I have been wandering the streets of Rome, every day a new direction, a different side street. I don’t know the names of anything and could probably never find the same things again. If the cars weren’t here I feel as though I could slip in time.

It’s a bit further away from studio but there is a cute little restaurant to the right of it that makes the most amazing bruschetta and a pizza place down the block that has potato pizza and the guy who works there was one of the first people who didn’t switch to english and he even taught me the names of the different kinds of pizza.

Classes are just starting up, there is a class devoted to sketching, another that walks around Rome focusing on ancient history, a class on modern (after the 17th century) Roman history, one on urban studies, and of course Design and Italian. Lots of hand drawing, my computer will miss me.

After a great night of rest I made my way to the school. Some quick directions from the hotel concierge who told me to take bus H saw me treking through the train station again with my absurdly heavy suitcase to a bus stop that was “Just around the corner.” Following the signs that said bus and a quick stop at an information center who pointed directly behind him to a bus stop clearly labeled H, sheepishly I walked over and got a ticket at a near by stand and got on.
As the bus drove off, I realized I didn’t know how to recognize where I was going or if I was really on the right line. I furtively got out my little guide book trying to locate any of the streets that were flying by on the map. Until I saw the street Garabaldi, that I recognized as the street I was supposed to live on, I quickly got off the bus (or as quickly as one can be with a huge suitcase and a travel backpack) and found, yes, another information plaza. With a tiny little ramp and little doors, I force my way awkwardly through to ask (in italian) where S. Appollonia was. The woman behind the desk gave me a confused appraising look and responded in English that if I walk down the street and take a right at some point before the Piazza Santa Maria I would find it.
My suitcase screamingly loud on the cobbled streets I made my way until one of the signs said S. Appollonia, and after walking back and forth around trying to figure out where 3 was I found hidden on of the buzzers right in front of me,  the name Pratt. Finally. After sorting out saying hi to Pratt Italia people none of whose names I remember anymore the woman in charge walked me to the apartment where I will be staying. Arm in arm (she insisted) we walked, me hauling my suitcase in my free hand trying not to show the pain as she strode along lightly holding the umbrella. Feeling the blister forming as we walked I was grateful to finally stop in front, a woman coming out who I was terribly impolite to probably catching my breath and trying not to show it, hair disheveled, I manage a Buongiorno, maybe, at least I hope it came across. Just past the door, oh thank goodness a lift. I feared trying to carry that suitcase up the stairs. She unlocks the door for me and says that my neighbors are a lovely (and in a hushed voice gay) couple. Settled in, ie nothing unpacked just computer out playing some music. I need to get the wireless password it is there taunting me and then maybe some groceries.

I should probably also note that I have no idea what floor I am on. I will have to figure that out when I leave.

Up next: getting lost!

Gathered my stuff and started walking  and actually found the hotel less than two blocks away. Once I was safely signed in and on the internet again I decided to be adventurous and find some shampoo, essential after a solid day of travel. Figuring the Farmacia I had seen across the street would be a safe bet I went in, only to wander stupidly around the story like a child; unsure what anything was and nothing looking like shampoo. Luckily a grocery was next door.

Tomorrow: how to get to school?

Landing in HCMC (Ho Chi Minh City) I don’t think it really hit us until we were walking from one hotel to the other… We couldn’t figure out how to cross the street. The locals seemed to access some sort of inner zen and step into the traffic like a leap of faith. Our darting out when we thought we saw a gap only brought us closer to death as scooters swerved to miss us and finding out that buses don’t even slow down. By the time we got on the train to Da Nang we had mastered the zen of street crossing.

The train brought us more adventure as we took over a car and were trying to get pictures of the flood plains and the mountains only to find the people on the train quite angrily telling us to close the windows because the mountain people throw gasoline into the windows of the train as a past time, or as best as we could figure out what they were saying. Our translator’s  Vietnamese did not seem to  get us very far since in the hotel when trying to find out if our laundry was done the maids produced condoms and no word on the status of our clothes.

He did however manage a trip for us to Halong Bay, a complete disconnect from the rest society. On a three story yacht…. Really getting down to earth.. Among Jurassic park settings , college kids jumping off the top of the boat blasting “I’m on a boat”

I won’t get  too far into the adventures of Hanoi… readers digest version…  Vietnamese mafia, a millionaire – and a girl from the midwest  who doesn’t normally drink doing shots with a 2 star VC General and her classmates.

However, 10 minutes or so passed after the driver had jumped off and out of nowhere he pops back up and starts the boat as though nothing had happened, slightly dripping.  We made our trip back with more people on the roof which became a little bit of an issue as we realized just how much we were leaning either way if anyone moved.

Getting off the boat we were greeted with souvenir plates with our faces on them, unbeknownst to us a little girl had taken pictures of us as we got on to the boat.