Between Italy and Germany is where you'll find me.

I added a new country to my list of ‘Countries Visited’ this weekend! I’m not positive it should count, but I take them how I can get them. On our way to Garmisch, Germany my co-workers and I drove through Austria – home to two Winter Olympics and, uh, Bruno?

The story of the 1976 Olympic Games is interesting. Innsbruck hosted the Games for the first time in 1964. The 1976 Olympics were awarded to Denver, Colorado, but the citizens voted to prohibit public funds from being used to support the event. Canada, the second choice, turned down the opportunity to host for similar reasons. Eventually, Innsbruck stepped in to save the day, agreeing to host The Winter Olympics for the second time in only 12 years.

Bruno is a less interesting story. Not nearly as funny as Borat and even more tasteless than Ali G.

Garmisch was beautiful! Much to my dismay, we didn’t get any snow until this morning, when it was time to leave. And, all weekend, the surrounding alps (including the nearby Zugspitze, the highest mountain peak in Germany) stayed hidden behind a curtain of clouds. I’ve been to the area twice now and have yet to spot the surrounding mountains. I’ll be back in April for our Adult Learning Conference and hope to finally see the view that I've to date only spotted splashed on all the postcards.

Being in the mountains has inspired me to try out Winter sports again. For those of you that didn’t know me during my adolescence, I quickly decided skiing was not for me after an ill-fated Girl Scout trip to Sugar Mountain. I spent an hour crossing my skis and falling in ways my body was not meant to bend before I hung up my poles, called it a day and settled in front of the lodge’s fireplace. I have been snow shoeing a few times since and enjoyed that experience. As a result, I think I am now ready to try out snow boarding. I was hoping to get a lesson or two in this weekend, but we stayed too busy with our Conference. (Well, that and I opted to spend what little free time I did have in the hot tub and at the spa.) There are slopes nearby in Italy, so who knows? I may just learn to snow board this Winter. Or, maybe I’ll just renew my love for the cozy lodge fireplace…

I can’t remember all the times I tried to tell myself to hold on to these moments as they pass.

Well, I’ve managed to quietly slip in to the new year since the last update. I have a few stories from New Year’s Eve to share and a resolution to make public knowledge. (I have a few resolutions that are staying private, as well.) This means that you’re all welcome to remind me of my elaborate promise to make this new year better than the last come summer time, when I’m melting away in Italy and more importantly, we’re half way to 2011.

I celebrated the last day of 2009 in the traditional sense, as the clock struck midnight on December 31st, with friends from Camp Darby. However, my friends and family in the States wouldn’t celebrate the occasion for another 6 hours. And that was if they lived on the East Coast. I remember watching other countries ring in their new years when I was younger. Australia always came first, then somewhere in Europe, usually Paris, with the Eiffel Tower lit up. I always thought the time difference and staggered countdowns were weird. This year, I was that oddity. An hour after I started my 2010, Alison was just beginning to primp for her big countdown to midnight in New York.

It was a rainy night in Italy on the 31st and I was happy to be nestled in Erica’s apartment for most of the night, with an amazing balcony over looking the Michael Jackson cover band and the rough Ligurian Sea. When midnight hit and the fireworks illuminated the waves crashing against the pier, it was almost too beautiful to bear. Then, I glanced down at the Italians, triple parked along Via Italia and shooting fire works at each other and reality kept me from floating away completely. I brought in the new decade with a champagne toast and my new friends, excited to see what 2010 holds for all of us.

Fireworks over Livorno.

Yes, that is beer pong. Yes, it was that kind of party.

So now, for the resolution… Some years I have actually sat down and made a list. Sometimes I share the list and sometimes I keep it to myself. Other years, midnight comes and goes without any attempt at resolutions on my part. It’s all very hit or miss. This year, I have only come up with one goal, but I think it’s a good one – I just want to find happiness, laughter and beauty wherever in the world I might be. And of course, chronicle all the adventures for you here.

I’ll have a lot to tell over the next few months. This weekend brings a trip to Garmisch for a Girl Scout conference and later in January, I’ll be taking off for a girls’ (plus Vince) weekend in Sicily. Alison is coming to visit!!! I need to buy bedroom furniture in Aviano and figure out how to piece together the new desk and bookshelf I bought this week at Ikea. And that’s just the big stuff! There’s still the adventures of everyday driving with (or, should I say in fear of) Italians, grocery shopping in the local markets, understanding radiators and gas water heaters, practicing the language, visits with my landlady… Maybe my resolution should instead be to figure out how I’m going to squeeze everything I want to see and do in to twelve short months. I'm sure I'll manage -- don't worry too much about me.

For now, I wish you all happiness, laughter and beauty in the new year!

Lufthansa Flight or Melting Pot?

It never ceases to amaze me how different people can be from one country to the next. I’ve never been one to generalize or stereotype buuuuut, in general, every country I have visited over the last few months has a pretty distinct personality. On my flight home from the States (I went home for 2 ½ weeks at Thanksgiving) this week, I looked around and realized we had a small cross section of the Western Hemisphere on my plane…

Exhibit A, in the seat next to me – Germany

A polite but quiet young man sits down in the middle seat of a 3-seat row and immediately buckles up. The plane isn’t full, and there is an empty seat on the other end of our row. As the plane taxies and takes off, I figure he will move to the vacant seat, leaving the middle seat empty and giving us both some breathing room. Nope. He isn’t budging. So, I ask him if he would perhaps consider moving over one seat. Naturally, I explain, we can then both stretch out and be comfortable for the 9-hour flight looming ahead of us. Do you think he moves? Remember, he’s German… His response, complete with a thoroughly confused facial expression, “But, this is my assigned seat.” Of course it is! Had he not then proceeded to dump his oily, Italian salad dressing down my leg during dinner, I might have just written the whole thing off. However, now reeking of anchovies, I’m actually wishing him bodily harm. Or, at least a few good Charlie horses and awful muscle cramps as a result of sitting bunched up next to me for so long.

Exhibit B, in the aisles, loitering by the bathroom, pulling things out of the overhead bins onto other passengers’ heads … In general, everywhere but in their seats! – Italy

Ah, the Italians! God love them, just never stick me on a plane full of them. As we board the plane, I notice an older couple seated in front of me. Their daughter is standing in the aisle (blocking the passage for everyone trying to elbow their way to seats behind her) “translating” for her parents. Her words, not mine. What she is translating, I’ll never know, since there are no PA announcements at the time and not a single flight attendant in sight. The plane takes off (the German is still glued to my side, however has not yet dumped anything down my leg) and up pops the daughter again, making her way from the back row of the plane to her parents. She starts “translating” loudly again – at least this time, we’re in the middle of the safety announcement, so there is actually something to “translate.” I bury my nose in a book and practice deep breathing in an attempt to block it all out.

Exhibit C, smoking in the lavatory - France

Smoking in the lavatory. It's a federal offense in the United States, the country of origin for our flight. Not to mention, it carries heavy fines in Europe and causes cancer (FYI). When I think of the tiny, cramped, 2 foot by 2 foot box airlines call a lavatory, the last thing I have the urge to do is smoke. I can barely stand to be in there long enough to take care of business, much less enjoy an entire cigarette. But, the French woman risking being labeled a felon the rest of her life and the 800-euro fine? Apparently, she can't pass up the chance to light up.

Exhibit D, Screaming at her children in an outside voice despite being on an airplane, and yanking them around hard enough to dislocate an elbow – America

Since I am equal opportunity with my stereotypes, I can’t leave out the ugly American. I hear her coming minutes before I see her round the corner. With 3 children in tow, each struggling to roll Hannah Montana and Handy Manny miniature suitcases behind them, she is loud and proud. I do a double take and realize she’s actually wearing a T-shirt that reads, “Made in America.” I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried, folks.

For the entire flight, the children squeal, the American woman yells at them to ‘cut it out’ and the Italians chatter louder to make sure they’re heard over the din. There are, however, no more smoking-in-the-lavatory incidents. But, don't forget the German, in my lap from one side of the Atlantic to the other.

Don't Bring Me Down

I try not to complain. Especially here, in such a public forum. After all, “I am in Italy!” I have this super job. I travel all over Europe. In just 7 months I’ve already made so many great friends. I live virtually expense free… But, some days are just hard. Today, was one of those days. After falling ill with the flu, I postponed my last trip for the Fall – pushing my flight to Munich from Friday at 6am to this afternoon. And all for only $602! It’s no wonder the airline industry is so hated. If I was a lesser person, I would have just flown on Friday and been sure to cough my flu germs on every airline employee I came in to contact with, but I digress.

After spending Halloween, one of my favorite holidays, in my house all by myself, I took off for Munich this morning. Upon landing, I would leisurely make my way to Heidelberg, ambling through the German countryside, more than proficient with a stick shift now. I felt like I was off to a fresh start, wandering through the airport (Munich airport is pretty cool and I was impressed) when I spotted the Hertz counter. The woman behind the counter easily found my reservation and collected the necessary info from me. Passport number? Check! Driver’s license? Check! Credit card? Che - - ohshit! Declined. Accept a debit card? No? What about cash? Of course not. How about my first born? Will you at least let me use your German phone to call Wachovia long distance and figure out why in the world my credit card was declined.

Since Wells Fargo took over Wachovia it seems as though the phone call I made in April, before I moved, alerting the company that I would be travelling throughout Europe, was just forgotten in the merger. Seeing as how I’ve used my card in cities from Lajes to London over the last couple months, they flagged the card for suspicious activity and placed a “courtesy” hold. Anything but courteous as it hit me that I was completely stranded.

I discovered today that one of the worst feelings in the world is being stuck in a country where you don’t speak the language. The ending to this story is obviously a happy one since I’m here, writing this in Heidelberg, but for a few moments today, I felt so helpless and so alone. It was a crushing feeling (or maybe that’s just the chest congestion that settled in last week courtesy of the flu) I’d do anything to avoid in the future.

For those of you on the edge of your seat, wondering how your beloved heroine got herself out of this jam… I took the train. Tomorrow, I’ll attempt to rent a car on base and hopefully, life will return to its regularly scheduled programming.


“Don't compare your life to others. You have no idea what their journey is all about.”

- Regina Brett

***Editor's Note***

I feel the need to make an amendment on my previous story about the hold on my Wachovia credit card... When I was home for Thanksgiving, about half way through my visit, I tried to use my card at a restaurant in Boone. The waitress returned to my table to tell me the card was declined. I immediately blamed it on another hold on my account and gave her my debit card instead. I actually forgot to follow up on the whole thing until this afternoon when I got a letter from Wachovia.

According to the letter, "This credit card has been temporarily restricted to help you avoid the inconvenience that unauthorized use of your credit card could cause."

I called Wachovia this afternoon (Dec. 14, 2009), ready to bless them out for yet another unnecessary hold. Boy, was I surprised when they asked me if I'd spent any time in Illinois or Kansas lately. In particular, if I had attempted to make a purchase at the Wal-Mart or PayLess Shoe Store in Topeka. Nope! I kept all movement within North Carolina while home for Thanksgiving, annnnd I wouldn't be caught dead wearing PayLess shoes in Italy. (For those of you that don't know me, this is pure sarcasm at its best. I am a shoe whore, but not a shoe snob.)

Anyways, the card has been cancelled and evil doers thwarted in their effort to steal my money. Take that, Identity Thieves! And, most importantly, I've now learned the importance of credit card companies' courtesy holds. I can admit when I'm wrong and apologize with the best of them. So, I'm sorry Wachovia and Wells Fargo for yelling at you and publicly ridiculing you in my oh-so-popular blog.

Where do I start?

I’ve been so negligent in updating lately that I’m now at a loss for where to pick up… In the last couple months I’ve been to the Dolomites in Italy, Brussels, Germany, Portugal and right now, I’m finishing up the last few days of a 2 week trip to the UK. How about a few highlights from each?

Let’s start in the Dolomites. Paige came to visit the first week in September and we drove (against my car’s will) to the Dolomites where the weather was cool and the views were amazing. After melting all summer in Pisa, it was a welcome change to see my breath in the morning and bundle up in fleece.


The same morning I dropped Paige off at the airport, I took off for an overnight in Brussels with Amber and Rachel. Time has not changed Belgium – it was exactly as I remembered it from my time there 6 years ago. While there, we wandered through the Gran Place, ate too many waffles and drank too much Belgian beer, explored Parc du Cinquantenaire (site of the infamous drive-in movie where I first met James) and had lunch with Rick, my old boss at the Wall Street Journal. Wandering around Brussels, I remembered why I love Europe so much. Every country has such a unique feel here, it’s like entering another world when you cross the border. Italy is nothing like Belgium which is nothing like Spain which is nothing like Germany…


After a fun weekend in Belgium, it was time to start my site visits. Germany was first, with stops in Schweinfurt, Grafenwoehr, Hohenfels, Ansbach and Illesheim. While all the visits went really well, I think the most important thing worth mentioning (again) was my trek across Germany in a manual car! For those of you that have been following the stick shift saga, this was a momentous accomplishment for me, and to say I’m very proud would be an understatement.

I only had a couple days back in Italy after my site visits in Germany. Just enough time to wash a few loads of laundry and repack my bags before taking off to Portugal. My first stop was Lisbon where we recruited 6 girls and 3 adult volunteers! An impressive accomplishment considering there were no Girl Scouts in Lisbon for the last 2 years. Between all our recruiting, Paige was kind enough to take me sightseeing in Lisbon.


After Lisbon, I took off for Lajes Air Force Base on Terceira, one of nine islands in the Azores. The two and a half hour flight took me to the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. We landed first and rather unexpectedly on Pico before continuing on to Terceira. While I enjoyed my time on the island and can’t wait to get back for another visit, I can see how an assignment on the 11-mile by 13-mile island could be tedious. It's a tiny island with only a handful of restaurants and shops, unpredictable weather and frequent cow jams.


I was excited to have an entire weekend back in Italy between trips to Portugal and the UK. Before leaving Lajes, I did all my laundry in billeting. It’s nice to take advantage of the American style dryers (as opposed to the awful European condenser unit I have at home) and to come home with almost no dirty clothes. With so much time on my hands, I cleaned my house, watched two movies at Darby, had dinner with friends and played what seems like a hundred games of Bingo. Before I knew it, my weekend was over and it was time to take off for the UK.

I started my UK site visits in London, commuting in to Hillingdon each morning. And, as a result, realized a commuting lifestyle is not for me! It was rainy and cold outside, the underground was crowded and hot and I ultimately arrived 30 minutes late because I missed my train by 1 minute. After two nights in London, I packed up and headed out to Alconbury then Harrogate then Croughton and now, here I sit in Anglia. I feel like I've been in the UK for months, largely in part because each site is so different. This visit has seen me in a hostel (Pax Lodge), billeting, a volunteer's home and a typical British Bed and Breakfast; working in a Committee with 15 girls one day and 150 girls the next; freezing cold weather in the North and mild temperatures in the South. My volunteers have been incredibly gracious and welcoming, taking me shopping and to sites like the one below (Fountains Abbey) between Commander briefings and Leader meetings. When it's all said and done, the UK is probably my favorite place to visit so far. It certainly helps that I speak the language, but I'm also a big fan of the pubs (Strongbow!), the people, the beautiful country side, the history, the trains, the tea...



On Tuesday, I’ll head back to Italy for two days before I take off on my last Fall site visit. I’ll spend 2 more weeks in Germany, visiting all the areas I didn’t make it to in September. I’m looking forward to having a car again (I rely on planes, trains and my wonderful volunteers’ automobiles in Portugal and the UK), even if it is a stick shift.

After this last site visit of the season, it will only be a matter of days before I take off again… This time, I’m headed to Charlotte for a much needed vacation/visit home/hug/Black Friday shopping/doctors’ appointments/reunion with friends/Panthers game/Thanksgiving extravaganza!

How did this happen?

Have you ever stopped and asked yourself, “How did I get here?”

As I drove across Germany this afternoon I asked myself that very question over and over again. When I looked around the country side and thought about the history lurking in the hills – How did I get here? When I stalled my rental car twice trying to go up a mini-mountain thanks to my cracker jack GPS that routed me around traffic but through every tiny town in Germany – How did I get here? When I stopped at a German gas station to get something to eat, expecting to find schnitzel and beer, but instead found myself faced with a Burger King – How did I get here? When all the next stop offered was a McDonalds – How did I get here? As I paid 50-Euro cents to use the toilet and then marveled as the seat automatically rotated and sanitized itself – How did I get here?

A year ago, I was just settling in to teacher shopping at Classroom Central. All of the School Tools sorting was almost done and Educate Your Palate was right around the corner.

Two years ago, I would have told you I was never going to leave Charlotte, happy as could be with my work at Girl Scouts, Hornets’ Nest Council. Not even stressing about the infamous Thin Mint Sprint yet.

And now, here I am, sitting in a hotel room in Schweinfurt… My left leg a little wobbly from riding the clutch across Germany for the last 5 hours. Fresh off a weekend trip to Brussels with two girls I met just 6 months ago, but whom I’m convinced will be friends for life. And before that, an adventure in the awe-inspiring Dolomites with Paige, my oldest friend. I’ll chronicle those escapades in the next few days, but for now, I’m content to just marvel at my luck.

How did it happen? How did I get here?

Il Palio di Siena

It all started out as an ordinary day, much like any other Sunday, but ended like this:



Let’s start from the beginning, shall we? After a fun Saturday evening, celebrating a friend’s Birthday at his orto, I seized the chance to sleep in on Sunday. When I finally got around to rolling out of bed at 11:00am, I checked the train schedule and settled on the 12:45pm train. I would leave from Pontedera and change in Empoli before heading on to my final destination –Il Palio in Siena!

Having just recently finished reading Too Much Tuscan Sun by Dario Castagno, I was vaguely familiar with the concept of Il Palio, a horse race held twice each year on July 2 and August 16 in Siena. Seventeen Contrada (neighborhoods/regions), each identified by bizarre mascots such as Bruco (caterpillar), Giraffa (giraffe) and Istrice (porcupine), all hope to earn one of ten spots in the race where they compete for Il Palio flag. While the flag is the tangible reward, from what I witnessed, bragging rights are the more coveted prize.

I made it in to Siena without any trouble. From what I read online, more than 75,000 people flock to the city for this annual event. I was expecting a crowded train ride, but I easily found a seat and read my latest pink cover, summer book the entire ride. Even after I got off the train and made my way to a bus that took me to the city center, I still found myself wondering where everyone was… It didn’t take me long to hear some commotion in the distance though. Following Rick Steve’s instructions, I headed towards the medieval drumming.

As I got closer to the Duomo, I saw more flags representing various Contrada. As I was minding my own business, admiring a small square tucked out of the way, a procession of Civetta (little owl) flag bearers and supporters paraded in. I lucked out with a prime, front row spot for the display and watched the Civetta toss their flags in to the air and listened to them chant their team song. As it turns out, the Civetta horse and jockey would go on to win the race later that evening! I was in the midst of celebrity and didn’t even realize it.



I followed the Civetta crowd the rest of the way to the Duomo where I met up with a group of friends from Camp Darby. Thank goodness for the one guy in the group who had the foresight to wear a red and white striped shirt. He stood out in the crowd of thousands and it literally became a game of Where’s Waldo?

We spent a long time in front of the Duomo watching the pageant, each team processing in to the square, banging drums and hurling their Contrada flags as high in the air as is humanly possible. After each team had their turn, the group of already sweaty Americans made our way towards Il Campo, the square where the race is held. Internet reports vary, but I’ve read anywhere from 15,000 to 75,000 people cram in to Il Campo every year to witness the 90 second race. We staked out our spots by the start/finish line around 4:30pm, and by the time the square was sealed off (the race track encircles the square – after 5:30pm, no one can come or go as you would have to traipse across the track) it certainly felt like I was surrounded by 75,000 people.

With almost 2 hours to kill before the start of the race, we each grabbed a piece of newspaper from the ground and settled in for the wait. The longer we waited, the more crowded it got. The more crowded it got, the warmer it got. The warmer it got, the smellier some of the spectators got… Ew! Our neighbors had the right idea and packed Connect Four. They entertained themselves with the game until things started to pick up around 7:00pm.



At 7:00pm on the dot (impressive for anything in Italy to start on time!) a big cart, pulled by two ox, entered the square and made its way around the track, displaying the Il Palio flag that would soon belong to the victors. Shortly thereafter, the horses and their riders entered the square and the announcer drew their positions. I’m still a little fuzzy on the details, but the way I understand the rules are this: each horse lines up in order, from first to last. The last horse hangs in the back, while the other horses all vie for a spot in the front. In order to get in these positions, the horses’ riders are not above punching, kicking, screaming and spitting at their opponents. Especially if said opponent is from an enemy Contrada. Any time a horse other than the very last horse in the back crosses the start line, it is considered a false start and everyone has to line up again. Thus, more kicking, hitting, yelling, etc. ensues. It took an hour and a half for the 90 second race to begin. Let me repeat that for those of you who might just be glazing over my story at this point…

IT TOOK AN HOUR AND A HALF. WE HAD ALREADY BEEN STANDING IN THE SQUARE FOR 3 HOURS. ALL FOR A 90 SECOND RACE.

All the while, the crowd is taunting their enemy Contrada, yelling out abuses such as, “You stupid Giraffe! You ruined the start.” Or, “Drop out now you horrible Snail. The Goose will never let you win!” During the race, two jockeys were thrown from their horses at particularly treacherous turns in the Piazza. The horses finished the race without their riders, not an uncommon occurrence. In fact, the passionate Italian gentleman (his Contrada was not even racing, he was just there to make sure his enemy, the Leocorno [unicorn] did not win) behind us, informed me that several years ago, the winning horse did so after he bucked his rider off during the first lap around the track.

Once the race began, it was over in a flash and the Civetta was victorious. Spectators rushed the track, screaming and yelling. My group, on the other hand, ran as far away from the piazza as possible, as quickly as possible, but not before getting caught up in the celebration and squished against the race track fence first.

The Civetta celebration continued in the streets for the victors as they paraded their prize, Il Palio flag down the winding roads of Siena, but even more intriguing was the reaction of the losers. Grown men sobbed and wept. For me, Il Palio was an exciting way to spend a Sunday afternoon/evening, but for the Italian locals in the audience, I realized Il Palio is an event rooted in rich traditions and deep history. The race itself dates back to the 16th Century. After experiencing the energy and electricity in the piazza, I can tell why it would be so easy to get so caught up in the results of the amazing Il Palio.

Next year, I’m rooting for Capitana dell’ Onda, not because of any real allegiance to the neighborhood, but because I think their flag is super cute!