Go South

Crooning on my STEREO: Rock This Party by BOB SINCLAIR

I've been waking up to non-existent classes and I am collapsing from the lack of sleep. Don't ask me why. I am too lazy to write. Just indulge in the pictures.


We were given 2 miserable hours to run across the entire city of POMPEII.
CAZZO. It's like asking you to circle Hyde Park 8 times in 1 hour. CAZZO!

WITHOUT A MAP.

Can you see the mighty Vesuvius in the background?

Here's something for the bored:
CLICK ON THE PHOTO BELOW TO ENLARGE AND SEE IF YOU CAN SPOT ME AMIDST THE RUINS.


The infamous lava-coated people. Everyone's been asking me about them. Well, they just look like, chocolate manequins.



After doing a 2 hour marathon run across the city of Pompeii, I had to SCALE MOUNT VESUVIUS.

IS THIS A BOOT CAMP OR WHAT

Cazzo. Mount Vesuvius is a frigging huge volcano. We were expected to hike to the crater and down again before sunset. That gives us, let's say, 2 HOURS



My shit photography doesn't do the volcano justice. You have to see it yourself to believe how magnificently HUGE it is. I bullshitted the rest of the troupe to believe that if you throw a stone into the crater, all your wishes will come true.

Within seconds, every gullible person in sight were flinging stones into the crater. This sudden meteoric shower was a great way to wake a dormant volcano.

Damn, I was THAT convincing.

We arrived NAPOLI the next day. The capital of theft and Pasolini-esque characters.


And it was raining. Like hell.



As usual I was under-dressed. Cold. Hungry.

And WITHOUT AN UMBRELLA .

That's Amore

Crooning on my STEREO: Rock Steady by ALL SAINTS


In NAPOLI where love is king
When boy meets girl
Here's what they say....

(Lyn dances around the room with a hairbrush)

When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie
That's amore

(Lyn gets smacked by an oncoming pizza)

When the world seems to shine like you've had too much wine
That's amore

(Lyn downs five shots of limoncello)

Bells will ring ting-a-ling-a-ling, ting-a-ling-a-ling
And you'll sing "Vita bella"

(Lyn takes to the streets of Perugia chanting, 'IL DIVO- TI AMEROOOOO!')

Hearts will play tippy-tippy-tay, tippy-tippy-tay
Like a gay tarantella

When the stars make you drool just like a pasta fazool
That's amore

(Lyn pukes out hot liquid)

When you dance down the street with a cloud at your feet
You're in love

(Lyn attempts a quadaxel jump on a cobbled slope)

When you walk in a dream but you know you're not
Dreaming signore

(Lyn crashes back into her room half conscious)

Scuzza me, but you see, back in old Napoli

That's AMORE

(Lyn passes out)



This weekend: I am spending the night in a VOLCANO and I will be dancing all the way to NAPOLI.....



I am falling in love with Italia.

RAGAZZO Parte 2

Crooning on my STEREO: Svegliarsi la mattina by ZERO ASSOLUTO


My second trip to MILANO ROCKED. Though not as fabulastic as ROMA but I've achieved my primary target of material satisfaction for this month. The only arduous endeavours were the 6 hour train rides that comprised of sitting next to stinky old geezers, perverted asianphillic Europeans and wailing toddlers who deserved a tight smack on the face. Fux. So much for two nights in Milan.

Speaking of long-haul train rides, I miss the infamous RED ARROW which my family and I took from Moscow to St Petersburg. It's an overnight train ride through the subzero terrains of the Soviet Union, and boy, check out that glee in my face. (below)


In my previous post, I went into a temporary frenzy and complained about the lack of gentlemen I've encountered so far. This morning, given sunshine through my frozen windows, I decided to count my blessings.

The solution to my woes was simple: OPEN MY EYES TO THOSE AROUND ME.

I did a shortlist of gentlemen candidates in my vast directory of random friends in Italia. And hooray. I found TWO.

TWO!

DUE!

DOS!

DUA!

DEUX!


I shocked myself there as I've expected the good specie to be extinct.
Thus I will decribe the two candidates briefly here and YOU VOTE THE WINNER. (I promise you that I wont stalk them....)

CANDIDATO NUMERO UNO

Name: THE NAMELESS BAR BOY WHO WORKS IN MY UNIVERSITY CAFETERIA.

Age: Approx 25-28

Good Points: Makes amazing cafe e latte and unlike most Italianos, this clean shaven dude has NEVER shortchanged me.
Never fails to greet me at 8:30am every morning (Mondays to Wednesdays) with a boyband smile while putting up with my almost daily hangover sulk. Consistantly hands me the BEST CHOCOLATE CROISSANT and predicts that I will (always) order acqua minerale - naturale each time I loiter at the counter. Feels sorry for my inability multitask: to dig out coins from my purse while juggling the croissant on the other hand. Thus he has learnt to carry my food while I rummage for lose change.

Basic manners: SUPERB.

Bad Points: Has never asked for my name. Hence I've not asked for his.

CANDIDATO NUMERO DUE

Name: Withheld for privacy. MY FRIENDS' ITALIAN HOUSEMATE.

Age: 25

Good Points: SPEAKS ENGLISH. (thank god!) Lives with the other two Malaysian scholars and I've been hearing fantastic stuff about him EVERYDAY. Apparently makes the best pizza in the world. Chubby, I like. And he knows how to fix the heater. Respects the fact that I LOVE Bob Sinclair.
Helps his homesick housemates whenever possible. And drinks. And clubs. ALOT. Makes wonderful sangrias. Even rescued me from a probable stalker by claiming that I was his girlfriend. PHWOAR. It's so rare for a man to be proud of me.

Basic Manners: Nice.

Bad Points: He seems slightly more smitten with the prettier housemates. Or maybe its because he lives with them. Non Lo So. Or maybe I am fat.

----------------------------

ITS YOUR CALL: CANDIDATE UNO or CANDIDATE DUE?

RAGAZZO

Crooning on my STEREO: Starlight by MUSE

HAPPY HALLOWEEN, BASTARDS.

nah, kidding. Welcome to the decadent life of bladder poisoning.

Screw the notion that every Italian is a carbon copy of Rudolph Valentino. I'm very sore from the fact that MEN HAVE NOT BOUGHT ME DRINKS SINCE I STEPPED FOOT HERE. Sure, I pay for the rounds and end up skint for the rest of the night. I am so used to having to find my way back on my own after that. Thankfully, I have become such a PRO at it after 8 years of practice.

You men pay for the drinks. and ask for my money back.

WHAT?

ASK FOR MY MONEY BACK?

CAZZO

Let's get real, you will never meet gentlemen in clubs everywhere around the world. I can testify that.

Unless you are PRETTY. Or HOT. Even the biggest prick will morph into a subservient bellboy.

TO ALL ANOREXIA-LOVING BASTARDS:
I HOPE YOU FALL OFF THE CLIFF

You have no idea how much I despise your type. It's all because of you that I've got myself into some sort of atkins-gone-wrong weight gain. Yeah, I binge on 3 kebabs a day because I KNOW I will never be a size 0. I drink and dance because I LOVE BOB SINCLAIR. And dont come back to me whingeing that you choose personality over looks.

I KNOW MY PERSONALITY ROCKS, OKAY?

You guys are just DUMB. Let me tell you something,

TI FACCIO UN CULO COSI!!!!!!!

I love my wonderful girlfriends. You all know who you are. Here's a abbraccio grande (big hug) from a rarely sunny Kew Gardens.



Back to handing out pub flyers on the street.

Torta!!!!!

Crooning on my STEREO: Sei Parte Di Me by ZERO ASSOLUTO

Surprise!! Surprise!! I aint travelling out of the sH*T hole* this week. We're doing some sort of a run-up to HALLOWEEN followed by an unknown (to me, anyway) public holiday sometime next week. So there's lots of gatecrashing and kebab-ing to do.....

Today is a good Italian friend's birthday. And because I am one of the scarce few who live in the town center, I was delegated the pleasant task of buying a birthday cake. Or torta di compleanno as they may call it.

Why buying a cake in PERUGIA is a pain-in-the-ass.

1. Cake shops do not open on weekends.
2. The really good bakeries are very well hidden in the peripheries.
3. Even if you find them, they solo parle Italiano
4. I don't have a car.
5. Buses tend to disorientate you by driving through marshes and bushes.

With my usual luck I found an obscure chocalatier 800m away from my doorstep. CHOCALATIER. Yes, you read it right. They shouldn't sell cakes. They sell, CHOCOLATE.**

No sh*t.

After a near miss from a car trying to run me down while crossing the road, I found something remniscent to a CAKE.



THANK GOD. I dont care whats inside. Be it egg, bacons or bananas. I dont even care what's written on top. Whatever.

The next mission: FINDING A CANDLE.

fuck. where the hell do they sell candles in this sh*thole?

----------------
SIDENOTES

* Perugia is a sh*thole because no amount of animal poo in the zoo can beat the amount of doggy sh*t we have on the streets here.

**Chocolates = Perugia's Pride. Probably the only thing we are famous for. The world famous choc BACI originated from a Perugian based company that is very creatively named Perugina.

Italian for Slackers

Crooning on my STEREO: Girl From Mars by ASH

I tend to forget that I am on a study scholarship. The first time I conveniently missed class was when I lost my timetable. The second time, I was too smashed. And the third.... well, I decided to board the next train to Florence with my drink bud Jen just to go on a pub crawl. The day after, I went to Roma for the third time.

It's been three weeks since I set foot onto grand ol' Italia. Despite all that skyving and napping in class, I'd like to share with you the product of my sponsored education.

Handy Italian Phrases

1. CIAO!
Means both HELLO and GOODBYE. Probably my most overused greeting to please the builders on the scaffoldings facing my window.

2. GRAZIE
If this word doesn't ring a bell, then you're seriously dumb. Pronounce it as 'Gra- Zia' to show that you're in tune with the local dialect.

3. DOVE E ..... ?
Translates into 'Where is..... '. To date I've used this more than 150 times, so much that I have perfected it to sound like a local. Truth is, everyone is bound to get lost somewhere in Italy.

4. COME S'TAI?
Foreign students in Italy ADORE asking this countless times in one day. It just means ,'How Art Thou?'. To shut them up, just reply as per below:

5. STONO DI MERDA
Means 'I am shit.' Not exactly friendly, but they should get the drift.

6. NO CAPISCO/ NO LO SO/ NO CAPITO
The best phrase to rid ugly old men picking you up in a local bar. Chances are, they will try to speak to you in basic Italian or half-boiled English. Whatever it is, just keep saying 'I don't know.' Works everytime, I tell ya.

7. HO UN REGAZZO/ UNA REGAZZI
Another failproof sentence to ward off ugly schoolboys trying to take you home from a club. Say the sentence above (means 'I have a boyfriend/girlfriend') and point to the nearest bloke or chick. Becareful that you dont point to the asker's friend.

8. CUANTO COSTA?
The shopper's favourite question ,'How much is this?'. For security reasons I tend to ask this twice to make sure that the pricetag doesn't differ from what the shopkeeper charges. I can confirm that the Italians are brilliant mathematicians.

9. UNA KEBAB CON TROPPO MAIONESE, PER FAVORE
Self Explanatory. I love kebab. Have always loved them more than my handbags.

10. FIGLIO DE PUTANA
This was the first useful words Beckham learnt in Spanish: 'Hijo De Puta.'

10 useful phrases to begin with. Meanwhile, I will go back into some sort of chocolate partying which only Perugia is famous for...


Selamat Hari Raya and Happy Deepavali, my friends!!!!!

ROMA

Crooning on my STEREO: Watch You by LEE CABRERA

Excuse my Il Divo worship in the previous post. Sometimes one gets too carried away when receiving such climactic news. I guess I just wrecked my reputation right there.

Besides the point, my second trip to Rome within the last 6 years has confirmed this:

I LOVE ROME.

Suddenly, Perugia seems like a shithole. It doesn't help when the first person you walk into as you arrive Umbria was YOUR STALKER. Then again, it is the job of a stalker to stage coincidences. Such a cow.

ROMA has its charm. Something tells me that this love has something to do with La Dolce Vita



Fellini. Giulietta Massina. Nino Rota. Anita Ekberg. Trevi Fountain. It all seemed so, beautiful.

And it all seemed such a long time ago.

Yes. I am getting all heavily nostalgic about lost dreams and aspirations. It's like glancing at a passing train in a subway. You kinda, just, missed it.


(thanks to my Slutirah for the pose in the Roman Metro, thankfully we missed the train crash the day after.)

Gone were the days of bald monks in the Vatican City. Nowadays you have those with semi-aviator shades and Von Dutch caps.
And lord, I look so puffed up and pale in this picture. Kindly disregard me. I hope I don't usually look this stale.


I miss the past. For those of you who have watched the Russian Ark and felt its bittersweet aftertaste, you will understand how I feel about reminiscence.



This particular staircase in St Petersburg's Hermitage was where the film's closing scene was shot. I am truly honoured to have pranced (and not trip) on it.

For the ignorant lot, the picture above was taken in RUSSIA. NOT ITALY.

-----------------------

Okay, I am getting all emo. I think it is due to the RM2000 (500 Euro) Il Divo tickets.

Senza Fine

Crooning on my STEREO: Talk by COLDPLAY

At this point I am so delirious. I've just stumbled out of a wicked Roman weekend but there's a piece of news which I'd like to share with you NOW.

I don't even want to blog about ROMA, yet.

Guess what? I've nagged to God about this so many times. This poor little spinster has finally seen a ray of hope.


*drum rolls*

THE MAN OF MY DREAMS WILL BE VISITING MALAYSIA IN JANUARY.


I love him. I've lusted over him for two years. I dream of marrying him. I come running to him when truckload of fuggers let me down. He has been my muse for all my soppy screenplays.

I've travelled the world looking high and low for him.

The Man whom I believe is the epitome of all masculine perfection.

God, I love him.



and fuck, how can any male specie look so delicious in an Armani suit?

Help me.

THE AUSPICIOUS DATE: JANUARY 16th 2007

I am dumping my PHD for him. I am dumping PERUGIA for him.

I would even dump IKER CASILLAS for him.


This is the plan. I will buy tickets first thing it becomes available. Best seats. I will sell my handbags for it. Platinum seats, y'hear? In front of the stage. Then book myself into a Shangri-La suite from January 14th-18th on the same floor as him. Check his flight details. Camp at the airport. Get an extensive floor plan of the KL Convention Center and map the backstage/VIP routes. Memorise the most heartwrenching French poem ever written. Buy a 6ft banner. Buy a killer black dress. Killer heels. Lose 5kg by January. Handmake a giant gift as dowry.


WHO IS WITH ME?

Yup. I am a stalker too.

Home In The City

Crooning on my STEREO: World, Hold On by BOB SINCLAIR

Just a thought. Apart from translating Il Divo lyrics during class, I've been dreaming about Bob Sinclair.

Oh, he is so HOT.

I've spent the whole night crooning to his stuff, and intoxicated myself to believe that he is somewhere in town. You know how alcohol makes you believe the unbelieveable.



And since everyone's been wondering what my Perugian flat looks like, the pissed picture above should give you a vague idea. I am not complaining.
Too bad you can't smell the stench from the cook-in I had with my friends last night. Imagine, one of them were even chopping vegetables on the floor.



Horror of all horrors...
At least they did the cooking!

I am pretty fortunate to have my own pad in the city center. Not that Perugia is a buzzling metropolis, you'd be pleased to know that this is the exact view from the my window.

I know what you are thinking.

It's less haunted than you think.

The advantage of living in the city is that most people knows where you live. If anyone ever pops into town you're bound to have a visitor or two. My flat is virtually a pit stop; people come in for a nap, snacks, watch MTV or to use my internet. Yes, I am proud to be running a gas station.

This is when the STALKER comes into picture. Because EVERYBODY seems to know where that Malaysian chink girl lives, a certain Russian/Italian dude (who was a friend of a friend) decided to tail me from house to school and via all means of mobile communication. I am too lazy to elaborate here... most of you (who were constantly online on msn) would have followed the 2 day drama when I had to hide in the bathroom and under the table.

Note the past tense. I told him that I was lesbian (in Italian) and he backed off. For now.

Why didn't I think about that earlier???

My first case of a short-term stalker took place this time last year in Malaga, Spain. I had gone to the campus pub and had a friendly conversation with 18 year old Spanish dude and his friend (coincidentally captured in the background of this half-drink picture we took on that night).

Heaven knows why both dudes decided to tail us back to the hostel and played guitar outside my room till 5am. Everytime I walked out to tell them to shut it, they insisted on me following them home. For fux sake they were underaged, so I left them alone.

Courtesy of their serenade everyone on my block had little sleep that night.

This time, the Russian stalker was less romantic. There were stones thrown at my window etc.

In relation to this drama my sister was telling me about a film by Tarkovsky aptly named Stalker. After that I was feeling all nostalgic and looked through some vacation photos we took in St. Petersburg, Russia.



This picture struck me.

The bar boy looked a little familliar..

Miracle At Assisi

Crooning on my STEREO: Muneca de Trapo by LA OREJA DE VAN GOGH

BENVENUTO A ASSISI

Well obviously I got back safe and sound. Despite the miserable amount of Italian I speak, I managed to hop on the right busses and to pinpoint the right pilgrim route to reach the Basilica of St Francis. Even the granny pilgrims climbed the hill faster than I did...


The entrance of the basilica. It's on the slope y'see, and I tempted to perform a little dance to see if anyone would notice me.

(I can't be arsed to edit and photoshop the photographs as most arty farty travel geeks would do. Therefore so you'll have to bear with the purest form of naturalism in my photgraphy.... )


Monks leaving their classes. I was tempted to hand them some happy-hour-pub-flyers. I wonder if they will be quite fun to party with.


The great Umbrian view from the fortress. I am beginning to believe that I will be constantly climbing hills for the rest of my Italian stint.


Then I walked into a medieval knight who was more depressed than I am. Even his horse was pretty down, too. A happy-hour-pub-flyer for him!


Two miracles took place here. My good friend Francis (who later became the patron saint of Italy) was born on this very spot. Secondly, my prayer was answered almost immediately after I made a silent prayer in the chapel.

My prayer was simple: I NEEDED A TOILET.

Yes. Like a true pilgrim I had walked the the entire village of Assisi with a loaded bowel. THERE WERE NO TOILETS ALONG THE PILGRIM ROUTE
When my bowel was about to leak I desperately wailed before the altar, and someone up there had instant mercy on me. :)

A stray toilet appeared miraculously just outside the chapel.


Every good occurance had its payback. It started to rain. I found a shelter in a nativity house next to an obscure crypt. For once I felt quite tall. (I might have knocked down a few of the figurines though...)


This man felt sorry for me because I looked foreign and alone. Then again, I AM FOREIGN AND ALONE. I told him that there is nothing to feel sorry about.......

*Being alone is better than getting stalked*

Then again it is easier stalk someone who is alone, right?

To numb this fear I need marijuana. God, how I miss Amsterdam.



Explains why I have been indoors so much lately. I will tell you about the Russian stalker. Soon.