A Taste of Naples

(That was just a cheap tactic to capture your attention).

I recently took the chance to accompany Giulio to Naples for a conference, and to cultivate what I refer to as my human version of a prostomium. Basically what I mean is that for four days I wedged myself into the cracks of the city and like an earthworm in its usual fashion, ate my way through the very burrows I sought to create. The world was my oyster and no food could be my obstacle. 

So, here's the Taste of Naples:

Baba. The apple of the Napolitano's eye. A yeast-based cake soaked in so much rum it would have gotten you drunk had you not just eaten enough food to feed a family of three for two weeks. And though you don't find yourself tipsy per se, you may find yourself teetering on the sobering line that delicately separates insulin resistant from not.

Pizza Margherita. Naples is ostensibly the birthplace of this handsome little devil:

Pastiera. Don't let this cute little torta fool you, bizza is DENSE! prolly weighs more than a small human:

Pasticce. May the (crispy on the outside, warm ricotta on the inside) Sfogliatelle have mercy on your pathetically easily delighted soul:

Coffee. I dunno, I asked for one and this is what came out:

Pasta. Period.

I sincerely have no idea what this is but I ate it anyway:

Struffoli. The holiday delight of Naples, so festive, how could I resist?

(Struffoli after): Actually one of the most horrible things I've ever eaten, and the only thing I left unfinished.

More PIZZA.
Of course, how could we miss an opportunity to indulge at Da Michele? Famously regarded as the best pizza in the whole damn world, (and as I realized later, also the location of the triumphant pizza scene in the film Eat Pray Love.)

Let me just give you a little anecdote to highlight how I truly am the modern day Julia Roberts. The story starts like this: WE WAITED IN LINE FOR TWO AND A HALF WRETCHED HOURS.

At hour 1.5, we found ourselves in such a desperate state of delirious hunger that I went into ninja mode, rounded the corner, stormed the adjacent pizzeria, and demanded a to-go margherita for me and my friends that we then ate in line while waiting for our main course. I for one am not afraid to admit that I ascribe unabashed scorn to the notion of "delayed gratification". 

And then with a little more patience we made it. Pants unbuttoned, happy girl.

The End. 

AutunNO

The leaves and my serotonin levels are falling.

Do you know what this is? 

It's my macbook air failing to reconcile whatever mental issues led to its premature death this autumn.

TWICE.

I lost every photo, every file, countless hours at the apple store, (and even more lamenting the whole damn thing). Furthermore, I attest I did not bring my worthless lump of aluminum to the shop to have the stupid ass "geniuses" (I mean really, c'mon) look at me scornfully when I said I didn't have it backed up. 

"NO I don't have it backed up?" WHY? Because I thought that when I shelled out $1500.00 one year and five weeks ago for the alleged "Rolls Royce" of computers, I could have relied on it. And besides, the one time I actually did back it up, the external hard drive had already malfunctioned before I realized I even needed it. Next time remind me to buy a Toshiba or a Samsung, and to spend the rest of my allowance on my subscription to Carbonite, assholes. And by the way, the new iTunes layout is totally not user friendly.

One night prior, I had been lying in bed, snuggling with my incredible heat-producing laptop machine while poking around on various social media sites (like a true glutton for free-time). Then I got sleepy, shut my computer, and went to bed.

The morning after, I was faced with an image that appeared to be deriding me: a completely gray screen with a question mark. I don't mean a figurative question mark, I mean, like, a LITERAL question mark. Punto domanda. This was not a joke. 

I'd been in the apple store for two hours waiting for the geniuses to confirm that my computer was in fact not worth more than the metal it was made of, when my iPhone went into "10% battery" mode. I proceeded to charge it at one of the many ports within the store, when an asswipe of an employee came to me and in a surly Italian dialect asked me if I had "come to the apple store for the purpose of charging my phone". This is when I erupted into malevolent rage and went all kinds of rogue on him, asserting that I should be reimbursed for my overpriced and over-celebrated MadeInChina POS, and that furthermore he was maleducato, ignorante, sgarbato, scortese, vile, etc. Some patrons looked on as I were batshit crazy while others seemed to be giving me a telepathic "you go girl" and a virtual high-five. (But this is neither here nor there.)

After finally managing to get my "fixed" computer back, (you will not believe this) two days later it did EXACTLY the same thing. 

I'm interrupting my own story here because frankly, it's boring me, and besides, the autunno hasn't been all rubbish. Lets focus on the good stuff.

First, I received a lovely bicycle accessory (MUSTACHE!) from Arianna- a cute and perky classmate of mine who always smells delightfully of laundry detergent. Considering I refuse to indulge in a month of anarchical facial hair growth for the sake of prostate cancer awareness,  I find my cyclette 'stache to be a perfect tribute to Movember. (Although it is absolutely disgusting after a good rain.)

Then my beautiful-young-blonde-cousin-doctor-friend came to visit for a week. While I was in school, she would whip up banoffee pies and stuff. Every guest should be so intelligent and so eager to please.

Then Giulio and I hopped over to California for a hot minute. Good n' cathartic:

...we even visited a vineyard to watch our friends get hitched in style!

But within a jiffy, we were turned around with a brief sojourn in London just before disembarking the plane in Milan and deliriously rolling in to the Queens of the Stonehenge concert (or whatever they're called). 

Here we are looking stupid and jaundiced and far too old for rock concerts:

Last week I reconnected with some girlfriends over dinner. Our time together is always fulfilling and robust:

Also, Giulio knew I'd been home avidly studying and stressing a lot lately, so he affectionately suggested I go out with my girlfriends for a glass of wine:

While out, Yar and I nuzzled ourselves into a cozy corner of the (empty) bar (on a rainy Monday night) and took so many selfies that the cameriere eventually asked us if we were lovers. Then he offered us free shots of rum! Yarden accepted, while I opted for a rubbish Lipton tea the way a good ol' bitch does. (And yes PETA, I'm wearing REAL fur.) 

I suppose other than these painfully boring anecdotes, there's not much news to report. I'm on a diet which basically means that on the way to Brescia this weekend (1 hour away from Milan) I had to force Giulio to pull over at the Autogrill to buy me a fried chicken sandwich and a chocolate bar because I was afraid I was becoming hypoglycemic. We went there (Brescia) to purchase a 1970's sofa (which I affectionately refer to as "vintage", and Italians refer to as "used"). Also, today while wearing socks, I stepped into a puddle of water that had leaked from the refrigerator, which was really annoying. 

Next weekend we're off to Naples to eat a pizza and have our watches stolen. 

Summer lovin'

It's freezing. 

The cold is a brutal reminder that hot summer nights are now but a memory, and that it's going to be a painfully long year before I can once again bear witness to the beautiful image of my hunky Italian boyfriend showering in the open air: 

But if I allow myself to momentarily escape this chill that has deluged me, I can quite easily slip my chin into the crevice of my left palm and drool over what was really a beautiful summer.

It began when my longtime friend (who even after 15 years I still affectionately refer to as Eho) arrived with her husband Vince. We made a beeline for Liguria where we stripped down to our swimwear and willingly exposed our near naked bodies to nature and the public, swam through coves of the Italian Riviera, progressively melted into the patio chairs with each bottle of Prosecco rendered empty, noshed on cheeses, breads and salumi while waiting for the fish to grill, and generally speaking, laughed in quantities normally reserved only for the depraved. 

Here is a photo I took of them while Giulio supplied the bounce lighting:

Not long after Eho and Vince left, I hopped on a plane to Athens and off a ferry to Paros where I spent ten days with three Italian donne from Giulio's hometown. Two and a half years ago they affectionately took me under their wings as a matter of pietà when they realized how incompetent and desperately emotional I was. Our relationship is still pretty much the same:

But we managed to have some fun in between our swimwear catalogue photoshoots: 

fine dining experiences:

  appreciation of animals in their natural habitats: 

 making new friends:

and taking heaps of gorgeous selfies to document whats left of our fading youth:

After we returned, I had just over 24 hours of turnaround before Giulio and I boarded a plane to Sri Lanka. We flew Emirates which was such a sensational experience I could quite happily write a short story detailing the quality of the lamb dinner alone.

Sri Lanka is a perfect place for travel- lush, rich in culture and history, mountains to climb, temples to center yourself, empty beaches to relax, boatloads of weird animals to chase with your camera, exotic food to awaken your palate, and just the right blend of chaos to make you feel like you're having an adventure, while not too much to incite a temper tantrum. 

One such adventure fell halfway through our trip on the eve of the day we drove from Kandy (sea level) to the top of Nuwara Eliya (2000 meters), where we might as well have found ourselves at Base Camp in a tanktop. It was cold and rainy, but also humid, which you may or may not know is a really shitty combination. Nevertheless, our hostel appeared equipped with the right elements to shield us from the climate- hot tea, homemade curry, and a thick duvet. 

We made our way into town for a brief visit to the lone clothing store in search of anything warmer than the stupid cotton shorts we arrived in. The choices were limited- heinous for $6.00 or heinous for $8.00. But (as my (communist) mother always says) THIS WAS NOT A FASHION SHOW. 

Quite happy with ourselves for having chosen the cheaper option, we made our way back to the guesthouse. There, we spent the next 5 hours huddled in the warmest nook of the property, still freezing, and $12.00 more the poor: 

Eventually around midnight we decided to head back to our room for some sleep as we had booked a 5:30am pickup for a sunrise hike up Adam's peak. This is precisely when Giulio was plagued with the urgency to poop (an enterprise we anticipate whenever embarking on a journey to a place where vaccinations are required.)  Actually, we have come to view vomit and diarrhea as a tax to be paid whenever we travel, but had been feeling quite confident as it had been 7 days without even a glimmer of GI problems for either of us. 

Then I heard the echo disseminated by the frigid bathroom walls as Giulio dispassionately mumbled "oh shoot". 

"Are you okay babe?" I asked.

"Yea, but I just pooped blood."

Bene.

Well, there was really no need to exaggerate the circumstance because Giulio always comes prepared with an arsenal of broad spectrum antibiotics, injectable anti-emetics, anti-diarrheals, and so on. He immediately popped a quinolone in his mouth the way I would a tic-tac, and we crawled into bed. 

This is when I realized I was about to endure the worst night of my life. 

When we got underneath the duvet, we were overwhelmed by the stench of human bodies. The humidity had permeated the fabric of the sheets, leaving it not only wet and freezing, but smelling of a combination of unwashed gym clothes and unwashed human feet.  Not just this, but Giulio had to get up to poop every hour, making sleeping an unreasonable option.

At 4:59am (exactly one minute before my alarm was supposed to go off), I was awoken by the churning of my own gut, and I knew immediately it was my turn to pay the tax.  For the next 3 hours, I oscillated between trips to the toilet to vomit and poop, which was decorated by the frequency of Giulio's own bowel-related agenda. The situation was so miserable and the room so squalid that we could not help but laugh in between each of these alternating trips to the toilet. But I am proud to share that our mutual physiological catastrophe never collided with the other's- a fact I attest to the profound nature of our synchrony. 

The morning passed and we made our way back to lower ground. By late afternoon, we were recovered enough to go on a small hike that required us to walk along the train tracks for 90 minutes before reaching the trailhead. We were warned of leeches (which we perfectly managed to avoid) however not of the scattered areas of human fecal matter, which despite my relative agility, I was not able to avoid.  Stepping on a huge human turd struck me as an omen that had gotten stuck in celestial traffic.

Then we got lost. 

And then we got saved! by a farmer with three, maybe four teeth, I don't remember. He led us to Ella's Rock which moved us with a striking view and a vertical drop we didn't anticipate. It was green and misty and magical, and sufficed to compensate us for the overly harsh punishment we had received over the past 24 hours. Giulio took a photo:

Then we asked the four-toothed farmer to capture one of the two of us: 

(.. the results of which were quite disappointing).

As for the fun stuff, there was a tie.

One was the day we took a boat to a small private island where we conquered our fears and snorkeled with small sharks, jellyfish, and tropical fish over a shallow reef:

The other was when we went went to Rekawa beach in the middle of the night to watch a turtle lay and bury its eggs, and then return to the ocean. It was an emotional experience for both Giulio and I, but also yielded the most unfortunate photo of the trip:

Then we did a bunch of other stuff and then we came home, where we were welcomed by our normal lives and normal bowel movements, and bearing a repository of beautiful new memories. 

Thank you summer of 2013, you've been one of the best.  

I got 29 candles and my hair in a bun

There's nothing like realizing it's your last birthday of your 20's to potentially catapult yourself into an existential -thirdofyourlife- crisis. Next year will be the infamous (at least amongst my contemporaries) "dirty thirty"- an expression I reckon reflects a figurative dirty rather than a literal one (I myself have become more hygienic). It is my belief that the dirty prefix is intended to encapsulate what you look like to the public when you behave as you were 21 meanwhile assuming the body and face of someone with a decade to boot. 

But the marvelous thing about that extra decade is that you don't even care! In fact, I'm already planning my thirtieth birthday in Ibiza (wanna come?) and I expect it to be bigger and better than anything that could have ever gone down in my early 20's. Nevermind that my knees creak every time they hinge, that I can't (and WON'T) tolerate noise, and that one cocktail will punish me for the entire day that follows.  Just because I like to be in bed at a reasonable hour so I can have a productive early start to my next day does not mean I'm not entitled to have "fun" just like the rest of you riotous teenagers. I will make no apologies for undisciplined behavior. That's because in my opinion, breaking social rules is only poor form if you're breaking them ignorantly. If conversely, you're perfectly privy to social standards but opt to reject them anyway, then this may even deserve merit. It is my belief that it is actually this very fact that underscores the major difference between the 21 year-old and the 30 year-old gyrating on the table under the black light (well, that, and probably ≥ 10 pounds). 

I realize 29 appears to be dripping youth to those currently undergoing annual colonoscopies or getting excited about senior citizen discounts, but you too must remember that it's all a matter of perspective and that I am currently older than I've ever been in my life, ever!

As a child and a teenager I could only envision my parents' lives in the context of being a parent because that's the only way I'd ever known them (and because kids are self-centered like that). Now that I've reached the same age my parents were when they met, my life feels soberingly like it has really begun. I also see myself more holistically now that there exists a graspable continuity between my grandparents, parents, and myself (a sensation I anticipate will amplify if an extension of my genome ever passes by way of my vaginal canal). 

As I age, more than just the extent of my fine lines change. I now see a value in trying to reject cynicism rather than cultivate it (though I'm almost certain I'm not strong enough to succeed). I admire most those who are content and easily satisfied (though recognize this as a lofty ambition for someone such as myself who is IMPOSSIBLE to satisfy).  I also seek to be more like those who are always happy and good natured (and I think limiting my intake of films to those with exclusively happy endings will help facilitate this). 

For the first time ever, I had a dream last night I was pregnant. My belly was as big as a house and I could barely walk. It was such a vivid experience that I thought I might somehow be channeling my mother from 29 years ago. It served as a reminder that a birthday is really the time to forget about oneself in favor of celebrating one's parents- the people who birthed you, raised you, and/or along the way adopted you as one of their own. So that is precisely what I am going to do now- THANK YOU so much to those of you who are biologically obliged to tolerate me (I'm sure I seemed like a good idea before I actually existed), as well as those who have miraculously inexplicably VOLUNTEERED to tolerate me.  You amaze me, and you deserve the highest of accolades (at very least in the form of a life-sized gilded statue of yourself) for all the years you have devotedly wiped my butt and/or my tears. (Which reminds me, will I be seeing you for more of that next summer in Ibiza?) 

Happy birthday to you, parents. 

Food culture

Somewhere in Italy, on a muggy summer night, where food culture speaks for itself... 

The newest addition to our family

No, we're not pregnant...



and no, it's not a puppy.




...but the newest addition to our family is probably just as cute and doesn't even leave hot craps around the house!

The summer is an expensive time in Casa di Cavalli. We've got mandated vacation, each our own birthdays, the birthdays of most our closest pals, and our anniversary. It's the time of year that Giulio and I lay down stern ultimatums that strictly prohibit gifting of unnecessary and expensive material goods. But even so, each year we become progressively more disobedient.

Hence, the Latissima was born: 

Though she costs a small fortune and was born a bastard, she will make you an espresso, macchiato, cappuccino, or latte macchiato with milk frothed to perfection... unlike her ugly stepsister, the DIY Cappuccino. 

You know how new moms always talk about the new powerful love they experience when they have a child? The love that is unlike any love they've ever experienced and fills their lives with meaning and purpose? Well, that's exactly how I would describe the way our new Latissima makes me feel. And you know what else? I DO resist the urge to upload hundreds of photos and videos of our new cappuccino machine baby while it does the same cute milk frothy thing over and over and over and over and over and over again. 

But since this is my blog, I feel that I'm at liberty to let loose.

Baby can get dressed up in all different kinds of cute outfits!!!:

Here is baby getting ready to make cappuccino!!!!!!: 

Here is baby making a macchiato. Haha baby almost ran out of milk!

Here is baby adding the double shot to a latte macchiato. (So precocious!!!):

Baby looking larger than life (I never knew I could feel so much love):

And baby playing with her new friend! (awwwww!)

Our baby never lies, never cries, never screams, never steams. She gives me milk, and she even prevents headaches! We are very happy to welcome our new bimba to Milan, and to the entire social media world.