My posts are completely out of order at this point. Here are the places I’ve visited in order: Reykjavik, Oslo, Stockholm, Copenhagen, Istanbul, Athens, Barcelona, Vienna, Salzburg, Munich, Interlaken, Bern, Milan, Venice, Florence, Siena, Rome, Privas, Paris, London, Edinburgh, Amsterdam, Dublin, Killarney, Galway, London and back to Reykjavik. (Bonus: New York City!)

I did not see this painting. I do not care.

People warned me about it. They said it was a pitfall of traveling so long. Culture-it-is. When you simply can’t stand to see another painting, courtyard or cathedral.

I swore I wouldn’t get it. I thought those who got it had less cultural stamina. I mean, I was a card carrying member of the Denver Art Museum. I dedicated my entire month of August to culture. I may be the least outdoorsy person in the entire state of Colorado, but my culture stamina is equivalent to a triathlete.

But by the time Munich rolls around, I don’t want to see a painting. Any kind. I don’t care how famous the painting is. I totally skipped Gustav Klimt’s The Kiss in Vienna. I even skip Neuschwanstein Castle in Munich. Meh.

My first part of the trip was very planned out. I knew the top sights. And I saw them. By the time

I would use this car to pick up men. Bond Boys, specifically.

Munich rolls around, I have thrown out my guidebook because it was dead weight. By Munich, I have mastered a better technique. I find someone with an agenda and let them stress the details.

After a walking tour, I end up tacking onto an Australian named Manning to the BMW Museum. And with two Koreans with the best names of all time – Commodore and Henne. I may just change my name to Commodore. Commodore Elinor Ellis.

I like cars. I’ve seen Fast & The Furious 1, 2 and 3. I still one day would like to own Dylan McKay’s 1961 Porsche 356 Speedster. But I drive a Civic that I couldn’t care less about. In fact, my sister calls it “the Terminator” because every time she sees me it is missing a piece.

So I’m surprised with what total abandon I love a museum dedicated to cars that I would probably destroy with my indelicate driving hands. It was honestly one of my favorite days in Europe. Context is everything in travel. I would recommend the BMW Museum to anyone who visits Munich. But if I wasn’t suffering from an extreme case of Culture-it-is while in the company of three really fun guys, I doubt it would have been such an adventure.

I also had one of the worst colds of my life but am presented with the modern-day miracle that is the German pharmacy. I tell them I have a cold, and they hand me a box. With all instructions and ingredients in Germany. It is really scary to not know that. I mean really, you have no idea if you can drink or not in one of the European capitals of beer. But I handed it to an Australian and medical school, and he gave me the medical go-ahead. This despite German cold medicine being chock full of Codeine.

The best part of Munich is that a central part of this city is bratwursts and beer. It’s like my two favorite components of sporting events, but I don’t even have to watch any sports to get them. Munich is a miraculous city. Beer, Brats and BMWs.

My posts are completely out of order at this point. Here are the places I’ve visited in order: Reykjavik, Oslo, Stockholm, Copenhagen, Istanbul, Athens, Barcelona, Vienna, Salzburg, Munich, Interlaken, Bern, Milan, Venice, Florence, Siena, Rome, Privas, Paris, London, Edinburgh, Amsterdam, Dublin, Killarney, Galway, London and back to Reykjavik. (Bonus: New York City!)

The City character: Olivia Palermo

As I mentioned earlier on my blog, I was dying to attend a fashion show while in New York as one of my life list items. But it looked like it wasn’t going to happen. Then I got the best news of my life. I mean even better news than the time I won a case of Kraft Macaroni & Cheese in college. I was going to attend the Marc by Marc Jacobs fashion show! Sure, it’s unfortunate that my life has peaked at this stage in life, but what can you do?

Foursquare was running a promotion with Marc Jacobs. Those who friended Marc Jacobs on Foursquare received the fashion victim badge, and four were selected to attend the show. God Bless the people at Foursquare and Marc Jacobs because it really was one of the coolest experiences of my life.

The front row of the show was the Vogue masthead brought to life. Carine Roitfeld, Hamish Bowles and Grace Coddington. Grace Coddington!!! As I’ve written previously, she is the Gold Medal winner of Vogue editors. Afterwards, I walked by her, and she gave me a once over with a clear look of disdain. I am not a squeeing person, but even her cold look of acknowledgment was a highlight. I dress like I fell into the Gap, and my outfit was chosen from backpacking clothes. (Hint: It wasn’t pretty)

Models Are Fast!

I was surprised at how fast the show moved. Then again, as tall as those models are, it is not surprising they walked at a fast clip. It is good to know if modeling doesn’t work out for them, they have a Plan B with speed walking. I felt I could barely take it all in. Carine Roitfeld’s eyebrows, the clothes, Karlie Kloss, the 2,336 photographers, Marc Jacobs at the end of the show. Ruby Aldridge opened the show, which is a big deal for a model. Like getting to carry the torch into the stadium for the opening ceremony. (But this time Canada isn’t there to ruin the show.) I think I learned more about fashion in one hour than I have in my previous life on the planet.

I was in adoration with Foursquare before, but now I am completely in love. Thanks for helping me cross of at item off my life’s to-do list.

(You can check out pictures and a review of the clothes on Style.com.)

My posts are completely out of order at this point. Here are the places I’ve visited in order: Reykjavik, Oslo, Stockholm, Copenhagen, Istanbul, Athens, Barcelona, Vienna, Salzburg, Munich, Interlaken, Bern , Milan, Venice, Florence, Siena, Rome, Privas, Paris, London, Edinburgh, Amsterdam, Dublin, Killarney, Galway, London and back to Reykjavik.

My friend Lauren was leaving for Paris as I was arriving, so we were ships passing in the night. So I

Singing in the Subway

spent my limited time in London doing some of the touristy spots and heading back to the wonder that is the Borough Market. Seriously, if you go to London and skip this, you are missing one of the best food markets I’ve ever seen. I repeated my visit this time as my mouth watered from memories of a farm-to-plate hamburger with veined blue cheese, burnt sugar fudge and organic pear cider with nutmeg and cinnamon spices.

Marie Claire

While on the subway, post fashion exhibition at Albert & Victoria museum and pre-Twinings tea shop visit, the subway was flooded with people in costume. I happened to be on the subway for Waitangi Day, which is essentially New Zealand day. If you were wondering how Kiwis celebrate this day, and were hypothesizing that it involved a pub crawl on the Metro, wearing costumes, drinking inordinate amounts of alcohol and ultimately gathering on Parliament Square to chant, you would be right.

I was asking one girl what was going on, and she invited me to come with her and her friends. Pre-trip, I would have politely declined. But really in life, if your entire subway car is singing along, then why not join in? If a native Londoner is willing to let you tag along, then join. Plus, as my Kiwi friend Jonathan points out, try to cram in as much living as possible.

So I embarked on a mini adventure with Marie Claire. Everyone seemed to be in costume but me. But! I’m the type of women who carries around a sheep around in her handbag, and was thus prepared for such an occasion.

Seamus, my spare sheep. You should see what else is in my purse.

I pointed out that one of Marie’s friends was not wearing a costume, and asked what kind of Kiwi didn’t show his pride by wearing a costume. He retorted by asking me what kind of American was I, not taking over anyone’s country. Well played, Kiwi. Well played.

A short adventure with new friends. Life is pretty awesome if you let it be.

Important Side Note: My friend Eric mentioned to me that I forgot to mention in my last London post that not only was Blonde Jackie part of my college trip, but Eric, Adam, Brown Jackie and Ryan were part of the madness that was the week in London. Plus, we were visiting the incredible peeps that are Keith, John and Jeanna. Speaking of Ryan, I recently saw his wedding announcement made The New York Times. Congrats!

My posts are completely out of order at this point. Here are the places I’ve visited in order: Reykjavik, Oslo, Stockholm, Copenhagen, Istanbul, Athens, Barcelona, Vienna, Salzburg, Munich, Interlaken, Bern, Milan, Venice, Florence, Siena, Rome, Privas, Paris, London, Edinburgh, Amsterdam, Dublin, Killarney, Galway, London and back to Reykjavik.

My first and foremost memory of Rome will be the fact that I was flashed. For the third time in my life. As my friend Christina told me, “If I had a nickel for every time you were flashed, I could afford to replace your stolen wallet.” Or as my friend Kristy asked, “What is it about you that make men want to flash you?” But we’ll save that special kind of analysis for another blog post. Let’s make this blog post about my bike tour.

I really wanted to rent a bike to see one of the cities I was visiting, and figured Rome was as good as any. So I signed up for the “Unseen Sights” of Rome bike tour. After four hours on a bike, I now know why they’re unseen. Those seven hills are mighty and fierce on a bike. If I were ever trying to conquer Rome, I’d quickly back down after facing those hills. I’d revise my strategy for a flat city. Like Florence. Thankfully, my lot in life is to be a tourist and not a gladiator.

I ended up being the sole participant in my bike tour. When the other participants noticed it was pouring rain, they used good sense and decided to stay home. What I lack in good sense, I make up in this new found love of adventure. Plus, I read in the brochure that they had rain gear. And rain gear they had. Bright (and I mean bright) yellow track pants and jacket. I looked like an escaped convict. Or a member of the fanny pack brigade. I’d rather look like the former. West Side for life.

The brochure also promised that there would be helmets. There were none to be found. I say this without hesitation or jest that darting around a bike in Rome traffic without a helmet was far more dangerous than hang gliding in Bern.

Afterward, my tour guide asked me for drinks. But at that point, I was ready to crumble. They say riding a bicycle is a skill you never forget. “They” have never met me. A six-year hiatus from riding a bike did me in. But in all honesty, a bike is one of the best ways to see a city, and I ended up renting bikes in Dublin, Amsterdam and Reykjavik as well.

A picture is worth a thousand words. I could have spared you this blog post with the picture after the jump, but I’m a blogger. And bloggers like to hear themselves write.

I can't believe I'm actually putting this picture on the Internet

My posts are completely out of order at this point. Here are the places I’ve visited in order: Reykjavik, Oslo, Stockholm, Copenhagen, Istanbul, Athens, Barcelona, Vienna, Salzburg, Munich, Interlaken, Bern, Milan, Venice, Florence, Siena, Rome, Privas, Paris, London, Edinburgh, Amsterdam, Dublin, Killarney, Galway, London and back to Reykjavik.

Ireland was getting lonely. At my first hostel in Dublin, I was thrilled that they didn’t put anyone else in my room. After three months of living in the equivalent of a college dormitory with complete strangers literally sleeping on top of you in a bunk bed, getting a room to yourself is the equivalent of winning the hostel lottery. Don’t mind me why I spread my stuff from corner to corner, play my music loudly, take long showers and have dance parties.

Then they put me in a room to myself in Killarney.

And then they put me in a room to myself in Galway.

It’s like when your college sibling moves to college, and you actually start missing them. I’m even nostalgic for the five men I lived with in Amsterdam who in between getting stoned, crunching on chips and watching episodes of South Park decided that rather than using a key would just bang on the door through out the night hoping that their stoned friend would rise from his drug-induced stupor to get the door. (He never did. But I did. On multiple occassions.)

Never to fear for anyone worrying that I haven’t made new friends in Ireland as I have perfected a certain art – being a third wheel. This skill comes in handy as the main way I am seeing Ireland is on bus tours with the fanny-pack brigade. This is the absolute worst way to see Ireland. People who really want to see Ireland should rent a car and drive along the coast and avoid bus tours as they would visiting their mother-in-law or the bubonic plague.

However, I can’t drive since not only are my driving skills lacking, but there also is the fact that someone in Firenze is now in possession of my driver’s license. A hundred thousand curses on you, purse thief!

Once I’ve narrowed it down to which couple I’d like to spend the day with, I usually strike with a line. “Here, let me take a picture of the two of you together!” The art to becoming someone’s third wheel is to seem helpful. Now I would normally seek out fellow backpackers to hang out with, but there are none to be found. I suspect they’re hitch hiking or getting drunk with the locals in traditional pubs. Or in Paris on a pub crawl. But they’re certainly not on bus tours in Ireland.

To be a third wheel, it’s also important for you to keep certain thoughts to yourself. Like perhaps, if you think someone from Minnesota is wearing the bus driver’s hat, you shouldn’t ask him why he is wearing the bus driver’s hat. Perhaps, it might actually be that he likes wearing chauffer-style hats and just happens to be sitting behind the bus driver. And he might be insulted that you’re insituating he is dressing as a bus driver would.

But most likely, before you’ll know it, it will seem like you’ve always been their third wheel. You’ll be teasing Claire about her photo montage. Or lamenting with Steve on why Americans only get two weeks of vacation a year. And before you know it, you won’t just be taking the photos, you’ll be in the photos. “Honey, go and take a picture with our new friend from Colorado!”

Fast forward a month from now, I suspect I’ll have a starring role in their slideshow on Facebook as “Ellen” or perhaps “Emily.”

It’s a special kind of friendship. The kind that lasts exactly between the tour times of 9 am to 5 pm. No more, no less.

Oh, and happy birthday to my new friend Christoper. Or Kevin. Or whatever it was. I hope you and what’s-her-face really make a good day of it!

My posts are completely out of order at this point. Here are the places I’ve visited in order: Reykjavik, Oslo, Stockholm, Copenhagen, Istanbul, Athens, Barcelona, Vienna, Salzburg, Munich, Interlaken, Bern, Milan, Venice, Florence, Siena, Rome, Privas, Paris, London, Edinburgh, Amsterdam and Dublin.

I wasn’t even going to go to Amsterdam. On the hostel circuit, you mainly hear about Amsterdam for one activity, and it’s not the bike riding. It’s just not my thing. But I met enough people who convince me that Amsterdam is beautiful, and you don’t have to smoke to enjoy it.

When hostel living, breakfast is a clutch time to make new friends and find people to hang out with. Breakfast always has a similar conversation consisting of several standard questions:

• Where are you from?
• How long have you been here?
• What have you seen so far?
• What are you going to do today?

In Amsterdam, the questions remain the same. But the answers are a wee bit different.

“So what are you going to do today?,” the adorable-but-scruffy Australian asks.

“I’m going to the Van Gogh museum, the Anne Frank house and maybe for a bike ride if there is time!” I respond in my excited “Let’s Go Elaine” tourist voice. “What are you doing?”

“Well we’re thinking of hitting up the Marijuana Museum today. I hear you can take a hit off a giant bong!”

“ummm…Oh, well…UMMMM…that sounds lovely!”

“Have you been to the Sex Museum yet?”

“Ummmm…no, not yet! But it’s on the list!” (It wasn’t, but I had no idea how to hold my end of this conversation.)

“It was awful. We paid 7 Euros, and there was nothing to see! Total rip-off.”

“That’s because the Erotica Museum is the better museum, and it’s only 3 Euros,” an English girl jumps in.

Yes, that really was the exact conversation. They debate the merits of the Sex Museum versus the Erotica Museum while I finish my toast quietly. Frankly, I bet the Marijuana Museum would be hilarious with friends. But at this point at the trip, I just didn’t want to try and pretend to muster the enthusiasm up for a museum I didn’t have any aching desire to see. I wrote Amsterdam off for meeting new people.

Which is why meeting Sid made the Heineken “experience” actually worth experiencing. One of the highlights of backpacking is that you can meet people in happenstance situations and then choose to spend the rest of the day with them. Sid, short for Sidhartha, is an expat from Amsterdam currently working out of the Hague. Traveling brings the most fascinating people into your life. Back home, I’m fairly introverted. Meeting so many new people in 2009 pushed me so far out of my comfort zone it was exhausting. By the end of the year, I wasn’t open to meeting to new people. Traveling by yourself, you make the effort to meet new people or perish from loneliness. And thank God for that, because I’ve met people from countless countries and all walks of life. One of my biggest desires from traveling is to work hard in 2010 at meeting new people, especially people who don’t live/work in the social media bubble.

Sid and I finished the Heineken brewery tour (which was lame-o) and went for steaks, frites and beer at a nearby restaurant. When you walk into a restaurant, you aim to see more natives and less of the fannypack brigade. This restaurant was spot on. My super bloody steak and frites  coupled with great conversation was a much better experience than Heineken.

I wrapped up my stay in Amsterdam with a bike ride, which is the best way to see the canals of Amsterdam. On my earlier Amsterdam tour, the guide cited a fact were there was approximately two bikes for every citizen of Amsterdam. Yet, for every citizen of Amsterdam that owns 1.72 bikes, I didn’t see a single one wearing a helmet. Not one. Despite my map and several of the sites I read declaring how dangerous and crazy bike riding in Amsterdam is, the Amsterdamians haven’t gotten the memo. Is Amsterdamians a word? It is now. Go with it. It’s a cross between a dalmatian and someone who lives in Amsterdam. Pronounce it Am-ster-dame-e-an, and file it away in the Elainguage dictionary.

My posts are completely out of order at this point. Here are the places I’ve visited in order: Reykjavik, Oslo, Stockholm, Copenhagen, Istanbul, Athens, Barcelona, Vienna, Salzburg, Munich, Interlaken, Bern, Milann, Venice, Florence, Siena, Rome, Privas, Paris, London, Edinburgh and Amsterdam.

I decided to head for Berlin for the weekend. Striking air traffic controllers struck that option for me as I arrived to the airport to find a solid row of cancelled flights. So rather than catch a nine-hour train ride to Berlin, I opted for a two-hour train ride to London showing up unannounced at the doorstep of my gracious college friend, Lauren O’Brien.

England was the first place I ever visited in Europe. My parents took my sister and I when we were in elementary school. Knowing that children our age were unlikely to appreciate the history and culture of Europe, my parents designed a creative way for us to learn about England. For every original fact we could recite at the dinner table, we earned three cents. My parents were thrifty, weren’t they? I racked up about $100 in spending money and was full of English history and useless trivia by the time my feet touched foreign soil.

To this day, I have never met anyone who could travel like my father. If you’ll recall the scene from National Lampoon’s European Vacation in which Clark Griswold gets so upset because the honeymooners in Paris hadn’t seen anything. That scene sums up my father’s philosophy exactly, which is to cram in as much sightseeing into every day as possible. He would tell us, “Kids in six months, we’ll be at Parliament and Big Ben.”

He wasn’t kidding. In six months precisely, we would be at Parliament and Big Ben. Traveling with my parents was exactly like traveling with the Griswolds. Full of lots of sights, crazy moments and good memories. My parents were awesome, weren’t they? In college, I spent another week in London, in which Blonde Jackie,* and we hit the city hard. So by the time I roll up unannounced to Lauren’s doorstep, I just want to see Lauren and vintage shop.

In 2008 Lauren decided she wanted to live in London. So she obtained a Visa, quit her stable job as an accountant in Chicago and moved to London. In the midst of a financial crisis. And she made it work, found a flat, found a job at a bank, got promoted and has carved out a life that I’m rather envious of. It doesn’t mean it was easy, but I’m inspired by the risks she took to achieve her dreams. She didn’t take the easy road but the risks she took made it the more rewarding road. A road that involves forks in the roads that involve weekend trips to Paris.

Burrough Food Market

Similar to Privas, there is a very relaxing element to being with those you know. Even better, one of Lauren’s New Year Resolution’s is to cook more. And who am I to argue with nightly gourmet meals after two months of being on the road? The other culinary highlight is the Burroughs Market that Lauren pointed me in the direction of, which is the best of the food markets I’ve seen so far. It’s always fun to hit up the markets whether in Munich, Barcelona or London and to meet artisinal chefs. I ended up spending more time in Burroughs Market than the Tate Modern. Organic, fresh apple cider is trumping modern art at this point for me.

The other highlight for me besides Lauren was vintage shopping. Currently, the pound is a drop kick in the stomach when it comes to shopping. Even Top Shop was at prices that were unjustifiable. But London has incredible vintage shopping, and I spent a whole day at the Pettycoat market (blah), Spitafelds (amazing) and Absolute Vintage (also amazing). Spitafelds was 2/5 great vintage, 2/5 Etsy and 1/5 Regretsy. If I lived in London, I would go every month.

Excited to be back in early February to spend more time with Lauren and meet more of her friends.

*In college, two of our friends were named Jackie. Rather than clarify which one we are referring to by last name, we refer to them by hair color. Which is easier to explain when referring to Blonde Jackie but a more awkward conversation when mentioning your friend Brown Jackie.

My posts are completely out of order at this point. Here are the places I’ve visited in order: Reykjavik, Oslo, Stockholm, Copenhagen, Istanbul, Athens, Barcelona, Vienna, Salzburg, Munich, Interlaken, Bern, Milan, Venice, Florence, Siena, Rome, Privas, Paris, London, Edinburgh and Amsterdam.

Kristy and Patrick

Hands down, Privas (don’t pronounce the S) was one of the biggest highlights of my 90 days. Privas, France, is the home of my college roommate’s finance, and they were visiting family over the holidays. Patrick and Kristy went out of their way to extend their hospitality and show me around.

Traveling by yourself has more ups than downs, but one of the biggest downsides is that you are always on alert and are always wary at some level. Getting to spend time with Kristy and Patrick was the first time I felt I was relaxed to the core, and it was needed after the fun time that was Italy.

Even more remarkable than Kristy and Patrick’s hospitality was the hospitality of Patrick’s mother. It takes a certain kind of woman to open her home to an Awkward American but her hospitality was extraordinary. She actually did my laundry for me, which if you’ve ever backpacked, you’ll understand why it was one of the most wonderful things to happen to me on the trip.

Resolution #1 – Do more kind acts for others.

French Food!

One of the things I mentioned in my Greece blog post is my realization is that I’m not seeing an authentic Europe. Privas is authentic. I lived with a French family, ate incredible French food and shopped at the French markets in a town devoid of tourists excluding one Awkward American. I will always be grateful beyond words for Patrick’ and his family’s hospitality and for giving me a glimpse into Europe that goes beyond the postcard.

Another highlight of my stay is attending a French dinner party hosted by Patrick’s childhood friend, Luddo. At one point Luddo asked me what my hobbies and passions are. Now Luddo is learning Occident, the ancient language of the French, which is his fourth or fifth language. He is also restoring his home, which is at least 100 years old to be authentic and using eco-responsible materials. Patrick participates in Ironmans in his spare time. Patrick’s mother is an incredible folk dancer and even attends folk dancing camp. My hobbies and passions? I try to explain I write a blog called The Art of Awkward, and Kristy explains I’m her friend with really random facts. Which brings us to New Year’s Resolution’s #2.

Resolution #2 – Find a hobby acceptable for French dinner parties.

The language barrier is definitely there as Patrick’s mother speaks no English, and as we know, I barely speak English and no French. By the end, I can say very limited phrases. Tres bien, se bien and tres jolie are the ones I incorporated most frequently into my quasi-French jargon. Angela, the hostess of the French dinner party, is from Spain, which does give me the opportunity to use my limited Spanish from high school.

“Matilda tienes Angela’s muy gordita eyes.”

Which roughly translates into Matilda, her daughter, has Angela’s pretty eyes. I think. I suspect it didn’t translate at all.

Even French words I thought I knew are undecipherable to the actual French. I tell Luddo that I am really excited for my first French eclair with the pastry box tucked under my arm. Luddo confusedly turns to Patrick for translation, and Patrick pronounces it, “ehh-clear.”

Luddo nods in comprehension. “But that’s what I said!,” I cry out.

Which brings us to New Year’s Resolution’s #3.

Resolution #3 – Work on learning a foreign language and to actually be understood by native speakers.

Privas was so peaceful. We took walks among nature, and I saw hounds chasing down a fox. I got to have long conversations with one of my closest friends. We had two-hour meals without worrying about everything that had to be done or where we had to be next. There was no Internet and life was better without it.

Resolution #4 – To be present in the moment.

While these aren’t quite my New Year’s Resolutions, having 90 days off from the day-to-day grind has given me invaluable time to reflect. Privas was invaluable to that. A huge thanks to Kristy and Patrick for their hospitality and more importantly, their friendship.

My posts are completely out of order at this point. Here are the places I’ve visited in order: Reykjavik, Oslo, Stockholm, Copenhagen, Istanbul, Athens, Barcelona, Vienna, Salzburg, Munich, Interlaken, Bern, Milan, Venice, Florence and Siena.

My View From Mass

I had my heart set on a Tuscan Christmas. Ribollita, roasted chestnuts , chianti and panettone within the rolling green hills of Tuscany. Too much Under the Tuscan Sun under my skin. My vision is solidified when I sit down at The Kitchen community dinner next to two couples who spent Christmas in Siena the previous year.

I am not the most religious of people. Mass is an experience full of cultural traditions that I never seemed to get the hang of as a child or young adult.

“Left or right? Right or left? What is Katie doing? LEFT OR RIGHT?”

I would inwardly panic as I crawled closer to receiving Communion and struggled to remember which hand went under which hand.

Then there was the Mass where the Priest asked for a silent Peace Be With You. In which I loudly told everyone Peace Be With You in my best Elaine outdoor voice.

Or maybe the time I took Communion with my Mom at Notre Dame, and she told me to never tell anyone what happened. In respect of her Catholic upbringing, I won’t tell that story here.

But I will tell you my Mom told me and my sister not to tell her relatives that we don’t go to Mass regularly at one family reunion. I suspect they caught on pretty quickly. Not sure what would give it away.

But I am downright giddy for midnight Mass in Italian on Christmas Eve at the Duomo.

At the onset of Mass, a buzzard rings as if to announce: It’s Catholic Time!

I think I actually inherited my father’s sense of proprietary because I am shocked to see the altar boys wearing jeans and sneakers under their robes. What is this world coming to? Children, the night before the birth of Baby Jesus we wear dress shoes, which is the equivalent of modern day incense and myrrh. In fact, most of the female congregation is decked in jeans and boots. Baby Jesus weeps for you! Never you mind my own Mass attendance or the fact that my hotel desk clerk shook her head when I asked if my dress was appropriate indicating that short sleeves were a no go. At least I didn’t live Tweet mass Dennis Crowley style (I might have had the Duomo had free WiFi).

The Mass is beautiful despite not understanding most (any) of what is said. I do recognize the word Christ, which is pronounced Cristo as in the Count of Monte Cristo. And a lovely Italian version of Holy Night and Silent Night. And just like that, Mass is over.

Afterward, the whole congregation seems to be heading the opposite direction of me. I go with the flow hoping this is the moment the whole town gathers round the large village Christmas tree, gathers hands and sings Holy Night. But no go. The entire congregation just appears to live in the opposite direction of my hotel.

I spend nearly the majority of Christmas exploring Siena, which is fairy tale beautiful. Minus the part where the whole town seems averse to holding hands and singing Christmas carols around the Christmas tree.

At one point I will find having my wallet stolen in Florence three days before Christmas funny, but I am simply not at that point. Maybe when I have some form of plastic back in hand. Then I’ll blog Florence. Until then, thank you to my Aunt Mary Jo for wiring me money, Kari Bobo from First Bank for going above and beyond to get my cards back and to Andrew Hyde for helping me book a hostel so I would have somewhere to send the cards. And Jackie McKenna Sablich? Thanks for being my person. It’ll mean more to me than you’ll ever know.

You Know What I Also Left in Florence? My Wallet!