Europe

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Okay, so, we’re headed back to Italy on Monday for a motorcycle ride from Rome to Sicily and that means I’m fantasizing about losing weight on gelato and getting my ass pinched by deliciously lascivious Italian men.

Wish me luck!
Ciao!
xox

We just returned from a week in Paris and my brain is addled from jet lag and partaking in too much rich food because, Paris. It feels like if churros and beignets had a baby—and then covered it in Nutella. Yeah, like that. So…

1. Plaid does not exist as a wardrobe staple outside of the US. Well, except for Scotland and kilts of course, but I’ve always considered them to be a centuries-long practical joke gone awry.

2. Whatever shoes you pack— they’re wrong. And since sneakers are like wearing a Kick me, I’m the worst kind of tourist sign on your feet, you will never be comfortable. The women there have it all figured out. Me? Not so much. Mine are either too fancy or not fancy enough — too pointy, too dated, too blistery, or too…what is the word I’m looking for here…slutty, to be taken seriously or worn with any confidence outside the U.S.

3. Whatever shoes you finally DO decide to wear will be eaten alive by the cobblestones and the street grates. Europe is a death camp for shoes. One pair of mine didn’t make it out alive—and the rest have PTSD.

4. Their local “Pharmacies” are equivalent to the best Sephora you could ever imagine! Like the flagship store in Manhattan, only it’s been condensed down into a space the size of a broom closet. Besides that, when you’re walking around they’re every few feet, like a Seven/Eleven, and the flashing neon green cross has hypnotic qualities, I swear to god. It lures me in with the promise of blister guards and laxatives, and the next thing I know I’ve spent 150 euro on some French eye cream that promises me that I will have hot-monkey-sex every night if I apply it regularly—to my eyes—let’s be clear. At least that’s what I THINK the small print says. Nevertheless, I fall for it every time.

5. The toilet paper is atrocious. It is ridiculously thin and so rough you can file down a chipped nail or take some home and use it to sand down that one bad spot on the corner of the dining room table that keeps snagging your sweaters. And don’t get me started on the size of the beds.

6. Oh, hello, as it turns out, I’m lactose intolerant in Europe. I’m just one gelato away from spending the night in the bathroom. Which comes in handy because without it—I don’t poop in Europe. It’s like the food is so clean my body doesn’t produce any waste… right, anyway, I’m as regular as rain in the States so this always surprises me…in a bloaty kind of way.

7. There is no such thing as a cold drink. Or ice. But I’ve never stopped asking! I keep waiting for our obsession with tall, cold drinks to catch on, but alas, water, wine, even beer is served at room temperature and you had better get used to it ‘cause it ain’t changin’ anytime soon.

8. The sun is wonky. In the summer it stays up waaaayy past my bedtime, and it’s pitch-dark until almost 9am in the winter. It’s fucked up! Which leads me to…

9. I never pay one lick of attention to my circadian rhythm. Ever. I live in the perpetual light-box that is LA, so mine stays regulated all-year-round. But between the weird hours of daylight, the nine-hour time difference, and the mutant jet lag—my circadian ain’t got no rhythm. It’s like the fifth Pip, the one who couldn’t dance; and no amount of sunlight, exercise, sleep, or wildly expensive, overpromising eye cream can make it better. It just takes time.

10. Speaking of time—that place is old. I mean really, really, old. The stone is ancient and worn smooth. The wood is cracked and bent like my feet, and if the walls could talk they’d tell the tales of a thousand other starry-eyed visitors who walked the streets, drank the wine, cavorted, laughed, and ate more cheese than any human has the right to eat— and they loved. You can’t help but fall in love with Europe. There’s just something about it. It might be the color of the light or the air…I think it’s in the water.

Carry on,

xox

A3B29509-7F55-4FE0-AC33-EB354E78243B

(Double click link) ^^^^^^^^

We just returned from a week in Paris and my brain is addled from jet lag and partaking in too much rich food because, Paris. It feels like if churros and beignets had a baby—and then covered it in Nutella. Yeah, like that. So…

1. Plaid does not exist as a wardrobe staple outside of the US. Well, except for Scotland and kilts of course, but I’ve always considered them to be a centuries-long practical joke gone awry.

2. Whatever shoes you pack— they’re wrong. And since sneakers are like wearing a Kick me, I’m the worst kind of tourist sign on your feet, you will never be comfortable. The women there have it all figured out. Me? Not so much. Mine are either too fancy or not fancy enough — too pointy, too dated, too blistery, or too…what is the word I’m looking for here…slutty, to be taken seriously or worn with any confidence outside the U.S.

3. Whatever shoes you finally DO decide to wear will be eaten alive by the cobblestones and the street grates. Europe is a death camp for shoes. One pair of mine didn’t make it out alive—and the rest have PTSD.

4. Their local “Pharmacies” are equivalent to the best Sephora you could ever imagine! Like the flagship store in Manhattan, only it’s been condensed down into a space the size of a broom closet. Besides that, when you’re walking around they’re every few feet, like a Seven/Eleven, and the flashing neon green cross has hypnotic qualities, I swear to god. It lures me in with the promise of blister guards and laxatives, and the next thing I know I’ve spent 150 euro on some French eye cream that promises me that I will have hot-monkey-sex every night if I apply it regularly—to my eyes—let’s be clear. At least that’s what I THINK the small print says. Nevertheless, I fall for it every time.

5. The toilet paper is atrocious. It is ridiculously thin and so rough you can file down a chipped nail or take some home and use it to sand down that one bad spot on the corner of the dining room table that keeps snagging your sweaters. And don’t get me started on the size of the beds.

6. Oh, hello, as it turns out, I’m lactose intolerant in Europe. I’m just one gelato away from spending the night in the bathroom. Which comes in handy because without it—I don’t poop in Europe. It’s like the food is so clean my body doesn’t produce any waste… right, anyway, I’m as regular as rain in the States so this always surprises me…in a bloaty kind of way.

7. There is no such thing as a cold drink. Or ice. But I’ve never stopped asking! I keep waiting for our obsession with tall, cold drinks to catch on, but alas, water, wine, even beer is served at room temperature and you had better get used to it ‘cause it ain’t changin’ anytime soon.

8. The sun is wonky. In the summer it stays up waaaayy past my bedtime, and it’s pitch-dark until almost 9am in the winter. It’s fucked up! Which leads me to…

9. I never pay one lick of attention to my circadian rhythm. Ever. I live in the perpetual light-box that is LA, so mine stays regulated all-year-round. But between the weird hours of daylight, the nine-hour time difference, and the mutant jet lag—my circadian ain’t got no rhythm. It’s like the fifth Pip, the one who couldn’t dance; and no amount of sunlight, exercise, sleep, or wildly expensive, overpromising eye cream can make it better. It just takes time.

10. Speaking of time—that place is old. I mean really, really, old. The stone is ancient and worn smooth. The wood is cracked and bent like my feet, and if the walls could talk they’d tell the tales of a thousand other starry-eyed visitors who walked the streets, drank the wine, cavorted, laughed, and ate more cheese than any human has the right to eat— and they loved. You can’t help but fall in love with Europe. There’s just something about it. It might be the color of the light or the air…I think it’s in the water.

Carry on,

xox