“Mamma, che ne dici di un romantico a Milano?”

Dio Mio! Look at you! You’re so grown up since I saw you last!

I can’t believe everything that has happened since I saw you last. First off, let’s discuss once more how I went to Italy, because boy, that was something. I will try to make this blog more entertaining by peppering in some random Italian pictures of Genova, because I know that’s what you’ve really come for, you lazy bum. Before this trip, I had no desire to go to Genova, mainly because I had never heard of it before, and I’ve been to a lot of places in Italy. Rome, Sorrento, Capri, Pisa, Milan, Florence, Assisi, Venice, Bologna, San Gimignano…and a couple of more here and there that I’ve forgotten about. Even after I received my assignment, I wasn’t thrilled, especially once JZ (who had taught in the same area) told me it was a fairly industrial town. But Genova is awesome; it’s gorgeous, it’s fancy. It’s a seaside stretch of town that spoons some lovely hills, which makes for some pretty delicious scenery.

If you read my last post, which I will assume you did not, you will know that I was staying with a host family, and that I had a host cousin, Selena, of the same age in the apartment across the hall. This was great, because Selena would often take me (or us, if the other teachers weren’t being lazy) to places I normally wouldn’t have the opportunity to go. But it was also a bit unnerving, because they were often things I wouldn’t normally want to do as well. For example, she left me a note to meet her at the train station after work around 9; in my mind (silly me), I expected drinks.

She picks me up, and we walk along the lovely Italian street talking about our days, when suddenly she says, “Now, I will take you dancing.” These are words that do not generally thrill my ears, especially when she informs me we will be dancing outside, in plain view of the public. The idea was lovely; we were doing some kind of mountain folk dance (I heard the talk of “dancing in the mountains” quite a bit from my host family, and I’m still a bit unclear about what this refers to, so I guess we are speaking very literally here) next to the port, with lights from the hills glittering peacefully off the water, accordion music playing jauntily in the background. I, however, was full of unease and nervous laughter, which I need not explain to anyone who has seen me dance/danced with me. There was a lot of that kind of dance where you grab hands and make circles, which I felt confident enough with. But then they would break off into couples, with the outer line of women rotating with the inner line of men every 30 seconds or so. Every new partner that approached had that look in their eye, like, “I shall be the one to tame this wild stallion!” The first 5 seconds or so, they seemed so cocksure with their firm grips and their confident directions. But 15 seconds of sweaty hand fumbling and shuffled missteps, you could see the frustration set in, and by the second overly forced twirl, they were only too happy to spin me off to the next unsuspecting chap with a glimmer of hope in his eyes. For one partner only dances, men would come up to ask me to dance, and I would try and spare them the pain by saying, “I’m really not good at dancing.” They would laugh off my fears, but by the end, the sweat above their brows and the confusion in their eyes said, “You weren’t kidding, were you?”

Things like this would happen every time I met Selena. One night, when we had actually planned to get drinks, the rest of the group cancelled, so Selena offered to take me on a small walk around the neighborhood. Two hours later, at midnight (after a day of teaching wild Italian children), I collapsed into bed. Another night, we hitch-hiked up 3/4ths of the way up a mountain, then hiked in the dark the rest of the way to get to a “party”, which turned out to be more of a fair with an 80s cover band, followed by a ska band (not sure how they picked the music). After a rousing mosh pit got started, one guy grabbed my hand and pulled me in. There was a brave moment where I thought, “I can do this!” Almost immediately after, someone smashed into me, and I thought, “I can’t do this.” After slightly crashing into a planter, I crawled my way out of the heaving mass of men back to the slightly calmer feminine circle I had been a part of originally. Every adventure with Selena had me stumbling into bed late at night and waking up completely sore the next morning.

Now, you might be thinking, “But Juliana Maria” (of course I would choose another country where they can’t say my name), “What did you think about the work?” Well, it was alright. 16 Italian children are, as you can imagine, fairly unpredictable, except when it comes to volume, which will always be horrifically and predictably at full blast. One of my favorite students was this very camp 8 year old named Luca, who could usually be seen linking arms with Michele; together, they made up the tiniest little couple I’ve ever seen. Luca would usually come up to me, very seriously, and say, “Teachers.” And I would say, “Yes, Luca?” And he would tell me a very long and animated story in Italian. When he finished, I usually gasped and said, “REALLY?” And maintaining his serious composure, he would nod and say, “YES” before swiftly turning away, Michele in tow, off to swing on some palm fronds (I…I feel like this last bit sounds made up, but I assure you, it happened). If you would like any stories about how I would terrify the children, go ahead and ask me in person, because these stories will be best told with actions and sound effects.

Now, there are some non-Italian things worth mentioning. Recently, you heard that my older sister Jenni got engaged to that Bostonian, Brian (who is really a lovely fellow, even if he has the slightest hint of what is probably the worst accent in America). But what you might not know, and what I might not know, is that my older brother Rory also got engaged. You might have seen on Facebook that my uncertainty about this situation stemmed from time zone differences (also, FACEBOOK, we are going to have words about you showing statuses to people who I have continuously tried to hide status updates from), but when I emailed my mother to confirm the actuality of the occasion of engagement (i.e. “Did Rory and Ashley get engaged?!?!?), she replied back, “Sounds like it,” so apparently, we are all just placing bets right now. I still haven’t been able to Skype my mom since it happened, which, if our roles were reversed, means that it would be time to start posting pictures on milk cartons to locate a missing person. I just find this whole lack of information as strange, because everyone knows that Rory is the biggest gossip in our family. I did at least know slightly more than my younger sister Tara, who told me, “I didn’t even know they had gotten back together until she posted that ring picture on Facebook.”  

Speaking of Tara not knowing things, here is a conversation we had on Skype (with my Aunt Kelly present as well).

Me: Well, I’ll be finished with school in September, but I won’t get my master’s degree until January.
Tara: OHHHHH! You’re getting your master’s!
Me:…What did you think I was doing over here?
Tara: I thought you were still in school.
Me: What do you think a master’s program is?
Tara: Well, I guess I never realized what you were doing there. Nobody ever tells me anything.
Aunt Kelly: Nobody ever tells Tara anything.
Me: I’ve definitely told you multiple times what I’m doing here.
Then, a little while later…
Tara: Do they celebrate Christmas over there?

I tried to hint a little later that I think she should stop smoking so much pot. On a related note, whenever I want to experience amusement and depression at the same time, I read my little sister’s Twitter feed.

On a closing note, if you REALLY want to be amused, watch this routine by John Mulaney.  I’m pretty certain John Mulaney is my dream man, but shucks; he’s taken.  I’m also pretty certain that if I was born a man, it would be John Mulaney (those are two disturbing statements to put back to back).  So I spend my days watching his bits on repeat to console me.

 

The TAT of J.M.N.

After all the weirdly difficult and tricky things that have happened lately, I was thinking of titling this blog, “The Trials and Tribulations of Jillian M. Nelson,” but that was too long, so I decided on  “The T.A.T. of J.M.N.” because I wanted to look classy.  Nothing classier than initial TATs. *1*

Last time we talked screen to screen, I told tales of the tearful trail that lead me to me current location, Denmark (Street.  I hope that there were two seconds where you read that and thought, “Wait, I thought she was in England?”  And hopefully you asked in the high-pitched voice of Jim Gaffigan).  I don’t think I even mentioned how my university somehow forgot to enroll me in any classes besides the core module.  Still, I had a place to live, which meant I could finally breathe easy.

So for all of 8 days, my woes went away.  And that, my friends, is how long it took for the unspeakable to happen.

Which I will now type, because it is unspeakable.

Someone.

POOPED.

On.  The.  FLOOR.

(The horror!  The horror!)

Do you know what that’s like?  To walk into a bathroom and see this…this ABOMINATION (of-bum-ination) waiting for you?  And then it sinks in that 1.) Finder’s Cleaners and 2.) You’re down for “Spare Loo” duty on the rota that week, so you’re basically screwed as designated pooper-scooper?  Tell me, has that happened to you?  Fingers were pointed; tears were shed (mostly because I was laughing so hard).  But then, have you had insult added to injury after you do a superstar clean-up job, because someone decided to repay you by drinking all your beer?*  To this very day, the culprit is still on the loose (I mean, come on–who is going to say, “Okay guys, ya caught me; it was I who pooped and ran, then drank all your beer”), but one thing is certain– I’ll never look at my flatmates the same.

The crazy thing is, I’d like to say this was the first time this has happened to me**, but there was one day when I was in high school when my mom dragged all the kids still living in the house to the bathroom, where she pointed to the ground and cried, “WHO DID THIS?”  The same person that I believe responsible for this particular floor-foul also drank my chocolate stout, so talk about connections!  I mean, sure; the events were about 10 years apart, but still.  Circle of life.***

Anyway, enough potty talk.  Sometimes nice things happen–I had my first visitor to Bristol!  Okay; it was JZ, so maybe it’s more like, “Sometimes not so bad things happen.”  (JK, JZ.  Who I know never reads my blog, as he just found out what blogs were last week).  But as a result, we did sight-see-y things, which means you get these pictures!  Hurrah!

Oo!

Ah!

Ah!

わ〜！

Isn’t Bristol cute?

Now, if you are wondering what I actually am doing in Bristol besides cleaning up bathrooms and having my beer stolen, I’m getting my MA!  And if from there you are wondering what a typical school day looks like for me, let me give you a little sample, straight from today’s events:

-Get to class.  Open bottle of sparkling water, which explodes.  Wouldn’t be so bad if the EXACT SAME THING hadn’t happened the week before.  Inward panic that my new nickname will be “American Girl Who Can’t Figure Water Out.”  Though if anyone calls me that, I will simply call them, “Person Who Can’t Make Short and Efficient Nicknames.”****

-Stomach growls loudly, due to decision to eat only vegetables*.* for lunch.

-Get cold, so try to put on jacket, but can’t figure out sleeve.  Finally get sleeve to cooperate; try to put in on in a hurry so my nickname doesn’t become “American Girl Who Can’t Figure Water or Jackets Out,” but jacket is vintage*!* and delicate, and inside lining rips.  Loudly.  Don’t even try to imagine what new nickname could be.

-Go home and eat more vegetables. *&*

*1* I also considered “Operation Title: Trials and Tribulations”, with the abbreviation being “O TIT: TAT,” but there is a level to how ridiculous I will go.

*This happened about 4 days later, so I gueeeeess it may not have been connected.  But still!  3 beers!  Out of 4!

**Actually, I’d prefer to say this has never happened to me, but what’s done is done.

***While poo on the floor followed by someone drinking all your beer may not be what the “Lion King” song is about, the truth is we can never really know.

****If you’re really quick, you’ve already realized that those are both accurate nicknames for J.M.N. by own logic.

*.* And cheese.

*!* Armani…sigh.

*&* AKA Cheese.

Sorry for all the asterisks, but as it has been so cloudy, I haven’t seen many stars lately; therefore I wanted to make up for it.  Now stop reading my blog and go do something productive with your life!

Week 090: Breaking and Entering*

Not that it is in anyway related to anything else, but before anything else is said, I must share this quote I came across on my iPad that I jotted down whilst on my Eurotrip, said by my sassy friend Kristina Germany: “I always get those weird e-mails that say, ‘Enlarge your…’ what is it? ‘Big Willy?'”  I believe this blog will end with another quote, if I have my way.

And now, onward and outward!

I had to wait a bit to write this post due to certain vulnerabilities that will very soon become clear.  Last Friday night, the goyls and I had our short night out (see last blogpost), and I went home free and easy, with no wallet strain or drink bloat.  The next morning, I set out to do a little shopping before meeting my former co-worker, but took a slight detour when my key stopped working.

Google search for Leopalace key, with a Leopalace desk/table underneath.

Now I had a bit of a panic, as Leopalace (my apartment company) keys are a wee bit different from normal keys–you can’t make copies,  and using them is different, too–you kind of have to get em’ in the right position and stick ’em in until you feel a click, then turn.*  But mainly, the differences lies in if you lose them–you are presented with a replacement fee of almost $150.  If you have to break the lock, it costs upwards of $300.  Anyway, I wasn’t feeling that click, and I didn’t want to leave my apartment open.  I thought about going out the back door, but decided against it because the result was still the same; an unlocked apartment.  So I thought, “Hey, I know!  I’ll just maneuver the deadbolt into place, close the door, and wiggle it out when I come home!”  Somehow, I managed to get the bolt into place, and no sooner had I done it than my thoughts of, “This is legit!” turned to, “Oh, shit.”  Because like most of those “It seemed like a good idea at the time” moments, the feeling of realism smacking me in the forehead came immediately.  I wasn’t getting that baby bolt open without  a fight.

After feeling around, sticking things in the middle to try and lift the slidy bits, trying the mailbox, etc.; I headed to my nearby co-worker to see if she had a screwdriver.  She did, and we tested it out on her lock.  I could get the doorframe bit to detach, which left me feeling hopeful.  But back at my apartment, confronted with a gap of 2.5 inches and some wonky angles, my hope started fading.  I was able to unscrew part of the doorside bolt, but that bit stayed firmly in place, and I wondered if it was glued on.  I decided to get on with my plans and worry about it later.

Fast-forward about 10 hours, after meeting up with my current co-workers for some dance festival in Yoyogi Park (*read: Latin Circles [Japanese for hobby clubs] plus Thai festival food), and my co-worker and I made our way back to my apartment feeling more optimistic determination.  We had a whole set of mini screwdrivers; courtesy of my ex-coworker, and with four hands, we tried to unscrew that biznatch.*  After about 3 minutes, we gave up, and started scheming alternative options.

“Did you check the window above your door?”  My co-worker asked; referring to the window into my loft.

“Yup.”

“Did you check the sliding back door?”

“Yup.”

“Let’s check again, just in case.”  So we traveled around to the back, ignoring what I’m sure are “Keep Out” mini-gates, as well as diverting our eyes from the apartments with open curtains (well, except for when I pointed out the layer of moldy clothes on my neighbor’s back curb).  Sure enough, the backdoor was locked, but as we stood outside, both of our eyes drifted upward to the window above the door.

“Is that one..?”

“Let’s see!”  I reached up, and sure enough, the window slid open.  It wouldn’t be my story telling if I didn’t somehow throw in that a window of opportunity opened.  So we went back to my co-worker’s nearly identical apartment to concoct a plan.

“What if I stood on the chair, lifted myself up, and kind of came down on the desk?”

“Well…it’s kind of a long drop…”

We put her chair on her balcony (she lives on the second floor) to test the theory.  The chair, as you might imagine, was a bit short.

“Does the ladder to the loft detach?”

“Well, I’ve tried it before, and I don’t think so…”  But even as I said it, I went over to try, and sure enough, I was able to pop it out.  There were joyous shouts all around as we carried the ladder onto the balcony.  My co-worker climbed up and sort of straddled the door, which looked fairly uncomfortable, and still didn’t solve the issue of the long drop.  We briefly discussed the idea of bringing the ladder through the window when an idea struck me.  I grabbed the pole for opening the window and pushed down on the lock from my position in the window.  Easier than saying, “Open sesame,” the door unlocked.  We had found our key.

We confidently headed back to my apartment; K with her pole, and me with a ladder tucked under my arm.  We again made our way to the back of my apartment, where lo and behold, our plan fell easily into place.  In no time at all, we were waltzing into my apartment and loading “Arrested Development.”

For a few days after, I decided to risk leaving one of the doors unlocked when I went out, debating whether or not I should tell my Program Coordinator and risk paying a hefty fee, as Japanese companies often seem inflexible about things like this.  In the end, I figured it was better to just come out with it than worry about my stuff being stolen, but hallelujah!–the company didn’t charge me to replace the lock!  So now, I’m sitting safe and sound behind locked doors, with the assurance that I can leave my apartment secure tomorrow.

Now you might wonder why I would post information about how to get into my apartment, and the answer(s) is simple. One, I’m obviously not leaving my window unlocked anymore, and two, the path behind my apartment is narrow and covered with rocks.  Breaking into my place was an extremely noisy endeavor; to be honest, I’m surprised nobody called the cops on us when we tried to get in the back door.*

The best part?  K documented the whole shebang.

Slightly terrifying picture of myself.

Up the ladder to my room.

Banging the ladder around the back alley.

Seriously, nobody thought this was weird?

And now, the other promised random quote (with backstory):

My lesson for the day was to talk about feelings, and I assigned the A group to “Confused”.  I overheard one freshman girl saying, “I was confused by my boyfriend’s coming out to me,” at which point I chuckled to myself and wondered what her intended Engrish was, when she continued, “He said, ‘I want to be a girl.'”  So–no confusion there, actually.  I was pretty impressed with her idiom knowledge, and also very interested in the story.  Her partner asked, “It’s true?”  And she said, “True.”

*That’s what she said.