Waking Italian Blood

So there is that person that you see from a distance. You know the one. Everything they do, even though you may not be able to hear what they are saying, makes you think to yourself, "Oh dear God, I am so glad Iam not that person". They move and interact with people in an awkward way, they are more likely than not wearing some article of clothing that you nor anyone else you know would be caught dead in, and at times like these, waiting in line times, getting onto a 15 hour long ferry ride times, somwhere deep down in the smallest rift of your brain with only the teeniest bit of an echo you say "I really hope I am not sharing a cabin with that person".

Tisk tisk, my friend. You are done for. I don't care what kind of kharma you have, you said those unspeakable, unforgivable words and life is going to make a lesson out of it. Eva was her name and she was the last person I wanted to converse with in a small room, under water, in the middle of a body of water just big enough that I didn't want to swim to either side. I think upper-middle-aged is an appropriate title for Eva. Did I mention she was Canadian? Which made it so much worse because up until then I had really liked the idea of liking all Canadians. The point is it was a big flipping boat that I was on from Stockholm to Helsinki and everywhere I turned she was there with her little big camera wanting me to take her picture while she tossed her head back and flipped her heal to the sky. She also told me all about her provisions and her packing strategies and her.......you get the picture. Not only did I get the life lesson that should only be learned once (never speak too loudly or clearly about what you dont want no matter how small the rift in your brain is) I got it twice when the next woman walked in. She was a big, burly, Finnish woman who had the most rank odor and indescribable gypsy hippsy smock on.

Luckily for me, the big boat also coordinated multiple run ins with my new Italian friends, Andrea (the boy kind) and Federico. (p.s. if you say there names in an Italian accent they become as cute as they were in real life). The three of us turned a nightmare party boat (which consisted of really old people getting drunk to cheesy country rock swingish music and really young people pretending to be old) into a damn good time. We ate, we drank, we danced, we laughed, we talked in Spanish and English and Italian with a little bit of Swedish on top, and I am pleased to say I now have friends in Italy. According to Andrea, there are two types of Italians. Exhibit A: The cream of the crop. He is cute and he knows it and he puts a little smile with white teeth in between words with little woopdydoo sounds. He gives the girls the looks no matter how legal they may or may not be (as long as their parents are not within sight) and he says nice things about nice things that makes them out to be incredible.
Exhibit B: He makes friends with Exhibit A and spends most of his time painting graffiti onto unmarked territories. His smile is equally as inviting but hidden behind thick locks of Italian hair and at the end of the day he would prefer to pretend he is twice as shy as he really is so that he can laugh, dance, drink, and have a good time without feeling like he has to get the girl at the end of the night.

So, I kissed a boy is that so terrible? Everyone is doing it and how often am I going to have the chance to kiss an Italian with whom I have been speaking Spanish with after leaving Sweden on a Finnish boat. I think after some careful thought we can all say never.

p.s. For those of you who know me, I dont need to say which exhibit I am more interested in. I should also mention, after all of that, Iam not so interested in Italians.