You know when you’re at McDonald’s post-clubbing?
Yes, yes you do.
Everyone pretty much looks like hell. Girls are walking barefooted with feet dragging across the filthy filthy linoleum floor, dudes are squinty-eyed and discussing the night’s triumphs and mishaps, and it is arguably one of the grossest places to be picked up at at the end of the night.
There’s always a few people who are still club-drunk and are laughing loudly, sputtering out their menu order with the coherency of a toddler, and are generally making a fool out of themselves.
That’s Winda and I, the morning after we’ve broken Fabrizio’s ancient key, missed our morning train to Florence, and are subsequently left wondering our purpose in life in an Italian McDonald’s. We buy 1 euro espresso shots.
We are so. Freaking. hHngover.
It is 9:00 AM in Rome — we had to leave Fabrizio’s apartment due to his checkout policy/we needed to get out of there ASAP before we broke anything else of his.
We are laughing-slash-crying because our heads hurt so much from last night’s escapades. We look like crap. We have our giant backpacks with us — of which is comedic in itself because our backpacks look like they could eat us.
Just to backtrack a bit, this was not our only drunk night in Rome. We also had the opportunity to party with some ridiculous Italians.
Lemme tell you the story.
We’ve set up at Campo de’ Fiori. We have our mojitos, our grape-flavoured hookah. We are basking. A group of Italian dudes at the next table motion towards us to join their table. We submit to their boyish timidness (derived from speaking in broken English) and yet, their Casanova calibre assertiveness. They literally move all of our stuff — our drinks, hookah, table, and chairs — to join their table.
Naturally, they begin introducing themselves. Here we have a lawyer, e-commerce specialist, accountant, and..
“Taxi driver!” They exclaim in unison, pointing out their most outgoing friend whom had initially approached us. He smiles sheepishly. They pause for a second, taking in his self-consciousness. “… And stylist!” They add with enthusiasm/thick Italian accents, pronouncing it stye-leest!
We chat. They are hilarious. One of them, named Francesco, has an amazing handlebar moustache — reminiscent of our friend Alessandro — and continuously strokes it. They talk about their jobs and the friends emphasize just how stylish the Taxi Driver-sash-Stylist is. They really want us to know that he is more than just a taxi driver.
The Stylist invites us to a club.
We get into a cab and head to a Roman club. In hindsight, was it a good idea to get into a cab with strange Italians? I’m gonna say no…
Bumpin’ is not the word I’d use for the club we’re at — maybe simply interesting. The Stylist turns out to be an amazing dancer. Really amazing. Winda steals his stylish hat. We booty bump with Francesco. The Stylist does the Harlem Shake a few times. The ratio between men and women at this club is way off.
I can’t really remember all the details of getting home, but we do. A cab takes us back to our AirBnb in trastevere and I remember him asking for a kiss instead of paying him in euros.
Hard pass, my friend.
Ciao, Roma! You were so good to us.
Sidenote: I come back again for another adventure later on in my Eurotrip — this second time we meet two Italian boys who ask us if we’d like to break into the Coliseum! God bless the Italians.
Tank top — TNA; chambray button-up — Calvin Klein; destroyed denim shorts — Forever 21; shoes — Converse; purse — vintage Gucci; sunnies — the men’s section @ Nordstrom
No pants and barely a top for the hot weather. The chambray button-up in case it gets chilly. Converse chucks for enough comfort to walk around downtown Vancouver all day. Sunnies so I can get away with people watching. 1984 in my purse for reading in front of city skyline. Starbs iced coffee to keep everything on point..
I honestly think I live for leisure.. as bad as that sounds. I’m finally done summer school (cue an audible ugh) and being a newly freed academic slave, I planned a full day of do-as-I-please. Had a fondue date with friends, sauntered around Coal Harbour with a friend and iced coffee in hand, and ended the day on my own at Harbour Green Park with some George Orwell.. was seriously so relaxed, and somewhat heat exhausted.
Vancouver is just so damn aesthetic in the summertime..
Blazer — H&M; romper — Forever 21; shoes — Lita dupes from Amazon.com; purse — Dior; Hello Kitty iPhone case — BestBuy99 (best place for iPhone cases); mardi gras beads — courtesy of an annoying guy with annoying friends
I LOVE rompers and jumpsuits because they satisfy the need of an entire outfit in one go (and as you will learn to know and love, I am incredibly lazy).. Plus you can’t get in, and can’t get out, and that’s the best kind of drunk hands immunity.
I remember a lot of my outfits based on what happened in them (NOT what you’re thinking). For example, this lil numba was worn to Vancouver’s fav place to party at on a Tuesday (Celebs). And you know how there’s annoying people everywhere in life, right? Well, I think several of you can agree with me that there is an upsurge of especially annoying people when you are out with your girlfriends.
What happened was, my girlfriends and I were on the dance floor, and this truly remarkable douchebag decides it’d be cute to pirouette between throngs of dancing drunk people. Not just pirouetting (by the way, who the fuck pirouettes in day-to-day life?), he was purposely hip-checking my friends, and being all around irritating as fuck.
That shit is not cute. Like, stop. Do not pirouette aggressively into people.
Unamused as fuck, I tap him on the shoulder and I say, “Can you stop that? You keep pushing my friends and I. And we’re very small.” He stops abruptly and tells me, “I like you,” and removes a mardi gras necklace from the collection sitting around his neck and places it around mine. He then tried to physically pick me up, and I was not having it, but I will take this necklace…
And that’s what happened in this outfit.
Just a lil self-promotion here and there..
Oversized sweater — Free People; denim shorts — Forever 21; purse — vintage Gucci; sandals — Nordstrom Rack
I looove the structure of this sweater (loose and hanging in all the right places) but it’s far too hole-y to wear in any season other than the summer. I don’t think I own anymore long-sleeved shirts (though, I am planning to make this DIY one from a pair of leggings http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nqE_l872dLU), and even if I did, I imagine it to be crazy uncomfy underneath that sweater..
Y’all can imagine what it feels like on a windy day in this one..
It totally makes sense that the perfect sunnies for my face happen to be from the men’s section. Not because I have the facial structure of a man (though I love me some androgyny), but because my head is huge. It’s a family thing. Whatever.
It was actually between these or reflective aviators in brown/yellow… but it just made everything too beige. What with the brown hair and tan skin–that would just make my face look like a piece of poo. I love tans and all, but there is a limit to how much brown you can wear in an outfit before you start looking like a walking log of poo.
ANYWAYS. No Pants Season is here, and the universe is making sense again. Brb while I live in denim cutoffs and billowy tops.
I’m ’bout to sound self-righteous and snobby but Aritzia to me is equivalent to how Phoebe from Friends felt about Pottery Barn–dope stuff but a cop out from hunting random goodies and putting them together to create your own smorgasbord of style. My commitment to Aritzia used to be near religious, and I thought I was this lil PYT running around in TNA spandex and that Wilfred tunic everybody owned (which I had in four different colours.. it’s whatevs.)
Honestly tho, I can’t say much has changed because my addictions have only transcended to other institutions…
e.g. Amazon.com has got my heart on lock-down.