Italy (Or How To Post Something Two Weeks After The Event Itself)

To say my trip to Italy started well would be an exaggeration so completely epic, so absurdly optimistic and so wholly unrealistic that I would be branded a liar forever and ever and ever and ever.

It started… enthusiastically. After finishing work I had a beer, an idea that seemed both reasonable and necessary, especially when considering the busy week and my 7am flight from Luton, about fourty minutes south of London. By the time I got home, it was midnight, and I had a little bit of a buzz on. I chose that time to pack, clean the house, do my washing, watch some tv, eat some microwave pizza, and then I woke up. At 5am.

Not only had I missed my 4:30am cab to Victoria station, I’d missed my 5am bus from Victoria station. What followed was almost farcical. Desperate phone calls to cab companies, running from the house, nearly breaking my ankle on the concrete steps, swearing at fences - a classy time.

So, £65 and a fourty minute cab ride later, I got to the airport, and promptly fell asleep on the plane. And when I woke up? Italy! More specifically Cagliari, in Sardinia, which is a little island according to the magic of Wikipedia. The sun was shining, the sand was not yet turned into glass, and there were trees. In short, I wasn’t in London!

I walked over to the nearest ATM to get some money out, and nothing happened. Odd. So I tried it again. Again, nothing. Moments later, I sat down, stumped by the odd conundrum. After two months of attempting to get a bank account, suddenly it wasn’t working? Ridiculous! Then I got a phone call, letting me know that due to fraudulent card use in Italy. As I banged my head against the wall, I explained that the fraudulent card user was, in fact, me, and that I was in Italy. The kind gentleman informed me that my card had already been cancelled, and a new one reissued. I hit my head harder.

So, moneyless, tired, frustrated and damn sexy is how I would describe myself during those first fateful moments on Italian soil. But, Ian came through with both financial aid and high fives, and so I felt somewhat better.

The rest of the trip can pretty much be described in photography.

Oooooh, pretty. And high up. There appears to be no fear of heights in Italy, which made getting drunk a wonderfully fear laced experience. Ground ahoy! But I survived, obviously. Hurrah!

An attempt at highlighting my modeling qualities was hampered when a little Italian woman looked at me like I was a pervert. And now, seeing this photo in the bright light of my Macbook Pro, I can only agree with her. But the city was very beautiful, even if I wasn’t particularly.

If this was Bondi Rescue, Ian would’ve been arrested for taking this photo. We had the entire American cheerleader team (give or take about ten years) listening to Kanye and getting obscenely sunburnt. I’d also like to take this opportunity to explain that I am not, in fact, paper-white, but doused in sunscreen. Literally doused. Ian and Yvette and I constructed a most amazing tent out of a t-shirt AND MY ARMS.

There was an awkward moment early on in the trip when we went for dinner at a traditional Sardinian restaurant. So traditional in fact, that it appeared no one spoke English. So, we sat down, and suddenly wine appeared. Rad! We had half a glass each, and then more wine appeared. It was at this point that I envisioned us getting a £500 bill for wine, but it turned out it was a set menu. Ah, the joys of miscommunication.

Ah, sun and sand and lots of lying down on the beach. And hammocks! And cocktails! And tinsy-tiny windy streets and prettiness and general wonder. And that was Italy.

(The bank reissued my card a week later with a stern warning that I should always inform them of my travels, which kind of makes me feel like my parents are watching my every move through a conglomerate banking corporation. Unless you’re reading this Mum and Dad, in which case, totally ignore this whole paragraph.)