So this past Tuesday night I was a stunning disgrace to the American culture. Or, rather, I was a total and utter portrayal of the classic American abroad student, and so, a stunning disgrace to the Italian culture. My Tuesday nights are to what everyone else's Thursday nights are. I don't have class until 6 PM on Wednesday, so this leads to all sorts of night-time free-time. This is why I needed internet access so badly. Without, I am forced to resort to this sort of depravity.
I went with my friend Erin, her roommate Kara (Mama Kara,) and their friends to Be Bop, a fun, dive-y little basement bar with live music. Tuesday night is Beatles cover-band night, and let me tell you, they were actually good. You know what else was good? The drinks. Roughly 2 Euro cheaper than I am accustomed to paying for, on top of NO COVER CHARGE, heavy on the liquor, large on the size, and quick to be served. I seriously had a White Russian like m'boys used to make back home. After seeing an Amazonian Italian woman wearing as a shirt the same black sheer blouse from Zara I was wearing as a dress, I resorted to knocking back a Cosmopolitan and a Ruskie, after hardly eating and two glasses of wine in Pairing Food and Wine earlier that afternoon, and was toasted like 10-grain bread in the morning in about 30 minutes. This may have lead to some very loud singing along to the band. It may have even-- for shame-- led to some dancing. In places one should normally not dance. I was eyeing a table-top.
Sober Carissa apparently does not want to get laid. My interactions with the local gents (collectively either still in high school, or 30 years old, or American abroad students-- nothing in between,) went something like this: A tap on the shoulder, a hand on the back, a slap on the ass. I turn around. "Ciao," says Mr. Italia. "Ciao," I say back. "Mi chiamo Simon/Antonio/Charlie." "Mi chiamo Carissa." And I turn back around. Ohhhhhh. Shut down. End of story. Go away. I could be French for all I am so disinterested in you. Lesbians even care about you more. Really. Go take your wandering hands and wander somewhere else.
Drunk Carissa, however, appears to be the 180-degree opposite of Sober Carissa, because I found myself leaning over to Erin, pawing at her, going, "Hey! Heyheyhey! Did you see that guy at the bar?! I only saw his ear and the back of his head, but I think he's cute! I really think he's hot! I'm going to go over and-- ohhh, wait-- he turned around...no, not that cute. Definitely not that cute. Well, maybe, if you look at him from this angle..."
Erin: "What the fuck are you talking about? He is hideous."
Drunk goggles: Helping less fortunate Italian men get some since 1989. While we're here, can we please take a minute to conduct a poll? Because the question was, ahem, raised if Italian men stuff their Armani and Dolce & Gabbana jeans. Because I have been around the block a time or two, and I may have been known to date men who wear tight jeans, but NEVER in my life have I seen anything quite like what was on display at that rooster show. "Quarters-- lots and lots of quarters," was the only excuse Erin could come up with. To me, there is no excuse. Just eye-sear-age.
Towards the end of the band's set, I was really, really cravin' me a Double Cheeseburger like the good ol' times across the Atlantic, so we left Be Bop to find some tasty American victuals. Sad times-- the Golden Arches were closed, but the kebab shop right down the street was not. I took off running in un-straight lines as fast as my little gold flats would take me, smacked into the sliding glass door, and did my damnedest to open it. Nada. I looked in plaintively at the man behind the counter, who was watching me, obviously unimpressed. "Are you open?" I mouthed at him, and he nodded, miming at me to push the door to the side. You know, like how sliding doors are supposed to go. I put my hands flat on the glass and gave it a shove. Uh-uh, little drunk girl. Try again. Finally grasped the little indented handle. Gave a mighty yank. Lost my balance, and staggered in with a triumphant "YEAHHH!" As Erin said, "At least you're a cute drunk," because after those antics, it was the only thing working in my favor to get me served my kebab. That, the fact that I thought Mr. Kebab Man was totally smokin' in that dark skin/dark hair/light eyes way I am extremely partial to, and the other fact that I was still dancing along and breaking it down to their Middle Eastern rap music. ...In the middle of the kebab shop. Yeahhhhhhh.
It gets better. Oh, it gets better. Have you had enough? Are you cringing yet? Are you totally disappointed at the mockery of civilized and decent human behavior when inhabiting a strange and foreign country? Because if you aren't, I am at the memories of the night. At this point, black-out would be preferred over remembering the self-travesty. I am not proud of myself.
So, huh, funny thing-- I forgot how when you're drunk-- like, really, really drunk-- you forget things. Like the fact you gave your friend 2 Euro for a White Russian of her own earlier and so are short-changed after buying a Doner kebab at 2 AM. Which leads to things like finding yourself standing in a packed kebab shop, contemplating if anyone will see you take your kebab and run. And then just saying "fuck it," digging in and devouring said kebab in a beastly manner that not even your close friends can contain their disgust as you demolish it in under 2.2 minutes, losing a french fry down between your cleavage in the process. (The act of fishing dropped food from down there, in case you were not aware, is called "spelunking." As in, "I totally went spelunking after that fry while everyone watched. No fry left behind!")
After the Destruction of Kebab Shop on Cavour, I toddled my way home, chain-smoking and weaving, to wrestle out of my clothes and fall into bed, full make-up still on. Woke up the next morning protesting sunlight, street noise, raccoon eyes, and my continued existence with a massive hangover. Lesson learned.
So let's here it for America, Americans, and American students abroad! Land of the freely drunk, home of the blazed.
P.S-- You can probably find me at Be Bop next Tuesday night. Repeat performance around 11. Less drinking this round, though. But probably equal parts dancing and singing.