Are we having fun yet?

Alriiiiight. So, Elba. What's up with that?

Elba, for those of you not in the know, is a small island off the cost of Tuscany. It's claim to fame is being the first isle of exile for non other than Napoleon Bonaparte in 1814. However, Bonaparte escaped after only 300 days. He was later re-captured and permanently exiled to the island of St. Helena in the south Atlantic. However, during his stay in Elba, Napoleon enacted several successful social and political reforms, much to the delight of the locals. Go figure.

 Haters gonna hate.

Anyways, my sojourn on Elba was only 3 days and I had zero effect on municipal law, that I know of.  But I did run a half marathon. More importantly, I rented a scooter and drove around the island. Why is this more important? Let me explain.

I have a habit of, while on vacation, forcing myself to do things that I justify as character building. Mostly, I force myself to do things so that I am no longer afraid of them. About 5 years ago, I got into a car accident while on vacation in the US. I had my mothers car, her brand new car she would like me to tell you, and I was driving in an unfamiliar location in the rain. Well, I accidentally ran a red light at the bottom of a hill and I hit another car. It wasn't the worst car crash and no one was hurt, but it imprinted on me a sense of fear that I didn't like. While I would have liked to "get right back on the horse" as they say, I was FORBIDDEN from driving my parents cars. Ever.again. This moratorium was lifted last summer when my Dad said, "Sure, drive my convertible". And I did. And I didn't crash it. And it was only after this event that my mother permitted me to drive her car again. Thanks for having faith in me mother!

Do you see that look of fear in her eyes? I'm sure I just asked to borrow her car.

Moving on....when I went to Thailand, I rented a scooter and drove around one of the southern islands. Let me just clarify that this was the first time I had EVER driven a scooter and, in Thailand, they drive on the left side of the road, so it was a trial-by-fire kind of moment. But I did it. So help me God I did it and I did not crash. I actually got to see some cool waterfalls up in the mountains. But did I enjoy it? This riding around? No. It was a test of my mental fortitude and sheer will to suppress my every impulse that screamed "GET.OF.THIS.VEHICLE.OF.DEATH!". Still, I reasoned that there were hundreds of drunk tourists who careened around the island on scooters at night and (most) of them escaped injury so, therefore, I should be able to avoid vehicular manslaughter in my very sober, very paranoid, very focused state. And I was right. Though it is, to date, one of the most stressful moments I have ever had on a vacation.

 Thai nature. Ohhhhh, ahhhhh.

Jump ahead to Elba and I decide to rent a scooter again so as to continue the tradition of raising my cortisol levels while on vacation. Part of my desire to keep driving is that I don't want to totally loose the skill and be one of those people who absolutely CAN'T DRIVE. I want to maintain, in some small way, a sense of autonomy when it comes to transportation. You would think then that I would rent a car, but a scooter is good enough for me right now.

Just like in Thailand, there was this sense of "Here we go I'm going to die". It took me a solid 5 minutes to figure out how to turn on the scooter...AFTER I had been shown, minutes earlier, exactly how to do so. When I asked for more help, the rental attendant looked at me as if to say "Is this the best life choice you could be making right now?" It was a look that does not imbue one with a sense of self-confidence. STILL I had already paid and I am not going to forfeit money due to my delicate sensibilities. FORWARD WE GO.

 Is this the part where we start having fun?

So imagine me, riding this scooter at EXACTLY THE SPEED LIMIT, thank you very much, with no sunglasses, squinting in the wind. I had concluded that sunglasses would impede my vision, so I forced my eyes to focus without UV protection. This caused my mascara to run, so, basically, it looked like I was crying, this terrified, sobbing blonde girl riding a scooter very slowly around a nearly deserted island, her knuckles white from gripping the handle bars so tightly. I am sure I have never looked so glamorous or daring.

#maybeshe'sbornwithit

However, with time, or maybe just exhaustion (being extremely nervous and tense is very tiring) I relaxed and re-learned one of the most important rules of scootering: people can go around you. Stay to the side, in your own lane, and let those speed-demons rule the rode. This is the same principle I apply to running marathons. Go your own pace, run your own race. Clearly I'm not a competitive runner, or scooter driver for that matter. "GO AROUND ME" I kept thinking in my head as tiny smart cars tailgated me. Eventually they did, and eventually I got to my destination. I also eventually acquiesced and wore sunglasses, finding them to be more helpful than distracting while riding in the sun. Go figure.

So moral of the story: you can always drink afterwards to quell your night terrors after having forced yourself to do something you hate.

ALSO ALSO ALSO good news of the best kind! My nephew has been found to have NO Leukemia cells in his spinal fluid, so go Luke! Remember we are raising money for Alex's Lemonade Stand, a charity that funds children's cancer research. Go to http://www.firstgiving.com/fundraiser/runcarlarunproject/TeamBabyLuke-2 to donate. You can also follow me on Instagram at @runcarlarunproject. TEAM BABY LUKE ALL THE WAY!

Team Baby Luke

It's happening people. Team Baby Luke is happening. It's happening all over the world. It's happening in Massachusetts where Luke is currently undergoing chemotherapy, it's happening in Italy where I'm blogging, it's happening in all the places I'll be running, and it's happening wherever you are, right now, reading this.

So what is Team Baby Luke? Team Baby Luke is everything you are doing, in your small way to help. Maybe you're praying for Luke, maybe you're sharing Luke's story with others, maybe you're visiting his tired parents in the hospital. Maybe you're his doctor, saving his life, or maybe you're just someone who found this blog and you're reading it on your lunch break. Whatever you're doing to help, thank you.

Team Baby Luke is also a fundraiser. I have started a Run Carla Run Project: Team Baby Luke fundraising page on FirstGiving.com. All donations go to Alex's Lemonade Stand. I know you read that and are now very confused.

What is Alex's Lemonade Stand? It's a charity started that comes from humble beginnings. Alex's Lemonade Stand Foundation (ALSF) emerged from the front yard lemonade stand of cancer patient Alexandra “Alex” Scott (1996-2004). At the age of 4, Alex announced that she wanted to hold a lemonade stand to raise money to help find a cure for all children with cancer. Since Alex held that first stand, the Foundation bearing her name has evolved into a national fundraising movement, complete with thousands of volunteers across the country carrying on her legacy of hope. To date, Alex’s Lemonade Stand Foundation, a registered 501(c)3 charity, has raised more than $100 million toward fulfilling Alex’s dream of finding a cure, funding over 475 research projects nationally. For more information, go to www.alexslemonade.org.

So let's recount: a 4 year old, a VERY SICK 4 year old, started a charity that has gone on to raise more than $100 million dollars. That is more than inspiring. That is a miracle. And it's proof that one small person can set into motion a tidal wave of love, success, achievement, and hope. That's what we need right now, a tidal wave of hope, a bright light to shine through the darkness and light the way.

And what will I be doing along the way? Running. So much running. I will explain more about the adventure of running in Elba, but let me just say, Elba taught me that you just have to keep going. If you can take one more step, than you can keep going. Don't think about the mountain you have to climb, think about the next tiny step you can take. You can take one more step, can't you? Then take it. And keep taking the next step, and then next, and the next after that.

My next step is to encourage you to check out Alex's Lemonade Stand Foundation and then my fundraising page (http://www.firstgiving.com/fundraiser/runcarlarunproject/TeamBabyLuke-2). The goal is to raise $10,000 by the end of the year for ALSF. I know, you're thinking, "Carla, that is a lot of money. Maybe temper your expectations." EXCUSE ME?! Did we not just discuss how a 4 year old instigated over $100 million dollars in donations. ONE HUNDRED MILLION! $10,000 a drop in the bucket. Plus I'm sure I'm going to be taking AT LEAST 10,000 steps as I train for my next marathon in...BRAZIL! Also, just to titalate you, I'm going to run a half-marathon in Transylvania. It's called the Dracula half-marathon. THAT TITLE ALONE IS WORTH $10,000.

So, check it out. Check it out on Instagram (https://instagram.com/runcarlarunproject), check it out on Facebook (https://www.facebook.com/groups/150453051730323/) and DEFINITELY check it out at FirstGiving (http://www.firstgiving.com/fundraiser/runcarlarunproject/TeamBabyLuke-2). Even if you just read it, that's the first step. Maybe telling people is the second step. And maybe finding your own Baby Luke in your own life and helping them in your own way is the next step. Take whatever steps you can to help whoever you can, whenever you can. I am taking these steps for this little guy. Who are you taking steps for? Go and set out on your journey. I hope to see you along the way.

We need to talk about Luke

So, sometimes in life, you see challenges coming, like student loans or preparing to run a marathon. You  know, in advance, it’s going to be hard, and often, you instigate the process and accept the challenges. Other times, you are surprised by unexpected road blocks, like being fired from a job or breaking a bone or being forced into rehab. Still, life has somewhat prepared you for these setbacks; you are aware that they exist and maybe you even know someone who went through it. You marshal your mental fortitude and carry on.

Then, there are the moments that come from absolutely nowhere and knock you off the face of the planet. No amount of planning could have ever prepared you for this. Let’s talk about one of those moments. My 6 month old nephew has been diagnosed with a rare, aggressive form of Leukemia. 

WHAT IS HAPPENING?!

Well, the truth is that people do get sick all the time. But, we rationalize it: oh they were old, oh they didn’t take care of themselves, oh it’s just a thing that happens…to other people. When it happens to the youngest and most innocent member of YOUR family, it feels misplaced and wrong. Like, this is a mistake. Nope. It cannot be. But it is. It really is and there is nothing you can do to rationalize it. And by rationalize it I mean escape the feelings of utter dread and fear.

This is the part where I am supposed to tell you that I have faith in God and “He never gives you more than you can handle”. Well, yes, I have faith in God, but I have no idea what he is doing. Faith is not understanding through proof or verified science. And this whole “He will never give you more than you can handle” is a myth. Nowhere in the Bible does it say that. Jesus never said “Don’t worry, if you can take it you can make it”. That’s Louis Zamperini you’re thinking of. If we could handle everything given to us, we would all be fine! Does the world look fine to you? I think it does not.

I’ve realized that telling yourself “I can handle it” endows you with a false sense of control. People tell themselves all the time “I’m fine, I can do it.” In my case it would be “I can do anything through God who gives me strength”.  “I can handle it” is often used in place of “I can fix it”. I cannot fix this. I cannot handle this. The helplessness is overwhelming, mostly due the reality that I’m across an ocean from my family. But even if I was there, I’m not a doctor. I’m not a therapist. I’m not really even a very sensitive person (the term Viking has been used to describe me more than once).  So what can I do that would matter in any measurable way?

Here we are, in the darkness of the night, with a 6 month old baby who is very, very sick. What can I do? Well, I am choosing not to focus on why, or how, or even what I can do to resolve it. I am only looking out for what I can do, period. What do you want me to do God? How do you want to use me? I can’t handle it, this disaster in front of me! So you handle it. I have zero percent plan other than to just keep looking for opportunities to do…anything. Because it’s the “God who gives me strength part” I need to focus on.

My mother likes to say we are God’s skin, that we are the physical body through which God communicates and reveals himself. God will be revealing himself though the doctors that care for my nephew, God will be revealing himself through the food that family and friends make to feed my distraught brother and sister-in-law as they wait in the hospital. And God will be revealing himself in all the ways we look for opportunities to do good. Every day is an opportunity to the work of God but you can only realize it if you’re open to doing anything and everything. So, while I would like to think I can actively do something to make everything better, I know I can’t. I can only do what God has empowered me to do. I’m not really sure what that is…….right now……but…..for the time being, I’ll keep writing. That’s what I’m going to do. Writing and running. This is coming from a person who a) is the antithesis of a natural-born runner and b) has the spelling prowess of a 3rd grader.

BE THAT AS IT MAY, this is still a running blog. And now I am running for Team Baby Luke, my sweet nephew who is now undergoing chemotherapy at Boston’s Children’s Hospital. How will my running and blogging help my nephew? I have no idea. But there are a million Baby Luke’s in the world, a million suffering who can’t handle it. Maybe I can be God’s skin to one of them.  While I would like to think everything I’m doing is absolutely for the benefit of those I love, that would be rather selfish and self-serving. There are several billion other people in the world who need help, after all. In fact, most of the time, I realize I’m doing things mostly with the intent to help myself.  I am in no position to decide what and how and why anybody should be doing anything to rectify and abate horrific life events. 

So, more to come on future running adventures and Team Baby Luke updates. 

First up, I will be running a half marathon on the island of Elba. Able was I ere I saw Elba. Even the old adage gives me hope that I will be capable to do something: Able was I. Able am I through God who gives me strength. Able am I ONLY BECAUSE God gives me strength. Able am I, able are we, Able is Luke. 

How do you know if Spring is has arrived?

Every year, Spring arrives, and I have noticed there are several markers to effectively determine that, yes, in fact, winter is over. Based on experience, here are some ways you too can tell if it's time to pack away the parka and break out those "spring scarves" you got coerced into buying a few months ago by some pushy salesperson at Banana Republic ("Oh, this reserved yet playful floral pattern will look great with any trench coat or boat shoe!" What?! Now I have to buy a trench coat and boat shoes?! I DON'T EVEN OWN A BOAT!)

1) Construction everywhere.
If you live in Rome, like me, you will notice that suddenly, all of those urban transportation projects will suddenly make a reappearance. In an obvious display of great intelligence, the Roman city council will decide to suspend the metro service past 9:30pm FROM APRIL TO FREAKING AUGUST so that they can work on "Maintenance Issues". Genius. Thus, spring, and summer, will become about getting to know your fellow man as you squish into crowded buses or awkwardly stumble down the sidewalks together en mass.

2) Allergies.
I have no allergies in Massachusetts. I was born and raised in a literal forest and that surrounding flora and I have an understanding that I don't antagonize them, and they don't antagonize me. Not so in Rome. Rome met me and said, "That tiny nose of yours looks way too not-inflamed". And thus, I have become my father by adopting his enormous sneezes that wake the dead. So, If you're traveling this spring, when the hay fever kicks in, now you know. Plus, you'll also get to wade through the matrix that is foreign pharmacies. Italy believes very strongly in organic, natural, herbal remedies. Italy also believes that the underlying cause for 99.9% of all illness is either a) going out with wet hair or b) suffering from a "bad wind". Like, it was windy and my neck was exposed and now I have kidney failure. Do you know what they prescribe for kidney failure here? Honey. HONEY!

3) Unpredictable weather.
Spring time in Italy is now a game of Russian roulette. Should I wear my down-coat or my linen tank top? Should I bring my umbrella or just sunscreen? WHO KNOW!? Yes, Italy likes to surprise-attack you with all kind of weather. In the morning, you are jauntily skipping along, sun high in the sky, and then 20 minutes later it's hailing so hard it looks like snow. I was just in Paris, and Paris in the spring is predictable: rain. It will rain and you will go eat cheese and drink wine and always have your umbrella with you. The end. In Rome...it's a mine field. I've become a kind of urban nomad, carrying around amenities with me everywhere so I'm prepared for either a flood or drought. But that's because I am Susie Can Do Everything Over-Achiever. Italians prefer to just not do the thing they were going to do and simply rationalize "It was raining. How could I go to work? Water was everywhere!"

4) Tourists.
We all know, tourists everywhere are the worst. But next weekend is Easter. Pilgrims from around the globe are migrating here for Holy Week. At least with normal tourists I can feel rightfully disgusted at their behavior when they take up too much space on the side walk or yell loudly on the bus, or stop to take pictures of EVERYTHING. But, when those tourists are hundreds of nuns coming to pay  homage to the Pope and the miracle of the resurrection, now I am the intolerant jerk. Here I am, boozing it up in the Eternal City and these Christian devotees are dedicating their life to service and poverty and chastity. I have made it a priority to avoid ALL those things and now I'm surrounded by people who make it their daily life. So, yes, Spring is also a time to feel bad about your life choices. Remorse, reflection, REPENT! Cry.

5) Eating all varieties of cute tiny animals in chocolate and marshmallow versions.
There is a brief respite in the calendar between Valentine's Day and Easter where you look in the mirror and ask yourself "How did it come to this?" You ate yourself nearly to death during Christmas, drank all the alcohol during New Years, and gave into all the heart-shaped truffle-filled chocolate during February. Then you have a intervention with yourself and stop. eating. everything. And for a while, you do survive on just kale and telling everyone about your new diet and how great you feel and how they should really try it. And then... chocolate. eggs. Chocolate eggs everywhere. Chocolate eggs the size of your head! Eggs surrounded by a tiny army of marshmallow baby fauna: chicks, bunnies, fawns, baby everything. Did I mention you suddenly notice that every woman on the planet is now pregnant as well? Babies, of all species, are everywhere and it overwhelms you to the point you just console your senses with every possible variety of chocolate egg: dark chocolate, chocolate with nuts, white chocolate, milk chocolate, chocolate with fruit, chocolate with spicy pepper, chocolate with mint. I'm waiting for chocolate flavored Pepto-Bismol at this point.

A How-To Shopping Guide for Christmas

Don’t know what to get your loved ones this holiday season? Are you stumped about what constitutes an office appropriate gift? Maxed out your credit cards and are now shopping in your house for the best re-gifting options? Well, let me help you. Follow these fool-proof steps and you will be sure to illicit tears of joy from your friends and family as they tear into your very thoughtful and artfully wrapped present (Side note: I suggest that, when at all possible, alcohol be consumed before and during the gift giving presentation, by both giver and receiver. All gifts look 10 times better when viewed through the bottom of a wine glass, or if you’re in the Christmas spirit, a brandy-imbued glass of eggnog). 

Chachkies: Remember that one time your grandmother told you she liked snowmen? You know your aunt who likes to wear scarves sometimes? What about your father who likes to play golf? Take these tid-bits of meaningless information and run wild. Give your aunt so many scarves she can sew them together to make hot air balloon, fly away to the Land of Scarves, and become their queen. Make every present golf-centric so that your father eats, breaths, and thinks only golf, eventually just turning into a giant golf ball. Case in point, my grandmother now has so much snowman-related paraphernalia, it looks as if we are getting ready to entomb her, Tutankhamen style, so that, in the afterlife, she can be surrounded by an endless supply of pillows, sweaters, candles, pens, coasters, puzzles, and a million other items that are covered with white snowy men sporting top hats, carrot noses, and corn-cob pipes. I myself have experienced this kind of theme-specific gift giving. It may or may not be known that I am fond of cats. However, I think my “obsession”, as some people are want to call it, is driven by the constant bestowal of feline products. I am now no longer worried that I will become a Cat Lady but rather I’m sure that every cat pin, cat memo pad, and cat salt-and-pepper-shaker-set is driving me slowly insane. Much like my grandmother, I too will meet my maker surrounded by cat products, just like the Egyptians would have wanted.

Consumables: This piece of gift-giving advice comes courtesy of my father: Give people things they can “consume”, be it food or soap or mints or lotion. A useful suggestion that I continue to use. However, my father takes it to another level. Never one to skirt on quantity, my father has been known to ship several boxes of wine home from a trip to Tuscany, or buy town cars so large I’m sure you need a special limo driver’s license to pilot them. Our refrigerator is known to carry within not one, not two, but probably 10 blocks of various cheeses, each the size of a cement block. You get what I’m saying, bigger is better. So it comes as no surprise that when running downstairs to open our stockings, my siblings and I found plastic shopping bags underneath the tree filled with giant 2-gallon bottles of Pantene Pro V, a six pack of Ban deodorant, and enough gum to build yourself a little house to live in, like the witch from Hansel and Gretel. Show people you care by giving them so many industrial sized toiletry products that they could open their own kiosk in the mall. I find, the more you give, the more you distract from the underlying message of the gift, which is, you smell. Or, you could be like my sister and revel in the fact that you don’t have to buy soap or shaving cream for the next 6 months. 

Matchy-matchy: This gift is specific to the couples in your life. It could be your parents, a set of brothers, your grandparents, or your nieces and nephews all closely related in age. It has been a tradition in my family that my grandparents would give my parents and my aunt and uncle matching sweaters or dress-shirts. I adore this idea. I want my Christmas to look like a well-costumed event with mandatory uniforms. Plus, you can insist the receiver IMMEDIATELY try on their newly received pink wool pull-over or handsome blue and green checked button-down cardigan. Time for pictures! My grandmother loved, loved, LOVED the color pink. Mauve really was her favorite shade. It was a sentiment not shared by my mother and aunt. Still, their willingness to don their matching sweater vests really did remind me the true meaning of Christmas: do it with style. I, of course, am exempt from this tradition. I am isolated on an island of age in my family, separated by 10 years from my nearest older sibling and nearest younger niece. Therefore, my family resorts to my first suggestion, i.e., cat kitsch.

Re-gifting: My favorite thing to re-gift is candles. I’m just not interested in lighting things on fire in my house. I appreciate the idea, but unless you host parties, which I do not, I don’t need tea candles and meltable smelling wax in my kitchen. Plus, if you don’t use them, they collect dust in at a rate I am sure is contrary to the laws of physics. But, for some reason, most people have a little bit of pyromaniac in them. And this lust for waves of hot perfumed apple, cinnamon, pumpkin, and cedar wood has birthed an ocean of smells so great you might drown in your indecision over what candle communicates “World’s Best Mother-In Law” . Yankee Candle is out of control. I recently bought (I was out of candles to re-gift) some votive candles for a friend and I was overwhelmed with the selection. Food and plant smells are abundant, and expected, but more concerning are the non-tangible scents: Storm Watch, Be Thankful, Drift Away, and, my favorite, Angel Wings. Angel Wings?! Who is lighting cherubs on fire and then duplicating the smell?! If you’re unsure on what scent most says “I Am a Valued Employee” to your boss, go for a creative candle design. I have seen candles molded in every possible shape, from the Effile Tower to flying angles (again with burning cherubs) and even human body parts. Now you can give a thoughtful, custom-made candle stick to your passive-aggressive neighbor, the wax molded into the shape of their head. While others will see a pleasant exchange between friends, you both know it’s a subtle warning: if I have to tell you to turn down your Housewives of Beverly Hills Marathon one more time, acts of arson will take place. Now go light your face on fire. Merry Christmas!

Gift cards: To me, gift cards say so much, as in, they say exactly how poor you are at that moment. I cannot give these because I spend all my money on international travel….for myself. To give you a $5 dollar gift card to Target is tantamount to me confessing “I am not a responsible adult and I spent all my money on a three-day trip into the jungles of northern Thailand.” But, if you want to share with everyone exactly how much of your tax return is still left over from this past April, just go to the check-out of any grocery store and load-up on Apple, Barnes&Nobles, and Dunkin Donuts plastic gift cards, redeemable for the next calendar year at values of $10, $20 and $50 sums. I have to say, it would make transporting your gifts much easier. As it is, I’m wondering how I am going to stuff €100 worth of Italian candy and wine into my suitcase without it breaking and melting en route. (Side note: I once bought a very expensive box of Florentine chocolates as a present to give the mother of my then boyfriend. I was POSITIVE this was the most thoughtful gift I could give and I was sure I would be beloved for all time. However, when I finally gave her the box, the candies had melted, probably because it was summer and I had forgotten the chocolates in my bag, which I might have left in the car to bake in the sun, for 3 hours. You can guess what kind of gooey horror she unwrapped. Did I mention this was the first time I was meeting this woman? Things did not go well from there…)

Jazz hands: So, I’m an opera singer. Not a professional one, but in my head I tell myself I’m good enough to be in the chorus. The star of the chorus. If I auditioned. Anyways, I have found that offering to sing and entertain sometimes is the greatest gift of all. This mostly only works for my grandmother, but my mother has also been known to shed a tear after I finish my aria. Usually it’s after I sing a song from Madame Butterfly and my mother moans “Men are awful!” (Side note: If you don’t know anything about opera, it’s mostly powerful men doing terrible things to women who have no viable problem-solving skills, and everyone is singing about it, for 4 hours.) But my penchant for performing didn’t start with me. I give credit to my sister who once made my then 8 year-old-brother dress-up in a kimono so he could star alongside her in her self-penned “Dating in Japan” on Christmas morning. I have sung at birthday parties, family reunions, and, this year, I will reprise my one-woman opera spectacular as I take the stage at my grandmother’s assisted-living care facility. So, break out your xylophone, put on your tap shoes, and show-off your comedic skills by insisting people listen to you monologue for 10 minutes about  What’s The Deal With Airplane Food (I may have just recently watched all of Jerry Seinfeld’s web series Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee). And remember, there is no greater gift than the gift of forced audience participation, God bless us everyone. 

Happy Holidays!

Tips for Dating in Rome, a.k.a. Just Do the Exact Opposite of What I Do

So, I haven't written in QUITE SOME TIME, I think it's been a year. Lawd. Anyways, someone recently told me I was funny (ME!) Clearly, this means I'm going to be the next Mark Twain Award for American Humor winner, so let's add to my already prolific blogging career and churn out another post that will inevitably lead to an HBO deal.


I have now lived in Italy for almost 8 years and I have been single for half that time. The recent half. Traveling and living by myself has been great. I am a control freak. A tall, Protestant, prudent, control freak, so I like bossing myself around with noone else present to interfere in my diligent self-moderation. But, as single people are known to do, I occasionally go on a date. Sometimes I even go on multiple dates with the same person. It happens people! I was recently talking to a friend and after I showed her the picture of the guy I went out with the evening previous, she said, "Oh, he's so cute!" She did not understand my immediate suspicion. "You can't trust the good-looking ones. The more attractive they are, the more you must assume they are the worst person you are ever going to meet. Don't you know that?" Apparently, my married for 5 years friend did not know this.

I would like to tell you all that nothing prepares an American woman to date in Italy. I'm not talking about the experience of having an Italian boyfriend (that is another blog post which I am, truthfully, ill-informed to write about). Rather, it is the process of dating them that I'm unceasingly baffled by. There is a never ending struggle to overcome your otherness, your "Americaness". Men here see you through red, white and blue glasses. But even if they can come to terms with you being from the states, you probably will never quite comprehend their Italian ways. Now, all the single ladies will tell you that physical beauty is a world-wide red herring in the dating world. But there is a minefield of cultural-specific romantic social interactions that you must memorize if you want to survive in the Roman dating world. I am in the trenches. This is my Vietnam. So from the front lines, this is what I have learned.

1) Be prepared to see your life flash before your life while riding on their Vespa. I know you all think it Gregory Peck and Audry Hepburn having a Vespa good time around the Coliseum. Go ahead. Live in that dream for a while. What if I told you that every time I'm on a Vespa with a man, I'm white-knuckling it ala Sandra Bullok and Keanue Reeves in Speed except I keep screaming in my brain "If you go over 50mph we're going to hit some grandma on the crosswalk and then we'll be in a legal battle with her estate for the rest of my life!" There are no rules in Roman driving. Everyone is triple parked, traffic lights are suggestions, and people will stop, reverse, and curse you out if you try and cut them off. I've seen it. I know. But... it's sexy you think. Come and pick me up on your two-wheeled dream machine Fabio. No. Don't. Imma meet you there Fabio. I'm taking the bus.

2) Jump aboard the complain train but beware... Italians love to complain. Especially men. Mostly about their own country. It is remarkable. Join in, but, you MUST NEVER offer any unflattering opinions about either of the following: their mother or their favorite soccer team. Now, the mother issue is self-explanatory. But the sports thing.... yikes. They really take it seriously. I once literally saw the little man that operates the mental faculties in a guys head hit the autopilot button after I said, casually, "I don't care about Totti". Game. Over.

3) Do not use the wrong hand towel in their house. So, let's revisit the mama thing. There's a weird kind of passive-aggressive Mommie Dearest relationship going on with most men and their mothers in Italy, though I'm never quite sure who is the Joan and who is the Christina. In truth, it's pretty harmless. But I have experienced it's full extent if taken to ridiculous house decorating extremes. Once, I was told, very specifically, which hand towel to use the bathroom. (Side note: Let me just say, this gentleman didn't live with his parents. This information will become important in a minute). Anyways, I wasn't really listening. I figured it would be self-explanatory. Well, my friends, I used wrong towel. Why is this a problem you ask? I was immediately chastised with a fervent "MY MOTHER DOESN'T WANT ME TO USE THESE TOWELS! SHE'LL BE SO ANGRY WHEN SHE WASHES THEM!" Let's take a moment and analyze this outburst. 1) Why can't you use these towels? More importantly, why are said towels in the bathroom in plain sight if you can't use them? Where is this linen-specific prejudice coming from? and 2) WHY IS YOUR MOTHER WASHING YOUR SHIT WHEN YOU LIVE BY YOURSELF?! Sorry, that's my Christian Reformed self-sufficient work ethic kicking in. I think my mother told me how to use the washing machine at 8 years old. I'm positive my my father's single piece of advice to me every morning when I got out of the car to go to school was, "Stay out of jail." I can't fathom such towel-specific parental interference in your 30s.

4) You better know how to cook. On almost every date, I am asked if and what I cook. Then they want details. "How do you cook the pancetta?" "How do you boil the pasta?" "How much salt do you use in the sauce?" This is a test. They are seeing if you can cook like their mother so that you can serve as a suitable replacement when mama dies...which is never! The greater the mama's boy your dating, the longer his mother will live. She'll outlive both of you and then just tell your children you didn't know how to make marinara sauce correctly. Anyways, my trick is to say my culinary forte is Mexican or Chinese or Spanish cuisine. No Italian man understands cooking requirements which extend outside the Motherland, so you're safe with a non-Italian food preference. Safe as in they won't criticize your cooking skills. Instead they'll just say all non-Italian food is too spicy/fatty/salty/dry/etc. If all else fails, I tell them I'm vegan. I mean, I am a vegan, it's not a lie, but they don't know quite how to respond to such strict diet other than to say "No steak? What?! Che palle." Also, don't ever tell them you like to eat sushi or they will ask you if you suffer from parasites in your intestines. True story.

5) They are going to seduce you. I would like to tell you that after all my many years here in Italy, I would be immune to Italian charm. But, alas, I am not. Italian men are really good at it. The Chianti, the cobblestone streets, their Mediterranean accent coupled with that thick forest of casually tossed black hair. Are you swooning yet? Well, should you find yourself in an untimely euphoric state rendered upon you by Rome's most charming son, fear not! You need only ask them what they think about dating. In general. Just a causal question. Most of them will veer right off romantic road and into the wild jungle so fast you might choke on your drink. This is a good test for me: if we're on a first date and it's going well (too well) I ask them a nonspecific question about their dating past. 90% of the time, the recount every story about their ex-girlfriends. And what their mother thought about it. Once, I got some interesting prostitute stories. If that doesn't shock you back to your senses, then you need to limit your alcohol consumption because you've clearly had too much (I speak from experience). The other 10% of the time, when they're perfect, you're just going to have to accept your going to fall in love with them and they are going to break your heart. It happens. It's fine. That's why God gave us dark chocolate and Netflix for afterwards.

6) It's not all the worst, just mostly terrible. I'm sure some of you think I'm generalizing unfairly here. No, not every Italian man between 25 and 40 is a slimy sycophant dressed in gorgeous Armani clothing. I have met some lovely Italian men....who are dating my friends or who are gay. My scientific deductive reasoning has lead me to conclude one thing: they cannot handle my blonde hair. It really is like moths to a flame. I have asked them about this. "It's true. Blonde hair: That's the dream." Clearly everyone here has watched Rapunzel one too many times. I am positive it is the single source of almost all my dates. It's my black AmEx, my free-entry to all exhibits pass. It's a double edged-sword though. It's like if I were to try and date a Masai warrior. I cannot wrap my brain around these lion hunting, spear throwing tribesmen. I can't effectively communicate with someone whose mere image has made such an impression in my brain that I can't modify it even after I have new information. In the same way, most Italian men have specific beliefs about blondes. I blame Anita Ekberg. Well, I'm an Anita Ekberg with an Angela Merkel trapped inside. This information does not compute in the Italian male mind. They keep putting coins in the Blonde Sex Siren Gumball Machine and all that comes out is feminism and practical money management advice. Charming, right? And if you are a brunette and are having problems, I don't know what to tell you.

That's it. That's what I've learned. Not a lot, right? Nope, not a lot. I have a masters in political science, know how to sing opera, have run marathons around the world, and can cook you a 40lbs turkey without breaking a sweat, but, I can't write you a very good dating guide. My best advice, write it all down so you'll have great stories to tell your friends......or your therapist.

Common Reactions To Hearing Carla Sing

I am not just a runner and study abroad administrator. Nay, I am also an aspiring opera singer (hold for applause). I may not be the best singer, but, I think it can be safely said that I am one of the most prolific singers as I tend to use almost every opportunity to get in a little music, usually against the wishes of those around me. I wouldn't say I assault you with my constant singing, but, it could be counted as a misdemeanor in some states, I'm sure. It's not that I'm a bad singer. I'm sure anyone you asked would tell you I sing pretty well (hold for applause again). However, the fact that I insist on singing ALL the time can make me insufferable. I have recently been struggling with a bought of laryngitis and thus the usual constant stream of lyrical sound that normally projects from my mouth has ebbed. This has made me incredibly frustrated and, at the same time, relieved most of my friends.

For those of you who have not had the pleasure to hear my melodious voice, below is a chart of common reactions that I regularly encounter in regards to my singing. (Full disclosure: this chart is of course inspired by Alli Broch's blog "Hyperboleandahalf" and her hilarious Pain Scale Blog Post. I reccommend you check it out right away. Why are you still reading my blog? Seriously, go read her stuff. Way better).

Are you still reading? You must be my mom. Thanks Mom!

I regret nothing! Although, I do want to thank my college roommate Michelle for not murdering me in my sleep.

Also...since this blog strives to raise social awareness, I'm sure you've all seen/heard what has happened in the Philippines due to Super Typhoon Haiyan. The Red Cross estimates that 10 million people have been affected, with 600,000 being displaced and a death toll that has now risen to over 3,000, and this is still early on. There are still thousands of people still unaccounted for since the storm. The devastation to this region cannot be overstated. Please consider donating as this disaster has impacted one of the poorest regions in the world. Go to the American Cross to learn more: http://www.redcross.org/news/article/Red-Cross-Sends-Support-to-Philippines-for-Typhoon-Response. 

And, as you may have guessed, this marathon's cause is dedicated to those in the Philippines. Since I will be running in Thailand, it seems only appropriate that my run in Southeast Asia honor those nearby in the region that are suffering most.

I will be wearing the T-shirt below during the race. This shirt, designed by Dan Elijah G. Fajardo, is sold on Threadless.com at http://www.threadless.com/product/5495/The_Sun_Will_Rise_Again/. 100% of net proceeds from the sale of this T-shirt will be donated to Architecture for Humanity to support those affected by the devastating typhoon that hit the Philippines.

So do your part, no matter how small, this holiday season. You can even look fashionable while doing it. Reach out to someone in need and keep those in the Philippines in your prayers.