A long and enchanted sigh escapes from my lips as I think about Italian food. First order of bidness is obvious then:
After praising the Lord Holy Jesus for bringing forth Italian cuisine, we meet an Italian. By the colosseum. And he insists on buying us gelato. We are not in Rome–at least not per se–we are, in fact, in a Lizzie McGuire movie.
He’s in fitted jeans — rolled and cuffed above the ankle — spotless Converse low-tops, a loose and perfectly draped sleeveless top, and round tortoise shell glasses. His hair is nicer than mine — a sublimely curled quiff — of which he runs his fingers through a little too often. He’s got olive skin, tanned to the perfect shade of beige from this Italian heat. He speaks in erratic hand gestures and a booming voice. To add to the spectacle, the man’s donning a handlebar moustache — of which he frequently strokes with his thumb and index finger (simultaneously) when in contemplation.
He is with an American friend. Oh, and his name is Alessandro.
“It was nice meeting you.” We are trying to leave.
Contrary to popular belief, we didn’t come to Rome to meet boys, y’all.
“I-ah woulda like to buy you gelato!” Alessandro boldly declares. His English is drenched in a heavy Italian accent and every statement sounds vehemently dramatic. The dude sounds like he’s reciting lines from a Greek tragedy.
I feel a sharp nudge in my ribs. Winda is very intrigued.
I stare at Alessandro. I’m flattered but not exactly swept off my feet by his proposal. We did not come to Rome to be swindled by some Italian casanova. “No, that’s okay.”
“No! I woulda like to!” He says. With more theatric hand gestures.
“You really don’t have to.”
“I-ah know I-ah don’t have to, but I-ah want to. I-ah inseest.” He insists.
Winda taps him on the shoulder to ask him the most important question of all. “Are you also buying me gelato?”
I can almost feel the soft breeze of her eyelashes steadily batting.
He squints at her behind his impossibly hipster glasses for a sec, as we hold our breaths, wondering just how well-versed he is in the art of Italian game. Any gentleman would extend the offer to a lady’s entire entourage.
“Yees. Yees, I-ah will!”
The Incarnation of Snark Can Speak
“Hi, I’m James*,” he says. “I’m from Singapore.”
James lives with us. He has a very distinctive Singaporean accent, bangs so uneven they make you cringe a little, is tall and lanky, and dons a football jersey of an unidentifiable team (unidentifiable to me at least) as leisure wear.
“Oh, you’re watching FIFA?” Winda asks out of sheer affability.
“It’s called World Cup.” he replies matter-of-factly.
James is really not that bad–he doesn’t steal from us (which does in fact happen later on in our trip), lie to us, or eat our food–he’s just really annoying. Being embodiments of our country/before discovering what an Intolerable Troll he is, we are cheery, welcoming, and friendly. Although, Winda and I are generally very cheery, welcoming, and friendly (trust me, you would love living with us. We are nothing but delightful.)
We invite him for a drink and an explorative walk around the neighbourhood. We chat. We get to know one another. Winda and I giggle a lot, because we giggle a lot. We get the sense that the Intolerable Troll thinks he’s too smart for us due to our relentless giggling–which when you think about it, is quite the uneducated guess. He tells us about his intense mancrush on John Mayer–the dude waited like ten hours in layover to Heathrow just to see him for one night. I get slightly creeped out. After discussing his promising career in mechanical engineering, he insults Winda’s major majorly on our first night:
“You know what I think the most useless major in the world is?” he offers. I’m not sure if anyone had asked.
“Something in the liberal arts?” He seems like the uppity type that would think so.
“Business,” his voice drips with disdain. “The absolutely most useless major out there.”
I clasp my hand over my mouth to avoid laughing too loudly. Winda keeps her composure because she’s a classy lady, whereas I burst, “Winda studies international business!”
The Intolerable Troll gets somewhat flustered, as he’s just embarrassed himself in front of his new roomies. “Oh.. oh…”
“It’s okay,” Winda is polite–graciously forgiving–of his recent outburst. She doesn’t delve too far into his last comment because obviously he’s one of those hopeless elitist pricks.
Like I said, we are pretty friggin’ delightful. As the Intolerable Troll is traveling alone, we invite him on our excursions for the next day: breakfast, baths, a walking tour, and etc. He doesn’t like baths. Ooooh, quelle fucking surprise, didn’t see that one coming. He agrees to meet us at the communist walking tour. It’s all starting to make sense now.
Can I Just Live Here?
First of all, can I just live here? Just leave me behind in our second week of backpacking and let me revel in all the splendour that is poolside lounging–or when in Budapest, bathside lounging.
The baths are ridiculously ridiculously good-looking: an oasis of marbled perfection, Art Nouveau that feigns living in a different era, delicately staine glass, ornate mosaics, and the classiest of fountain statues. The atmosphere is basically my calling–relaxed, half nakies, the sweet sound of waves crashing (in the wave pool), some fine ass surroundings, and hot, hot heat. Budapest, you kill me slowly but so sweetly.
We are internally freaking out over just how palatial this place is, whilst being surrounded by Hungarians who do this on the daily. They’re sauntering about, all unfazed and ready to chill the fuck out on this hot summer’s day. Then there’s Winda and I ruining everything.
“I think there’s a cut on my foot,” Winda says for the 158th time. Symptoms of her particular form of OCD is being very much concerned with her feet. It’s special.
We’re sitting in the outdoor heated pool. It is super serene in here–cute old people are outlining the entirety of the pool, draped beside us in a languid daze, and bearing their tanned leathery skin to the heavens. There’s even the simulated sound of cascading water coming from...somewhere probably equally majestic as this entire establishment.
“Let me see,” Being the good friend that I am, I fully accept Winda for who she is. And I need her to stop talking about feet before I start hating her. So you can imagine my displeasure at what she does next.
She raises her foot in the air towards me. “You may kiss my feet,” she says jokingly and laughs.
Lo and behold, a circa 1997 (6-year-old Kaylynn and Winda) splashing war wages out between us because rude. We are in no survivors mode and are splashing the shit out of each other–as well as the previously unperturbed bath patrons encircling us–in the crazed way you would only behave in a girls versus boys water crusade. We really should be arrested for disturbing the peace.
Our pool fight eventually dissolves (after lots of girlish screams and Hungarian frowns), and we have to rush to make our communist walking tour. We contemplate staying and skipping the tour altogether, but James. We fucking have to go meet with James.
Because A Communist Tour Sounds Fun
We find James. We embark on the communist walking tour, and subsequently leave five minutes into it because the contemptuous vibes are cramping our style. We do a shit ton of walking despite not actually being on a walking tour. We drink out of public fountains because you can do that in Budapest. We visit the parliament buildings. We have Hungarian food (potato-ey as well). Winda nearly falls off an ocean edge and into a pit of rocks. We take a lot of pictures and indulge in Tumblr-approved novelties.
James conveniently reminds that our names are unconventional.
“So do all your friends have funky names too?” James asks.
Winda and I exchange glances.
“What do you mean funky?”
“Yeah funky like how?”
Clap your hands because James has reached the peak of his quest for self-actualization–he has fulfilled his identity as an incarnation of snark, the Intolerable Troll. With an onslaught on snide commentary during the whole damn day, remarks laden with condescension, and repeated belittlement of our enthusiasm…
We’re just so tired of his shit. God damn it, James. Winda and I exchange a telepathic agreement that we will no longer bless James with our simply delightful presence. We’re tired of your shit, James/will see you at home later.
*Names have been changed to protect the identity of the annoying.
Foreign Exchange blouse
Forever 21 shorts
Reviving an outfit from last summer because unfortunately for me, I’m not one of those girls who enjoys knit leggings, cuddles with Starbucks’ red holiday cups, and loves fall with the power of a thousand autumn-oriented emojis. Instead, I have an affinity for wearing no pants (but who doesn’t, really?), and I find layers and closed-toed shoes restricting.. And that’s how a summer wardrobe emerges as my forte.
I will be forever entranced with loose-fitting blouses that billow through light summer breezes, denim cutoffs with an iconic destroyed pocket, sandals I can ruin at the beach..
Lizzie Velasquez’s TEDTalks video on agency. So important to remember every single day of your life. It’s not about dousing yourself in optimism or even being grateful for all the good things in your life, it’s about the fact that you have full control of your life–full control to chase the good things–and that’s the greatest blessing we could ever have.