This weekend was the epitome of relaxation.
In the rare occasion that all seven of my roommates were gone for the weekend, I took full advantage of our big, empty apartment. If you know me at all, you know that means inviting all of my friends over and gettin’ rowdy.
And if you really know me, you know that by “all of my friends” I mean Alleigh, and by “gettin’ rowdy” I mean the terrifying sounds and literal jumping the washing machine does during the spin cycle.
Though we spent 9+ hours walking around and shopping Via Del Corso and eating gelato on a sunny Saturday, I’ll admit most of my weekend was spent cooking, cleaning, and doing laundry. I also spent hours reading out on our terrace. So don’t think I wasn’t having fun being a hermit. I was.
So that was my entire weekend. Which means right now, you’re absentmentedly scrolling down the remainder of the page thinking what more could she possibly have to say about such mundane, uninteresting events? To which I reply just keep reading.
At home, I enjoy the luxury of opening the door in our kitchen, loading my items, and pressing two buttons to get my laundry going on it’s desired cycle. When it’s finished there, a beep tells me to move my clothing from bottom to top, where in just 20 minutes I can have a ready-to-wear outfit! It’s like magic.
Laundry in Italy hasn’t been so easy for me.
First, there was the problem posed by all of the instructions being completely in Italian, and after having a school coordinator translate it, there were still complexities such as tiny loads, long washing times, the previously mentioned “jumping” of the machine, and when the door just won’t open.
I expect these at this point, but instead of looking like a panicked fool in front of Alleigh, I waited until she left and got to work.
Once I finally got the door open and took out my second and last load, I breathed two sighs: one of relief, and one of dread for the drying process ahead.
Drying laundry a la airlfow isn’t a huge deal, until you have seven other girls and very little drying space. After hanging my first load of tee-shirts and towels on our indoor rack, I was faced with taking my sheets outside to dry.
Our terrace is long, but only about 2 feet in depth. That makes hanging clean sheets up on the small wire rack in the west corner of the terrace a struggle to not let the sheet touch the dirty ground, while trying to hang it evenly on the rack. So logically, the best thing to do would be to flap my sheet over the side of our 4th floor apartment to get it straight, then hang it.
And you’re thinking this is her first mistake – the sheet is going to flying.
And you’re wrong, because this isn’t my first mistake. That happened when I forgot to wash every pair of underwear I own in the first load, and threw it in with the sheets instead of the tee shirts.
And I remembered that I had done this just as I swung that bedsheet over the edge – with brightly colored and patterned underwear exploding from it’s every crevasse like an embarrassing shower of confetti.
Well this sucks, I’m thinking. Fresh out of the shower, I have no other choice than to throw on some clothes and half mortified/half angry I trudge downstairs, in to the street, and begin collecting my very personal belongings.
It’s over. It’s ok. Forget it. Undies in arms, I looked up to our balcony to observe what had been their free fall. And then I saw it.
Our apartment building isn’t one of those beautiful Roman-style complexes. It’s white and big and quite frankly, ugly. But the one nice thing is a giant bushy vine the man one floor below us grows, spanning his entire terrace and gaping down nearly to the person’s below. Or it was nice, until a pair of my gray lace underwear decided to take up permenant residence on it.
Now completely horrified, but realizing there was nothing I could do, I got the hell out of Dodge and took the steps two at a time back upstairs, carrying my delicates like a running back going for his first touchdown.
Too aware of my luck to chance putting anything back in that dreaded machine, I took every pair to the sink and washed them by hand – a treatment usually reserved exclusively for jeans and sweaters. Because I have trust issues.
And what happened next? Now you want to know, don’t you?
What happened next was I ate my feelings and watched Netflix. Later that night, that lace number dismissed itself from the vine and down on to sidewalk. And though it had bothered me earlier, I left that one down there with no intent to make a special trip for it. It betrayed me.
And so that was my weekend. Overall, pretty relaxing with a touch of Danica. Maybe you’re shaking your head thinking what a failure I am or maybe you’re impressed I was cooking, cleaning, and doing laundry in the first place – but there’s a reason for that.
Tomorrow, Chris is coming to visit me and I could not be any more excited. After playing with the idea (more-so him playing, me begging) for months before my departure, work allowed him to make a Eurotrip on a whim. He booked it just two weeks ago, and as I write this he’s on his first plane towards Italy!
I honestly didn’t get my hopes up to seeing him for four months, and so the last two weeks I’ve been nothing but happy as we hurriedly planned the details of our time together. His two-week stay will be over my spring break allowing us to travel to both Barcelona and Paris, while of course doing plenty of sightseeing in Rome, too.
So after a month and a half of iMessaging, FaceTiming, and simply waiting, I get to see Chris fresh off the plane tomorrow morning – only about 12 hours from now!
That being said I’m hitting the hay early, if only to make the time pass faster.
Ciao, for now.