Caipirinhas and Cute Italians

Okay, so both of those titular subjects should be singular.
- I've only been here for a day and a half.

I'm living in a fresco.

That's actually a poorly informed metaphor, since frescos generally include human subjects and are often religiously themed.

I'm living Under The Tuscan Sun. Life Is Beautiful.

heh.

I'm exhausted. Probably because we decided to go celebrate last night instead of sleeping.
After the 25 minute walk into town, we found a great martini bar with a hot young bar tender (who didn't seem to notice me aside from mixing me a deliciously strong Caipirinha) and an older bar tender (who kept winking at me as I stood in line). The place was at the very end of the road we chose randomly to wander down and had a posh, futuristic interior. Their fairly extensive menu of cocktails with familiar names and top shelf booze made me nervous with it's complete lack of prices (don't order alcohol without knowing what it costs, kids. P.L.D.), but everything was 5 Euros, which, despite a piteous exchange rate is pretty reasonable.
Then we moved to another bar where half of the group had broken off in search of beers and took over the clean well lighted space to make slightly (less) awkward small talk about assigned reading that no one had read (was I the only one who was excited?). I took a tequila shot there with my roommate - because what kick starts enforced intimacy like inebriation - which they charged us 3.50 for. I suspect that the Italians don't normally do shots, since the bar tender seemed to pull the requested figure out of thin air. - You could see it in the 'are these American college kids going to pay this, because they look like they'll be ignorant enough of the exchange rate and intent enough on intoxication to do just that' look he hid behind his 3 and a half fingers. (...think about it... how do I mean it?)
Fortunately, the walk, which is uphill (BOTH WAYS, conflabbit) is going to be deliciously sobering and slimming, especially in this unseasonably chilly weather. (perhaps the 14 sun dresses I packed were a bad idea)
Of course, it sobered me up just enough to sip some Chivas Regal and try to work into conversation the inappropriate personal facts which seem, to your intoxicated mind, like brag worthy fun facts. It's the impulse that's provoked every game of Never-Have-I-Ever I've ever played. ("Okay, OKAY! What's your favorite body part on a person of the opposite sex? - I mean, on the sex you're attracted to? - Wait, what's, is everyone normal? - I mean, straight? Do we have any... Okay, what's your favorite part of people - and who here do you think has the best... Want to smell me?")



This morning I went for a run, to burn off the rest of the hangover and check out the grounds. We're surrounded by olive groves and cedar trees, and situated about three quarters up a winding one lane road dotted with other Renaissance villas and ending, so I'm told, in a vineyard run by a Count. I am also told, that he does not wear a cape. Disappointing.
After that, we played orientation games which involved running into the center of the circle and shouting your name and increasingly personal facts, immediately after which, anyone about whom the fact was also true descended on you in a clapping, cheering mob of accord. I found the most difficult part to be thinking of answers to questions like "Why are you here?" that were reflective but not maudlin. I'll get there. ("Hi. I'm Allegra, and I want to, correct my crisis of faith...")

The food is great. Did that come out of no where? Sorry, I'm hungry.
Everything gets homemade for us by the mystical Riccardo. Today we had gnochi for pranzo and minestrone for cena (look, I'm practically fluent), but we were told that the wine they'd served us with dinner last night was a celebratory, first night kind of thing. Sigh. You can't have everything I suppose.

So, now that I've wasted sufficient time, I can go to bed without (hopefully) waking up at 4 am.

ciao bella

(god, I'm so fucking continental)