one night this week. So, along with a friend, we headed for Santa Giulia: Il Museo della Città. (Sounds like some kind of action movie, right? Nah, it's just the Italian way of saying that Santa Giulia is the city's museum) It's built on an old Benedictine convent, and there's also Roman ruins that pre-date that. There's all kinds of exhibitions - Roman pottery, bronze heads and paintings, but to name a few - but, and this is the thing that struck me most, there's also Il Croce di Desiderio, or Desiderio's Cross.

It was used by the monastery in its religious processions. Its name comes from King Desiderio of Italy, the person who donated it. The thing I find most striking about it, though, is the fact that it's adorned with tens and tens of precious stones. The picture above only really shows the middle section, but imagine those four arms carrying on out in their respective directions, packed with gems. Now, yes, the King was a rich man, and I don't know much about him historically, so I'm not saying he's a particular role model. But, it did prompt me to think, as I was standing there in that beautiful room staring at that downlit box which contains the cross, of how much we give.

As Christians, we believe that Jesus paid the ultimate price for us by dying on the cross (and then rising again, obviously!). I don't know if the King had an active relationship with God, but it seemed symbolic that he'd nailed the most precious things in his life (there are also pictures of his children and wife, I think) to that cross. Even if we don't have gold and jewels, the most precious thing we do have is life. I suppose it just served as a reminder that we should be nailing our lives to that cross, handing it over to Him. I know it seems like a really obvious thing to say, but the intensity with which it hit me at the point in time was immense.

Most of you know I'm not a Catholic (not by any stretch of the imagination!), but I found that room a really amazing and peaceful place to be in. If you couple that with the fact that the walls were decorated with a mural of the life of Saint Giulia (a girl who lived in Carthage, and was hung by her hair and then had her breasts scraped out just for being a Christian in a pagan country), it was actually quite overwhelming - certainly the most I've felt like that since coming to Italy. I just really wish I'd bothered going there earlier in the year!

cheese on toast.

It's such a cliché, but it's something I'm finding to be increasingly true - there really is no place like home. I came to Italy at the end of September, hungry for excitement and adventure. Yeah, I've had a pretty amazing year, all things considered. Okay, so it hasn't been the typical ERASMUS year (living in a Roman Catholic convent, complete with resident nuns, soon put an end to that), but I really have enjoyed myself; and I hope that my confidence has improved, even if my Italian hasn't (recent essay correction somewhat proves my feelings, I fear!). But, as I come dangerously close to the end of la dolce vita, I'm finding myself craving the simple things again. Like cheese-on-toast. (And, yes, I'm aware that I've just written that like Stoke-on-Trent - gosh, I really must be pining for the green grass of home!) (You're also probably realising why exactly I'm a pacioccona).


Just in case you'd forgotten what it looks like, or anything:







However, what is a simple snack in England turns into a full scale mission in Italy. First of all - bread. The bread here has a strange taste to it - it's almost sweet, a bit like brioche, but with less sugar. But, believe me, it doesn't make good savoury toast. And it comes in a decidedly mini size - I'd have to make about ten of them to equal two normal rounds of Kingsmill. The Italians are notoriously picky eaters (weighing 70g of pasta [when it's all you eat every night], anyone?), so I'll be damned if I'm going to sit there with my mountain of bread. However, it seems that my bread worries have been solved - I finally managed to find white 'maxi-toast' (oh, you skinny Italians, make me feel better about myself, why don't you?) that tasted normal - shock-horror! It was about triple the usual (already hefty) price, but vabbé (it's also made by Roberto's - I amuse myself with the fact it just has to be the Italian arm of Roberts' (oooh, I wonder if they'd give me some work experience next summer?!). Yeah, I'm cool, remember.

But, of course, you can't have cheese-on-toast without cheese, and good cheese at that. Now, obviously, 'good' is subjective, and I have nothing against a good mozzarella (amazing on pizza); gorgonzola goes amazing with gnocchi, and parmesan was made to sit atop (70g!) pasta, but for cheese-on-toast purposes, there is only one contender: CHEDDAR. But, Italians, being the food snobs they are, don't take kindly to English food (you would not believe the happy dance I did when I found McVitie's digestive biscuits. Actually, if you know me in real life, then you probably can...) and so cheddar is decidely bottom of the pile when it comes to supermarket stock. So, really, God must've heard my pleas because, lo and behold, a European food market arrived in Brescia the other day. There was Spanish paella, German sauerkraut and bratwurst, Belgian crêpes and Sicilian dolci. I, however, only had eyes for one thing (okay, maybe two):

The English cheese. Yes, that's right, I found the Holy Grail in an Italian piazza. Choirs of angels began singing and streams of light radiated from this magical spoit. Okay, maybe not, but there was a very nice English man who helped me choose my cheddars! Yes, see, there was even more than one variety. In the end (being one who never likes to miss a deal), I ended up with three cheeses for the not-so-princely sum of 10€ - a plain cheddar from Wales, 'Scorcher' cheddar (fleckled with green and red chillies) and a sundried tomato variety. Oh, and then, of course, I had to buy the caramelised onion chutney to go with. The day was only made more perfect by the discovery of fudge and the following conversation:

Woman: Can I help you? These are typical English sweets, or fudge.
Me: Yes, I know, I'm English.
Woman: Oh! I'd never have known. *proceedes to ramble about Englishness*

Ah, no, I am forgetting one final thing. As I was leaving, quite content with my purchases, I heard a familiar tune:

"Promise me son not to do the things I've done,
Walk away from trouble if you can."

It was then that I realised that as much as I'm English (complete with cheese-on-toast [spelt in that oh-so-special way]), I'll always love a bit of country&western.

NB: Go here to see the amazing things I bought. I don't think they're live yet, but they will be soon!

but it's beautiful!

So, I'm twenty-one at the beginning of January next year and my parents are going a tiny bit crazy. I don't know whether it's the realisation that their (not so) little girl, their first-born is finally growing up, or whether they feel like they have to conform to popular culture, or whether they just wanna have a good party, but they have asked what I'd like to do.

Well, I'll tell you what I'd like to do. I'd like to wake up on my birthday morning to this baby:

I couldn't get close enough to it to see what make and model it is, but it is BEAUTIFUL. It makes my Volkswagen Polo look decidely ugly.

...But, yeah, back to reality. It's not gonna happen - it's probably worth more than all of the houses my parents have ever owned put together!

It's still gorgeous, though. A girl can dream, right?

You might notice that the car has a sticker on its side. That's because that photograph was taken by yours truly when Mille Miglia came to town. It's basically a world-famous vintage car route from Brescia to Rome and back to Brescia again. That little trip is one thousand miles long (hence the name) and is surrounded, obviously, by much press attention; not only in Brescia, but around the world. The day before the cars set off, they were parked in the piazze and they lined the streets in the centre so that the public could go and have a good ogle. I dragged a long-suffering friend around with me and took literally hundreds of photos of all of these beautiful classics. Yeah, I know, I told you I was cool, remember?

will this help essay writing?

I don't know whether it will or not, but since about two weeks after moving to Italy at the end of September, Spotify has been the bane of my life. It decided not to let me access it when it figured out that I have an Italian IP address. It seemed to go back to normal when I left my laptop off for a while when I went home for Christmas, and actually let me use it for a bit in January, but then it started demanding that I become a Premium User - er, no thanks, I'm a student - anything 'premium' immediately raises red flags in my mind! BUT, I think I've just found a suitable Spotify replacement - Grooveshark. And the best bit? You don't have to download a programme! :) Can't really find any pretty pictures, though, so you'll just have to take my word for it. Or, even better, Google it!

Oh, and if by some strange coincidence you can understand Italian, I highly recommend 'Infinito' by Raf.

Current essay total: 10/2000.

Oh, dear.

i am thinking it's a sign that the freckles in our eyes are mirror images, and when we kiss they're perfectly aligned.

So, it seems like blogging is the cool thing to be doing right now, huh? I've lost count of the number of appearances of new blog urls on my Facebook newsfeed recently. I, however, am not cool - just thought I should make this clear from the outset, lest you get any ideas! I do like talking, though, A LOT, and I guess that's what's inspired me to create this blog. I'm on my year abroad in Brescia, Italy at the moment, and I'm discovering so much all the time - new Italian words (so cool! Okay, maybe that's just me?), amazing food, pretty new songs (Europop not so much, though) and my lust-list of clothes is growing ever longer by the hour.

The picture above is a pretty big hint at my current obsession: museums. Yes, you heard me correctly. I've always been so jealous of my friends who live in London - it's so easy for them to access this wealth of information. My favourites (or maybe the most memorable) have always been the Science Museum, the Natural History Museum (here was where I discovered my total phobia of stuffed animals...) and the British Museum. Well, now it's my turn! Tomorrow night is a free entry night for all of Brescia's museums, so I think we're gonna get an icecream and then head up to Museo Santa Giulia first. I've been here almost a year, and I still don't know what's there. According to the website, it's the site of a Benedictine convent and I think it holds a lot of Brescian history. Should be fun!



This is where I'd like to be right now, too, but instead I'm listening to 'Such Great Heights' by The Postal Service. It is seriously beautiful!