Speak loudly and carry a pack of soothing cough drops

I'm hoarse.

Not to be an old lady, but why must they play the music so loud in bars? How are people supposed to have a decent conversation over ear-piercing guitar solos?

Five and a half years in the UK and my once-robust American vocal chords have shrivelled into shadows of their former selves. I became so accustomed to the meek, muted tones of British discourse that I fear I may never regain my old volume.

In Edinburgh I'd often work from the black chair in our bay window. I quickly learned how to tune out the bagpipes. But when American tourists would walk down the Mile, my ears couldn't ignore their familiar, flat, unapologetic, thunderous honking. MY PEOPLE. I'd be compelled to look up from my laptop and watch them walk by. Yoga pants + fleece + running shoes, without fail.

It took me about a year of being over there to adopt a UK-approved volume. It happened gradually. I didn't realise I was talking quieter until I came back to Kenmore for a visit and everyone in my family kept saying, "What?" "I can't hear you!" "Speak up!"

Now that I'm back for good, I can only hope that I'll eventually get my voice back. My true American voice. Monotone. Confident. Loud.

While I'm on the subject, I think it's unfair that Americans get all the flack for being loud. Yes, we're loud. Much louder than the English, Scottish and Irish. But we aren't the only country that errs on the side of screaming. What about Italians? Or Greeks? Spaniards? Porto Ricans? Those are just some of the countries where, according to anecdotal research and some quick Googling, people also talk loudly.

What's on its head? I don't know. I don't think we'll ever know.

I feel like I've meandered off topic because it's nearly midnight and I haven't yet fulfilled my bath quota for the day. I can't think straight.

The main thing I wanted to get across is that I'm hoarse. HOARSE. After catching up with high school friends all day, and having a lovely time, I'm ready for some herbal tea and hot soak in the tub.

Wiedersehen,

Margaret

P.S. Don't Google Image search "Vocal Chords". NSFW.

P.PS. Is there a better cough drop than original Ricola? If so, I don't want to know about it.

Image by philozopher via Flickr

7 toilet paper alternatives

In Italy there aren't any seats on the toilets. They are completely normal toilets, just with the seats removed. You can still see the two holes where the seat was once bolted on.

In Edinburgh, I've encountered seatless toilets in the odd dodgy pub. The busted seat is usually right there on the floor, next to bits of toilet paper and suspicious wet patches. But in those cases, it's just wear and tear from tipsy patrons doing the twist manoeuvre to speed things up. In Italy, the seats have been removed intentionally.

Why? Because Italians think sitting on public toilet seats is gross. Plus, with bidets a feature of every residential bathroom, they're born hoverers. When it comes to communal commodes, of course they opt for squatting over sitting.

Anyway. As I Googled "Why don't the toilets in Italy have seats?" and read the various Yahoo Answers, it got me thinking about bidets, wiping and butt hygiene in general.

I've often thought that future generations will look back on our (the West's) wadded-up-bunch-of-paper method and cringe with disgust, the way we do when we think about chamber pots and dumping raw sewage out the window onto the street below. Flushable wet wipes have been slow to take off, but once they become the norm, the current 'dry method' will be mocked like acid-wash jeans, tupperware parties and other relics of yesteryear.

Until then, let's address a serious, all too common situation we find ourselves in. You're sitting on the John, you've done the deed and—SHITE—no toilet paper. It's not ideal, but you have options. Here they are:

1. Paper towels

When I was living in University of Edinburgh student accommodation, I had my own apartment but shared a bathroom with another girl on my hall. She was Chinese, but went by Deborah. When Chinese students study abroad in the UK, they pick an English name to go by and it's almost always a 1950s housewife name (Susan, Barbara, Margaret...my kind of women!).

Even though it was university accommodation, we had to buy our own TP and carry it down the hall with us each time we needed the toilet. Too cheap and lazy to buy my own rolls, I would simply use the thick, blue paper towels from the dispenser in the bathroom (which, unlike the TP, were provided by Edinburgh Uni).

Well, Deborah must have spotted some lingering bits of blue paper in the toilet bowl because one day there was a Post-It note waiting for me on the mirror.

Dear Neighbour, 

You use my toilet paper please. I leave it here. Do not use hand towels.

Thank you, 
Deborah

I felt bad. Was she annoyed that there weren't as many paper towels left for her? Did she think the paper towels clogged the toilet? Did the thought of that rough paper scraping against my arse cause her distress? Whatever the reason was, I decided to start buying my own toilet paper. I was growing up.

The point of all this is: paper towels are a decent alternative, if you have some.

2. Paper napkins

If you have a stack of paper napkins, leftover from a picnic or children's birthday party, use them! Stacks of napkins on the back of the toilet seat were a common sight in our house growing up. I'd go as far to say they were a bit of a treat.

3. The roll

No paper towels or napkins tucked away in the kitchen cupboards? Sit and ponder your predicament all you want, but your answer is staring you right in the eye. The roll. It's nobody's idea of a good time, but it's as reliable as the moon.

4. Cloth towel 

Of course, if you're willing to say goodbye (immediately and forever) to a good cloth hand towel, go right ahead. But this is only an option if you're in your own home. My mom once found a hand towel in the bathroom garbage that was used exactly for this purpose. She had only just returned from vacation. A sibling of hers (who shall remain nameless) had been housesitting while she was away.

The towel was revolting, but the revenge was sweet. She put the dirty cloth in a big box, wrapped it in beautiful paper and tied it with a giant bow. She kept it for months until, come December, she gave it to the culprit for Christmas.

5. Your own underwear

If you have a long day/night ahead of you, you're willing to go commando, and you think they're absorbent enough, this is just crazy enough to work.

6. Shower

If you think about it, what's a shower if not just a giant bidet?

7. Paper plates

You'd have to be incredibly desperate, but I've known at least one person who's attempted the paper plate route. Watch out for cardboard cuts. They make paper cuts feel like a relaxing Thai massage.


Ciao,
Margaret

Like sand through the hourglass...

Oh dear. I've left this far too late. It's 11:45pm and I have just 15 minutes to write this post.

We've been playing a new board game called 'LINKEE' and time got the better of me. The game is great, by the way. Not sure if there's an American version (and I don't have the time to check).

OK. So. Happy new year.

Now enjoy these anecdotes from our Italy trip.

Notable moments from Italy

When I heard a euro coin drop on the ground as we were leaving a cafe. I picked it up, looked around and asked the closest person—a middle aged Italian man—"Did you drop a coin?" in loud, accidentally aggressive English. He was startled. Then he went "Wha..huh?" and shrugged his shoulders as those Mediterranean folk do. I turned back to Andy. He was laughing and told me he had put the coin into my hat while I was sipping my tea. It was my euro coin all along.

When Andy and I bought moisturiser at a supermarket in Bologna, to cure our dry-as-toast skin. I spent all morning rubbing it into my legs and all over my body. But something wasn't right. It was too thin. Too difficult to rub in. I Google-Translated the words on the bottle. It was body wash. I had been rubbing SOAP into my dry skin! The horror.

When the couple at the table next to us at dinner got in a fight. They were Spanish and we listened to the whole thing escalate until it reached the breaking point and the guy stormed out. It was one of those tiny Italian restaurants too. They were right next to us. I had to consciously keep my elbows in so as not to touch the girl. You could cut the tension with a pizza cutter. Andy and I loved it. It was Day 9 of our trip and we've long run out of things to say to each other. After dinner, when we were roaming around Rome, we saw the couple again! They were lost and consulting a map. Haha. More stress for them, more entertainment for us.

When my bowl cut got so long that I had to sculpt it into a horrific boy/pixie/mullet thing. See photo below.

When this ad auto-loaded before a YouTube video we watched (watch it to the end):

 

More tomorrow,

Margaret

Couples Massage

As a special treat to end our Christmas holiday, I booked us a "couples massage" (Google says no apostrophe) at a Thai day spa in Rome.

Although it would be my first couples massage, I felt well prepared. I've had a handful of solo massages in my life, and I've watched the Real Housewives enjoy beachside massages with their husbands plenty of times. My plan was to lie there and relax as I normally would, but then intermittently reach across, grab Andy's hand and say, "This is nice."

We were running late and had to speed-walk to the place, which is good because the more stressed you are pre-massage, the better. Might as well get your money's worth.

As soon as we arrived, two tiny women whisked us into a treatment room. Warm, dim lighting. Two standard massage tables. Zen sitar music twanging through the speakers. Everything was as expected and as it should be.

One of the women handed me two small plastic parcels—a shower cap to stop the oil from getting in my bowl cut and disposable underwear to maintain some semblance of decorum. At most places I've been to, they just have you strip down to your own underwear. But I've been given disposables one time before, so this didn't throw me.

Then the woman handed Andy a plastic parcel and giggled.

"For you," she laughed.

He unwrapped it to reveal a black, disposable man thong!

The women, both laughing now, left the room so that we could get changed. Andy was appalled at first, but quickly embraced his temporary bikini bottoms. You would have thought he had been wearing them for years.

Andy's thong.
I made sure to put it in my pocket before we left. It's too fab to not blog about.

As for the massages, they were THE BEST. Really deep tissue and firm. Also, quite invasive. At one point my bare breasts were exposed! She was massaging my stomach (bizarre in and of itself) and didn't bother to gracefully rearrange the sheet over my bosom. During another part of it, she actually mounted the table, a knee on either side of me, and ran her elbows across my butt.

But I didn't care! When in Rome!

Cheers,
Margaret

Tea and coffee making facilities

It's raining in Rome and we've hit a wall.

Eight days ago we left Edinburgh with bright eyes and bushy bowl cuts. It's been the holiday of a lifetime, but today's the first day that the crowded train terminals, Google Maps and giant backpacks began to take their toll. Also, men would not stop trying to aggressively sell us umbrellas. Even though it was pouring and we really could have used one, we refused out of principle.

It also happens to be the only day we haven't managed to squeeze in a nap (wah wah).

Our legs were achy and we had low blood sugar, but then something wonderful happened. When we checked into the final hotel of our epic Italian expedition, the guy at reception uttered the best words two tired tourists can hear:

"There are tea and coffee making facilities in your room."

We ran up to the room, threw our bags on the bed, clasped hands and bounced up and down, grinning like hyenas. All hail the hospitality gods! Long may it rain Nescafe instant coffee, the heavenly gift that nourishes our stomachs, hearts and minds.

Tea and coffee making facilities are actually a rarity in Italian hotels, so this was a brilliant surprise. As soon as I finish typing this, I'm going to flick on the kettle. Just thinking about the gentle hum of that small kitchen appliance is comforting.


Sincerely,

Tired (but content) in Rome

Siena!

We're in Siena today. Wow. This city is next level awesome. It completely exceeded my expectations, which, to be honest, was easy considering I did zero research before the trip. But that said, Siena has exceeded my expectations of how cute a city can be. I didn't know they made them this charming. And I live in Edinburgh—on the Royal Mile!

The big thing to do in Siena, besides watching the historic horse races in August (basically the Italian Appleby Horse Fair, but with less grabbing), is walk around its famous Duomo.

Inside the grand cathedral there's a mural of Catherine of Siena, who's one of Italy's patron saints (Can you name the other one? 100 points if you can! No Googling). When we got back to the hotel, Andy and I read her Wikipedia page.

This excerpt stood out:

In about 1368, aged twenty-one, Catherine experienced what she described in her letters as a "Mystical Marriage" with Jesus, later a popular subject in art as the Mystic marriage of Saint Catherine. "Underlining the extent to which the marriage was a fusion with Christ's physicality Catherine received, not the ring of gold and jewels that her biographer reports in his bowdlerized version, but the ring of Christ's foreskin."

Yeah.

At Gonzaga I took a class called 'Philosophy of Mysticism'. It was taught by an ancient Jesuit priest who was so old that he couldn't stand up. He would sit stooped in his chair at the front of the class, barely visible behind his desk.

We talked a lot about old religious figures and their mystical endeavours. I remember we learned about a lady named Julien of Norwich who actually chained herself to a small enclave in the wall of a church and LIVED IN IT (I was so appalled I blogged about it way back when).

The Jesuit told us that there's a possibility most of the mystics were actually just mentally ill. He also told us that he took LSD once and often wondered whether his experience (lying in the middle of the road and listening to the blood running through his veins) might be considered 'mystical'. Needless to say, even this old Jesuit was skeptical of medieval mystics like Cathy of Siena.

In other news, Rome tomorrow for two nights. The final hurrah! Over dinner this evening Andy and I agreed that we're going to say "When in Rome..." a lot while we're there. Glad we settled that upfront.

Cheers,
Margaret of Kenmore

Christmas in Florence

Andy and I are enjoying an absolutely unforgettable Christmas in Florence. We've already discussed it—this is definitely going down as a life highlight for both of us.

Right now we're sitting in bed, rubbing our risotto-filled bellies and listening to a groovy band play Michael Jackson's 'Rock With You' just below our balcony.

That's right. Our BALCONY. It's incredible.

In between pizza snarfing sessions we've also managed to squeeze in some time for culture.

Lots of people watched the seven attempts to get this pic.
Unlike with the Leaning Tower of Pisa, I didn't get the sense that posing like this was the "done thing".  

But even though it's extra amazing to be here in Italy, Christmas is just great in general. One of the perks of being an American is having a genuine, non-ironic love of Christmas. I LOVE IT.

Merry Christmas!

Love, 

Margaret

P.S. I've accidentally let my bowl cut grow too much and now it's a mullet. You can kind of see it in the pic. A mullet! What fun!