Ciao…for now.

I’m writing this from my bedroom in Fond du Lac, Wisconsin. My whirlwind six months of living in D.C. and traveling throughout Europe have come to a close.

Of course, this means LIFE with Sarah is coming to a close as well. So I want to take this opportunity to thank all of you who read about my adventures, posted comments, and generally helped reassure me that my writing doesn’t suck. (Really now, stop crying. I promise…it’s not you, it’s me.)

For fun the other day I went through my old posts. I thought a good way to wrap up my blogging project would be to share a few entries that were crowd favorites, as well as a few posts that I just had a lot of fun writing. If it fits your fancy, feel free to take a waltz down memory lane with me.

Capitol Disappointment: This is the Fourth of July in D.C.!?!? Really???

Lessons of a Starry-Eyed Intern: Sigh. So young. So clueless.

Five Minutes with Gwen: She’s awesome.

The Five-Minute Friendship: I’ve met a lot of people these past months, most of whom will never be heard from again. But I still love those brief friendships.

Italians vs. Other Europeans: I poke fun at Italy a lot in my posts, but it’s all in good fun. I mean, they really do drive that ridiculously. Their politics really are that messed up. And the whole “waiting in an orderly line” concept just isn’t happening in that country. But it was an amazing experience nonetheless.

“Wait, What Are They Chanting?” Italian football. Enough said.

Ancient Romans Were People, Too: My fascination with ancient restrooms explained.

“Prego! Prego! Vai! Vai!” Italian shopping in a nutshell.

It’s truly been a wild ride. From Milwaukee, to D.C., to Italy, to Spain, to the Czech Republic, to the U.K., to Germany, and back again, I hope you’ve enjoyed reading about my experiences as much as I enjoyed writing about them. Ciao for now!

-Sarah

Finally, I finished my final final!

I just completed my last final in Europe. That’s it, kaput, basta. I’ll never have to attend that glorified high school — ermm, Roman university — ever again.

I have to admit, it feels strange knowing my semester in Rome is almost complete. By this time on Saturday, I’ll be halfway across the Atlantic, preparing for the 60 degree (!!) temperature difference between here and home. Regardless, this semester’s truly been a whirlwind. I mean, I’ve tried authentic European food…

Payed my respects to important monuments…

And stayed in every Friday and Saturday to do homework, just like a good study abroad student should.

Oh, is that where that art history textbook went?

Really though, as I was walking through my neighborhood this afternoon, I realized how much I came to take for granted about living in Rome. I’m really going to miss that accordion player who always sits on the steps of the fountain in Piazza Santa Maria. I’m going to miss my favorite gelato place next to the stinky cheese store. I might even miss the homeless man next to Bar San. Calisto, who always has a very suspicious looking “Fanta” bottle.

Probably never again will I live in a place with such a proliferation of street vendors. Need a kitchen utensil? Never fear, a street vendor will probably be selling it for a “very good price” tomorrow morning. Cold? Stop at the handy-dandy peacoat rack, conveniently located between school and home (true story, my roommate Erin apparently thought it was always summer in Rome).

And, of course, I’ll miss my tiny little apartment on Viale di Trastevere. Six girls. Two bathrooms. One tiny little living room (if, of course, you classify a “living room” as a couch in the corner of our kitchen). We’ve laughed together, felt homesick together, and gotten lost in foreign countries together. It’s been great…minus the bugs.

Long story short, Rome’s been quite the grand adventure. But home, I’m ready to see you again. I miss toasters and bagels, Marquette basketball, and the ability to microwave whatever the hell I want. I miss living out of a closet, not a suitcase. I miss my family, my friends, and my car, Big Blue (oh wait, in a torturous act of betrayal, my parents sold him).

T minus 48 hours…

“Prego! Prego! Vai! Vai!”

Crowds swarm the Porta Portese market in Rome, which takes place every Sunday morning.

I’m of the humble opinion that you truly haven’t lived until you’ve bargained with an Italian. There’s just something so satisfying about the game — walking away after making your offer, hearing the shouts of “Signorina! Signorina!” and returning to buy that €4 scarf for €2.50.

Since this was my last weekend in Rome, I decided to take on a bargainer’s paradise: Sundays at Porta Portese. Sure, I’ve tackled the Florentine leather markets, but nothing compares to Rome’s sprawling flea market boasting treasures such as  Michael Jackson belt buckles, fake leather bags, rusted antiques and used sweaters. But as with any good market, you have to look beneath the surface to find the good stuff. And at Porta Portese, the real treasure is the experience.

Shouts of “Bella! Bella!” follow the younger sect of women hunting for pashminas and handbags. Anxious men magically pull watches out of their waistbands, warily keeping an eye on the police patrolling the market’s borders. Boisterous vendors stand on tables, shouting down passerby in an attempt to compete with the next guy over.

“Prego! Prego! Vai! Vai! Tutto €1! Tutto €1! Tuttooooo!”

Personally, I’ve found that it’s part of the fun to visit the booths of the most outrageous vendors, if only out of curiosity as to what they’re so passionately promoting. And I will admit, my roommate and I were both hypnotized by the €1 used jewelry, leading to some outrageous impulse buys.

But even when my visits didn’t lead to purchases, most booths provided a good laugh. I marveled at the self-confidence it would take to actually buy those denim, Christmas-themed lingerie sets or commemorative Michael Jackson T-shirts and wondered if anyone actually purchases the boxed razors beggars are selling on the street. I giggled at the grown men excitedly shouting about their wide selection of €2 bras. More than once, I almost got suckered into buying an item that looked oh-so-practical through market-colored glasses.

Ultimately, my bargain-loving monster emerged. I found myself struggling home through the packed streets, empty wallet and five bags in tow. As a master of justifications, I found plenty while unpacking my treasures. I wanted to practice my Italian, it was my last weekend in Rome and, of course, Christmas is just around the corner.  But don’t worry, Mom and Jessica. I promise you won’t find any market underwear under the tree this year.

A past worth remembering

You’d never guess that Germany was a country with such a grim past.

When I arrived in Munich this past weekend, the entire city was alight with Christmas cheer. It was the kick-off weekend for the infamous Munich Christmas markets, and vendors selling everything from gingerbread goodies to wool socks lined every back street and every square. Germans and tourists alike indulged in Glühwein and sausages (no wonder everyone was in such a good mood), and Santas of all shapes and sizes could be spotted throughout the city.

But, as our guide on our free walking tour pointed out, recent history holds a not-so-cheerful period in Germany’s past.

Unlike Berlin, which wears its past very much on its sleeve, Munich is slightly more subtle. You won’t find any large landmarks of the terror inflicted on Munich during the Third Reich, but the city holds more than 100 small markers remembering those who suffered.

Our tour guide Kevin points out a small plaque marking the former location of a shop destroyed during the Night of Broken Glass.

Walking in the footsteps of some of history's unsung heroes. This gold strip marks the detour taken by those who refused to perform the Nazi salute to a monument of Hitler just one street over.

Munich’s method of remembrance is interesting — the memory of the past is preserved, but it’s done in an understated way that fosters acceptance and a sense of moving forward. Although you could certainly spend a weekend in Munich without noticing a single reminder of the city’s dark history, our tour-guide-turned-friend Kevin helped us see the importance of learning from the errors of the past.

On Saturday, Ali, Laura and I joined Kevin and a few others for a tour of the former Dachau concentration camp right outside of Munich. The area now functions as a memorial site for the countless innocent people who were imprisoned at Dachau, the facility that served as the blueprint for every other Nazi concentration camp in Europe.

One of the several memorials at the former Dachau facility.

Perhaps the eeriest part of our visit was the stop at Dachau’s gas chambers — one of only four that still survive in Europe to this day. Although official records show Dachau’s chambers were never used for their intended purpose, that’s really beside the point. Seeing them in person, not just described in words in a textbook, hit me hard. As a political science major, I study catastrophic conflict, humanitarian disasters and war every day. But it wasn’t until I felt the barren atmosphere of Dachau that I began to truly realize the extent of man’s capability for cruelty.

As I left the camp, the image of a small, unimpressive memorial stayed with me. Below a simple statue of a newly liberated prisoner was inscribed the phrase “Remember the dead, warn the living.” At that moment, I gained a newfound respect for Germany, a country that humbly recognizes its past in an attempt to educate.

Fortunately, Germany wasn’t all doom and gloom. I drank plenty of the aforementioned Glühwein (a hot, spiced wine that seemed to be the winter drink of choice for anyone over the age of 16) and even had a big pretzel or two in the city’s infamous beer halls. Munich has grown and moved forward from the dark chapter of the Third Reich, and we must remember that most people in Germany today have no connection to the horrific persecutions of WWII. But as fewer and fewer people are able to recollect Germany’s mistakes first-hand, the more we should believe this history is worth remembering.

More than meets the eye

I made my second voyage to London last weekend. My first was as a pre-teen, when I had dreams of princes and princesses dancing through my head. In middle school, London was a place full of mystical history, royalty, and those funny little guards in weird hats.

As a college student, I saw a distinctly different side of London. Of course, my friend Laura and I still made the typical London circuit, eating fish and chips:

gawking over the city’s telephone booths (does anyone actually use these things anymore?):

checking the time at Big Ben:

and walking Tower Bridge:

But this time around, I saw that London goes deeper than the crown jewels or those funny little guards (which, come to think of it, neither of which I actually got to see). This time, I got to experience London as a modern, truly international city

Laura and I, in typical poor college student form, spent the weekend sleeping in our friend Geysha’s tiny flat. She graciously let us make makeshift beds (I’m pretty sure I slept under her desk the first night) and shared her Frosted Flakes in the morning. But more importantly, Geysha gave us the true London experience, which we embarked on with her friends from all corners of the globe.

Geysha avoided the Tube, preferring instead to ride at the top of London’s famous double-decker busses. She said it was the thrill of watching drivers juuust miss brave bicyclists, but it was also a fabulous way to people watch and become acquainted with the life of the city. Except when a drunk, 40-year-old Englishmen threw up all over  his seat on Saturday night. That was gross.

We visited one of Geysha’s favorite coffee shops in London (which didn’t stop us from having Starbucks three times), ogled over way-over-my-credit-limit fashions, and, for the first time in three months, I saw an American movie from the comfort of a movie theatre.

On Friday night, Laura, Geysha and I transfixed her German classmates with descriptions of prom (yes, Facebook photos were unearthed). In return, Geysha’s friends recounted their own high school years. Turns out some teenage woes transcend all cultures.

As a grand finale, Geysha brought us to her favorite pub, a relaxed Dutch place with a diverse clientele. I found myself high-fiving an Irishman for his support of Hillary Clinton and belting the lyrics to “Love Shack” with an eclectic group of Americans, Australians and French. A middle-aged Englishman asked me for my opinion on a beer (my father would be so proud).

Where else but in Europe?

A few of my favorite things

All study abroad students have a few why-the-hell-did-I-come-here moments. They usually come when classes actually start to maintain a legitimate presence in their lives, when they can’t understand why it’s impossible to buy a tiny jar of peanut butter for less than four Euro, or when they’ve received one-too-many sentimental Facebook wall posts from friends back home.

I caught myself having one of those moments this week. Perhaps it was the realization that for the first time, I won’t be seeing my family and friends from home during Thanksgiving weekend. But then I remembered — I’m in Rome. I needed to snap out of it. Therefore, I now present to you:

My Favorite Rome Things

A Sarah Krasin Original

Men dressed as gladiators and crazy street vendors
Hundreds of mopeds and the hilarious language barrier
Never buying bus tickets and escaping scott free
These are a few of my favorite Rome things

Wine with my pizza and millions of noodles
Drunk foreign students in Piazza Trilussa
Successfully using cobblestone to break in my heels
These are a few of my favorite Rome things

When my Italian fails
When the gelateria closes
When the dollar falls
I simply remember Rome’s craziest things…
And then I don’t feel so bad.

America, I’ll see you in less than a month!

Czech it out! A weekend in Prague

Prague's famous astrological clock.

Accept my apologies for this post’s title, but I’m having one of those days where I crack myself up. So let’s go with it.

This weekend I traveled to Prague, Czech Republic, a destination I never dreamed of seeing. And, strangely enough, there was a point in my lifetime that I never could have dreamed of casually traveling to Eastern Europe. Granted, I was only about a year old, making it unlikely that I had such sophisticated dreams. But seeing as how I can’t even drink the Czech Republic’s fabulous beer in the United States legally yet, it’s shocking to realize that this impossibility wasn’t so long ago.

The Czech Republic certainly seems to have Westernized quickly. It’s the most economically successful country of the former Eastern bloc, has joined the European Union and, according to our tour guide, somehow found time to invent really scary armor-piercing bullets. I had Starbucks four times, KFC once, and a pina colada at TGI Fridays. Everyone working in a service industry spoke impeccable English.

But  I couldn’t help but feel a lingering sense of sadness  in certain areas of the city. In Prague, which has seen more hatred and oppression than many other places in Europe, history has left a bitter legacy.

We walked Prague’s beautiful Jewish quarter, which is home to Europe’s oldest active synagogue. However, this and other impeccably preserved Jewish buildings point to a morbid part of WWII history. While the tiny area could have easily been extinguished during the Nazi occupation, Hitler preserved it with plans to transform the neighborhood into a museum of an extinct race.

In Wenceslas Square, passerby are reminded of yet another dark period in Prague’s history. In front of the National Museum, a small wreath memorializes Jan Palach, a student who died after setting himself on fire in 1969 to protest the 1968 Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia. Not long after, Czechoslovakia entered into one of the most oppressive political regimes of the 20th century — a period that still lives in the memories of many Czechs.

During my short time in the city, I realized that no matter how many Starbucks Prague may have, there’s still a slight sense of uneasy bitterness toward the West. I occasionally felt that locals I encountered were holding me at arms length, speaking their perfect English with a bit too much politeness. And my roommate learned the hard way that it’s not American cheese at Subway — it’s Czech cheese.

Regardless, Prague somehow managed to captivate me in a unique way. Maybe it was the hot wine (which is approximately 100 times tastier than it sounds). Maybe it was because at 25 Czech Crown to the Euro, I got to feel like I was playing with Monopoly money all weekend. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the delicious food in Old Town Square:

Fried dough, wrapped in a spiral, coated in sugar and almonds. Pure perfection, for a mere 50 crown.

Posing with our delicious chicken kabob and sausage.

At this point I’d usually say farewell in Czech, but the lack of a Latin base in their language really threw me this weekend. Therefore, the only thing I learned was “thank you,” which sounded something like “jinkwee,” and that “no” means “yes” and “nay” means “no.” Maybe I’ll get back to learn more, but for now Prague is “Czeched” off my list. Again, it’s been one of those days.

The Spanish life for me

When I asked my friend Katie what we were going to do when I visited her in Madrid this past weekend, her answer included wandering aimlessly through parks, drinking caffe con leche, viewing art and ogling gorgeous Spaniards (men and women — like all Europeans, Madridians put my fashion to shame).

It sounded perfect to me, and a tram, a train, an airplane and three metros later, my roommates Ali and Erin and I were excitedly hugging Katie in the middle of Puerta del Sol.

Marquette girls in Europe -- reunited at long last!

It’s always wonderful to have someone living in the city give you the “true” experience. Katie introduced us to one of her favorite Spanish foods (a potato and egg tortilla — sounds so wrong, but somehow tastes oh-so-right), showed us how to properly meander through Retiro Park on a Saturday afternoon and, finally, gave us a lesson in Spanish nightlife.

Many large European cities are known for their vibrant life after-hours, but Madrid might take home the prize for being one the continent’s most nocturnal cities. In Madrid, it’s all about seeing and being seen, and Spanish 20-somethings stay out at discotecas drinking over-priced champagne until the Metro reopens at 6 a.m. And it’s not just the young who stay out until sunrise. According to Katie, even working professionals will go out with friends until the wee hours of the morning, only to wake up a few hours later and meet the real world.

It’s probably no surprise then that the only souvenir I brought home from Spain was sleep deprivation. While walking through the still-packed streets of Madrid at 4 a.m. to catch our flight, my friends and I pondered their sleepless lifestyle. I’m not sure the four hours of sleep I got this weekend would be sustainable forever, but I did enjoy the contrast between the modernized city and the laid-back people who lived there.

My first trip out of Italy also enlightened me to how little Rome has been touched by American culture in comparison with other parts of Europe. I definitely used Madrid to get a quick fix of home:

My very first stop in Madrid, and my very first American coffee in two-and-a-half months!

OK, so it's called Dunkin' Coffee in Europe, not Dunkin' Donuts, but the donuts tasted the same -- delicious.

I'm almost ashamed, but we just couldn't resist. Plus, the place was packed with Spaniards, so we felt fairly legitimate.

Gelato and leather: The Phil in Europe experience (Part 2)

I never thought I’d have to say what I’m about to say.

I was outshopped this weekend. By my boyfriend. I can just see my mom sitting at the dining room table, reading this on her laptop and shaking her head in dismay (Where did I go wrong!?).

You see, Phil and I spent a weekend in Florence, Italy, home of some of the world’s best gelato and a little sculpture of David by some guy named Michelangelo.

But more importantly, Florence is famous for its leather.

Every girl I know studying in Italy has made the pilgrimage to Florence at some point to pick out the leather bag. It’s more about the experience, really. You head to one of the city’s markets, pretend to be disinterested in a bag that you would really die to have, and hope one of the seedy vendors stops smoking long enough to tell you his “very good price for the pretty American girl.”

I purchased my bag quickly, hoping to spare Phil the pain of hours of mind-numbing decision making (black or brown? long or short straps? buckles? zippers? cell phone pocket!?).

Little did I know.

Phil started small, making an oh-so-practical boy purchase — a black leather belt. Then he went for the shoes (in all fairness, he’d been talking about getting shoes of this variety for quite some time). But then we met Mario.

After casually stopping to window shop at one of Florence’s countless leather stores, the small, flamboyant Italian salesman suddenly appeared.

“Ciao! Hola! Hello! Guten tag!” he said with uninhibited excitement. “What language you like?”

He ignored our stuttering claims that we weren’t seriously looking for a purchase, and waved us inside the store. Slightly amused and curious, we followed. We exchanged the typical pleasantries, which led Mario to excitedly introduce “Phil from Chicago!” to every other employee in the store.

“Phil from Chicago!” was immediately ushered to the back of the store, where Mario was already ripping a coat off some poor, abused mannequin. Phil humored Mario, putting on the light brown coat adorned with more pockets, buttons and flaps than were necessary for a man from the south side of Chicago. Seeing his hesitation (especially once Phil was informed of the 1,000 Euro price tag), Mario quickly led us upstairs.

After some confusion about sizes (“I’m sorry to say, Phil, but you are very tall man.“), Mario finally found The Coat.

Mario, as well as two other store employees who had come to enjoy the show, assured Phil that he could get The Coat for a “very good price.” Phil continued to barter, feeding the employees a touching recent-college-grad-sob-story while I sat with our already accumulated bags (talk about role reversal).

They offered him a lower price if he paid cash (“You need ATM? I take! I take!”) and demonstrated the coat’s quality (“I bend, I twist, I stab, you see…it does nothing!”). But for 260 Euro, Phil wasn’t taking the bait.

We began walking out of the store, away from the ever-entertaining Mario and, of course, The Coat. But Mario, not to be defeated, had Phil try on the coat just one more time.

As I sat and made conversation with another salesgirl, Mario was busy whispering sweet nothings about credit cards and lower monetary offers in Phil’s ear. And finally, much to my surprise, Mario, Phil and the store manager were celebrating, ripping the tags off The Coat.

We spent the rest of our time in Florence enveloped in that new leather smell.

— — — — —

By the way, not all of our time in Florence was spent searching for leather deals. Here’s a quick overview of the rest of our time in this Renaissance city:

Ponte Vecchio: This bridge is famous for two reasons. First, it's currently completely lined with incredible jewelry shops, but it used to be home to the city's butcher district. Second, it was the only Florentine bridge not destroyed by the Nazis in WWII.

Piazzalo Michelangelo: It's a hefty climb up, but the view from here is incredible!

Accademia Gallery: Yes, there are things in here besides the David. But honestly, who can pay attention to them?

The infamous Duomo of Florence.

Phil and I also took an amazingly tasty walking tour put together by the How to Tour Italy Project. Seriously, it was some of the best gelato of my life. And my panino? Fabulous. Check it out here.

Sunny beaches and torrential downpours: The Phil in Europe experience (Part 1)

It’s a long way down, but who is to blame…who is to blame…who is to blame…

If you’re not part of the Krasin Klan, this inside joke is probably lost on you. Let’s suffice it to say that as a young child, my father used to stand proudly on his kitchen counter and sing this little tune, thus setting himself up for a lifetime of teasing at every family gathering.

Maybe Italy’s getting to me and I’m becoming sentimental, because that song ran through my mind more often than is normal this past weekend while I was on the Amalfi Coast. However, it also could have been because I spent my entire weekend doing things that involve looking a long, long way down — like taking whiplash-inducing bus rides with breathtaking views of Italy’s rocky coast and riding chairlifts up mountains.

Day One: Capri

One very bumpy ferry ride and a million steps later, Phil and I were rewarded with this amazing view of Capri.

On the chair lift up Monte Solaro.

Beautiful view of the Bay of Naples on the top of Monte Solaro.

Before you get too jealous (you are jealous, right?), I’ll admit that it wasn’t all fun and sun our first full day on the coast. Take the following exchange into account:

“Boy, I’m so glad we had beautiful weather today,” I shouted back to Phil as we descended down to Anacapri on the lift. “I thought they were predicting rain!”

Five minutes later, I felt some unwelcome sprinkles hitting my face.

“You had to say it, didn’t you?” Phil shouted back sarcastically.

Of course, I did have to say it, and the scene awaiting us at the ferry port was anything but beautiful.

 

Before the torrential downpour.

Like Phil said, I HAD to say it...

Day Two: Coastal towns of the Amalfi Coast

Luckily our next day on the Coast was a little more agreeable, and thanks to some Daylight Savings Time confusion Phil and I got an unnaturally early start to see the coastal towns of Positano and Amalfi. And what a start it was…

 

View of the Amalfi Coast from the bus window. It's said that all the bus drivers in this area are either good...or dead. Luckily, we had a good one.

 

View of Positano from the beach. This is probably one of the most interesting towns I've ever seen...it's built right into the rocky hillside!

Phil and I took full advantage of our time on the coast by getting away from the over-priced gelato shops of the touristy town centers and taking a bus ride up to the tiny little hill town of Nocelle. Although the bus ride was slightly terrifying (the driver’s idea of “safety” was honking obnoxiously to warn other cars before he went whipping around each hairpin curve), the view at the top and the hike down was well worth it.

After downing a quick picnic of bread and cheese, Phil and I began the 1700 step climb down the mountain to Positano. This area of hiking trails along the rocky coast is appropriately billed as "Sentiero degli Dei" or "The Path of the Gods."

 

1700 stairs, not so fun. But the views were amazing, and we met a nice old Italian man along the way who made us try what is still an unidentifiable fruit. I guess we're not dead yet, so it's OK.