happy camper

PAULINA IS HERE AND EVERYTHING IS WONDERFUL
For those of you that don't know, my other half has come to visit me.  She arrived last Tuesday, and is the best thing that has ever happened to Rome ever.  I'm looking at you, Caesar.

I don't have a lot of time, since I'm having fun and stuff, so I'm gonna go ahead and incorporate my love of list-making by, once again, jotting down a few things that happened this week pre-London:

Edoardo got a microphone.  This is not okay.
Paulina hitched a ride to her hotel from a stranger by speaking almost french, after trudging through a field of horses and scaling a freeway in a thunderstorm.
She checked out of that hotel and crashed on my bed during an accidental 12 hour nap.  We have been alternating between the wood floor and my bed ever since.
I didn't want my host parents to know that I was hosting Paulina without their permission, so I forced Paulina to hide in my bedroom while we waited for the house to clear of any and all grandmas.  It worked fine until the maid needed to use my bathroom... I don't know why I do things.
While taking a walk through the park, Edoardo fell into his own stroller, locking his hips between the back wheels, forming somewhat of a human seesaw.  I pissed my pants.

On Thursday night, we ditched the klutz before his bedtime to catch a flight to London.

We grabbed dinner at the airport, where Paulina took a bite out of her cooked ham sandwich, made a disapproving face, flipped it around, and exchanged it for a new, unbitten, and uncooked sandwich.  To be fair, i also exchanged my good-for-nothing sandwich.  My passport was finally stamped by the important Roman at the Customs desk, who wasn't exactly thrilled to see that I was so surprised upon receiving a manual stamp.  And because neither of us bothered to check which airport we were flying into, we were forced to spontaneously spend the night at a Wifi-less Hilton (thanks Paris) near Stansted, hours from downtown London, catching a ride from an old survivor of throat cancer.  He and I spoke quite a bit, but between the accent and the hole in his neck, I can only guess that we got along famously.

After a chilling "December in The Worst New York" day, running from one pub to the next to avoid catching pneumonia, we spent the second sunny day accidentally walking in circles around the London eyeball.  After a meal I'll never forget at the "Udder Belly Festival" (burgers with fancy cheese that starts with an "s" idk), we ignored our better judgement and hopped on a duck boat tour.  Our flirty guide, sporting dad jeans and a beautiful face, blasted the James Bond theme song as our WWII veteran bus/boat/miracle drove into River Thames.  Paulina and I were easily the most engaged passengers, laughing at every over-rehearsed joke and never breaking eye contact in the hopes that, in an act of justice, he would tip the boat just enough to dump all the other tourists in the choppy water and whisk us away to a long and happy life of amphibian love.

Later that evening we were invited over to my favorite Jack's house for dinner with his family and it was perfect they are perfect- especially the dog, who left me with a layer of sticky love slob all over my neck.  We killed the rest of the night splitting pitchers of girly mixes at some loud bar club thing, dicking around with my camera, and trying not to stare at the black albino guy make out with every ~lAdY on tHe dAnce fLo0r~.

The friend who was supposed to host us Saturday night messaged me HOURS before meeting up and cancelled, leaving Paulina and I to panic and reach out to every london contact we had (this includes my friend's father's cousin).  Hotels were nearly all booked up, and the only rooms left cost over $400/night due to some big rugby match I don't know I don't watch sports.  We ended up staying with Paulina's kind-of-ex, who was incredibly kind and even spent the night on a friend's couch down the road so that we could have his bed.

After a well-balanced breakfast of barbecue roasted peanuts, I took off back to Rome, leaving Paulina in London to drink cheap beer, steal wifi, and dance with her pinky in the air until Tuesday night, when she returns back into my Italian-by-the-transitive-property arms for a ghost tour of the city.

I don't know.  This week acted as sort of a sassy smack in the face, reminding me of just how wonderful my friends are, waiting for me back at Columbia as soon as I get my shit together.  I gotta get my shit together.

Okay.  Wouldn't want this to get emotional, bye,
Kay