There is No Clean, Only Sweat
July 11, 2015
First off, if you're thinking ghostbusters you're on the right track. Second, if you're wondering why I keep talking abou hot sweaty and disgusting I am, you're also on the right track. I wonder, too. It's super attractive, right? Yep, I tell all the guys what a dirt, sweat, and sunscreen encrusted mess I am. Works like a charm. Right...
Anyway…
Today was our last day in Rome until the end of the month, when we return for one brief day of glorious heat and try to eat everything in sight (well, maybe that’s just me) before returning to the land of the free and the home of the Big Mac. I spent most of the day hiding inside from the blistering sea of humid grossness, which has ceased to let up. Seriously, how the hell did I used to survive in this crap?! This is unbearable! I keep thinking about what my brother often says when you get out of the shower and immediately start sweating again (usually as the result of exercise); “The shower didn’t take.” The same applies here. Showering is nearly pointless. I feel constantly nasty and feel bad for those who have to be around or near me. I should stop writing about this, really. By now you get the idea: Rome = nasty in July, especially this July, and I stink. End of story.
Tomorrow we are Siena-bound and I am incredibly excited to show my friends one of my favorite cities in the world. I am also secretly (but not so secretly since I’m posting it on the World Wide Web) hoping that the waiters at my favorite restaurant (Spada Forte) recognize me, because they usually do. This is probably because I have been known to go there twice a day… on more than one occasion. But it’s been a few years, so I’m not holding my breath. In addition, it SHOULD (but I’m not keeping my hopes up) be slightly less nasty than Rome, weather-wise! Hurray for slightly less debilitating heat! Geez, Sicily really spoiled the heck out of me. I wore pants there! How I miss pants… ahh… I used to work in this Roman heat! Ah, tour guide days… At least now I don’t have to avoid the polizia or other tour guides… or worry about getting plopped into an EU prison. Good times.
Siena is also a place where I have a lot of good memories. This was one of the trips that my best friend and I first took together (okay, Sorrento was first, but this was pretty soon afterwards) when we excavated together in Rome in 2009, and our first retreat from Rome when we moved there with perfectly legal intentions (ha!) in 2012. It’s also where we shamelessly watched episodes of the Bachelor (sorry, Kristin!) in our hostel because we finally had non-McDonald's internet. It’s also where I watched il Palio through my camera (big mistake - always enjoy events through your eyes, not your camera, i.e. don’t spend the whole damn time trying to take photos/videos that you won’t actually watch later!) with friends in 2010, and where I climbed the Torre del Mangia only to accidentally flash a bunch of French tourists (n.b. do not climb towers while wearing a dress). This was also one of the cities that I took my mom and brother to, where we ate amongst literally hundreds of frog figurines (a strange, but wonderful place). Siena is filled with many good memories, but I also hope to make some new ones this year. We have big plans of biking the countryside and wine tasting (at the same time - yes, I realize this could be dangerous…), and FINALLY making it to the elusive Enoteca Italiana, the wine library of Italy. Basically we are going to be drinking wine the entire time, deal with it. You would too if you were in Siena.
As much as I love Rome, Siena really has my heart. It’s considerably smaller and I don’t get called “biondina” nearly as often. There are other reasons I love it, but it is much too late and too hot to properly explain it (no, it does not involve Sienese men!).
Moral of the story: I’m psyched for Siena and can’t wait to get my hands on some pici pasta and chianti. Siena, here we come! May we be slightly less sweaty there…
FYI, this post was wine induced (okay, okay, most of them are…). Enjoy.
