benvenuto a napoli

I’m so glad I was able to get past my writing slump with the last two posts I created, and now that I’m finally on my trip, I have the inspiration and motivation to document all of my European shenanigans.

After a six hour red eye flight from Dulles to Dublin, and a three hour one from Dublin to the very tiny regional airport of Naples…Michelle and I are finally on Italian soil. The flight from Dublin to Naples was particularly rough…many crying children running along the aisle and less legroom, as it wasn’t on a plane meant for a long haul international flight. I managed to sleep for an hour on this flight, probably because I was determined to drown out the noise and chaos! 

Bright eyed and bushy tailed, patiently waiting at my gate for the first leg of my journey from Dulles to Dublin. Of course, I had on my Blessed Mother necklace and my Scapular for divine protection during my trip.

Upon landing in Naples, everyone immediately got up from their seats and pushed past Michelle and I…even though we were trying to be polite and leave our seats when it was our row’s turn. How dare we try to be nice…the audacity! One of the aforementioned crying children pushed right into me after Michelle and I boarded the bus that transported us from the tarmac to the airport. The Naples airport does not have jetways, so I felt like I was transported back to the 1960s as I came down the staircase of the plane and walked the tarmac onto the outdated bus. The parents of the child who hit me, of course, did not apologize for their child’s behavior, and seeing as I am not fluent in Italian, I couldn’t very well tell them off in their native language. I also didn’t want to cause an international crisis so early on my trip, so I rolled my eyes, and let it go.

Michelle’s amazing cousin Amy, whom we are staying with in her beautiful Napoli home, waited with us as we collected our luggage from the also equally outdated baggage claim. She then escorted us to our driver (yes, we had a driver pick us up from the airport), and he, bless him, placed all of our suitcases in the back of the van. During our drive to Amy’s house, he realized we are American, and his English was not so great, but I took it upon myself to pull out my translator app and with the realization that Spanish and Italian have many things in common, attempted to converse with him in Italian. I successfully managed to tell our driver that:

1. I’m Italian American on my dad’s side and my great-grandparents were from Reggio di Calabria.

2. It was early morning back home in Washington, D.C.

3. Michelle and I were on our summer vacation and we teach teenagers.

We freshened up at Amy’s house and then took a train into Naples proper. She drove us to the train station and pointed out the beautiful coastline and beaches. We parked the car and twenty minutes later, we were in the heart of Naples. My lack of sleep did not deter me from enjoying the city (I had caught my second wind) and we eagerly followed Amy along the cobblestone streets. We stopped inside, to my joy, a Catholic church; the Basilica della Santissima Annunziata Maggiore. This church, due to the rough translation of its Italian name, is dedicated to the annunciation, or when the Angel Gabriel arrived to the Blessed Mother and told her that she was to give birth to Jesus. 

I realized, due to it being 3 PM (this the time we visited) the congregants gathered in the pews were finishing one of my favorite (and most powerful) prayers, the Chaplet of Divine Mercy. This prayer is typically recited at 3 PM because this is the time that Jesus Christ died, so we use that hour to pray and reflect on his death and the sacrifice he made for us by dying on the cross for our salvation. I pray it every day, sometimes with my mama if I’m visiting her, and find so much peace of heart when I am finished with it. It truly helps me get through my day. Imagine my delight when I recognized the prayer, even though it was being recited in Italian. I blessed myself with some holy water and we continued our trek through the city. 

We decided we needed a pastry break, so I took the risk and ordered, in Italian, a pistachio filled croissant (un cornetto) and my goodness, the Europeans do not joke about the lack of additives in their food. My croissant actually tasted like real pistachio…because it was all natural and real pistachio. The pistachio filling melted in my mouth. I couldn’t get over how delicate and buttery the crust of the actual croissant was. Amy promised us even better desserts at another patisserie, so we kept walking, this time, in search of an actual dinner before we decided to enjoy more pastries. 

My first real Italian meal, pasta carbonara.

We thought we wanted traditional Napoli pizza, but our stomachs said otherwise, and we ordered pasta dishes at the trattoria we sat down in. I’m a sucker for pasta carbonara and let’s face it…Italian American pasta is not even close to real Italian pasta. The pasta carbonara that I love to order at the Cheesecake Factory, I’m aware, is not carbonara one would find in Italy. So, reassured by the fact that pasta carbonara was on the list, I decided to order it. I also saw, on the cocktail list, the classic Italian aperol spritz, and Michelle and I did as the stupid Romans did, and decided to order one. Because, when in Rome (Naples), right?

WRONG. 

The drink was incredibly bitter and dry. Amy told us that while the aperol mix is meant to be slightly bitter (and I knew this too after some preliminary research), our drink should not have tasted like that. She promised we’d find a better aperol spritz; that the bartender probably did not properly mix the aperol base with the prosecco. 

So, we switched our drinks to Italian Fanta, which we thoroughly enjoyed because the Fanta is not the fake, bright and bold orange soda we’re used to in the United States. It’s still orange soda, but it’s made only with real and natural sugar and orange flavor. It tasted light and bubbly and was super refreshing. Michelle, who does not even like soda, loved the Fanta and has not stopped drinking it since we’ve arrived in Italy. 

Our pasta arrived and the carbonara was definitely what carbonara should look and taste like - creamy and decadent. I finished it quickly (I was starving from the flight) and didn’t feel as though I had a brick sitting in my stomach. My stomach was satisfied and content, not heavy and bloated. Amy attributed this again to Europeans not using preservatives and additives in their food.

Here I am in front of the famous Gran Caffè Gambrinus.

To walk off our meal, we continued to explore Naples. Amy insisted that we needed dessert and led us to one of Naples’s famous coffee houses, the Gran Caffè Gambrinus. This place was frequented by some of the most well-known literary icons like Ernest Hemingway, Oscar Wilde, and Jean Paul Sartre. I enjoyed eating a small pastry filled with a custard-like cream. Michelle had some sort of Italian donut coated in granulated sugar and took half of it home, as it was bigger than she had anticipated and wanted to finish it later. 

My custard filled Gambrinus treat!

Amy, Michelle, and I having our first gelato (notice the natural orange color of my beloved cantaloupe flavor).

We popped into some shops and took tourist photos at the spectacular Galleria Umberto I, but apparently, we still had dessert on the mind, because we kept talking about gelato. Amy made the executive decision to lead us to a gelato shop. I had my third dessert of the day and purchased a cup of gelato. I was craving more of a sorbet/fruit based flavor and was allowed to pick two flavors for my small sized cup. I’m always happy with lemon, so I picked the limone, but was surprised to see, of all ice cream flavors: cantaloupe. I do love me some fresh cantaloupe, but of course, had never had it in ice cream form, so I selected the melone as the second flavor. These two flavors combined were delightful. The lemon was good, but the cantaloupe was a game changer. In that moment, I thought of my mama and how much she also likes cantaloupe…and wished that she was with me in Naples so we could enjoy some gelato together.

We felt the exhaustion kick in and Amy led us back to the Napoli train station so we could take the local train back to her neighborhood. We went grocery shopping and picked up some snacks (of course, we bought a Fanta). We spent some time conversing and relaxing before we retired for the evening. One refreshing shower, a melatonin, and a comfy bed later - I was passed out and slept for a wonderful twelve hours.

Me, with the more superior aperol spritz I drank my second day in Naples.

We spent the next day relaxing and taking it easy. We booked our train tickets for Rome. Amy took us out for a quiet meal nearby her home (this time, I ordered gnocchi and thought of my papa, as gnocchi is his favorite dish). I had a superior aperol spritz at this restaurant…it tasted like I imagined; citric and easy to drink, with just the right amount of bitterness. There was a gelato shop three doors away from the restaurant…so naturally, we went there, and I had two separate scoops of gelato. One scoop, apparently, was not enough. My first scoop was a crunchy black cherry with some chocolate. My second scoop was classic pistachio. That evening, we had an earlier night so we could be well-rested for our Rome excursion.

Day two of a gelato run (here I am with my second one I purchased - the pistachio). Michelle’s a fragola girl…strawberry!

So, I’m safely in Italy. It’s been an adjustment getting used to the time change (six hours ahead of Virginia), the lack of American comforts (no regular trash service, Italian bluntness, no ice, and no central A/C), but I’m happy to be here…focusing on me…and fulfilling my European bucket list items. I’ve kept in touch with my family and my friends who actually want to speak to me, posted my major tourist moments on Facebook, and still have a few days left here in Italy, before Michelle and I take a flight to Paris and meet up with Lisa and her younger daughter.

Next up - you’ll read about our crazy Roman adventures at the Colosseum, Trevi Fountain, Holy See (Vatican) and our navigation of the Rome Metro. 

Until then…

many happy returns,

Kate

my star is fading.

You would think that even with a slightly better school year, a group of 7th graders who show improved behavior compared to last year’s students, and the fact that I’m only teaching one subject would have reassured me yes, I want to stay teaching for the long term.

My last post was all about making this year my ‘year of grace.’ I was optimistic that this year would erase the negative feelings I had towards teaching during a pandemic for the past year and a half. I was hopeful that my new school and supportive administrators would enable me to enjoy being an educator once more.

I’m sorry to say that my year of grace - and we’re not even at the half way point yet - isn’t shaping out the way I prayed it would. I’ve found myself browsing at federal jobs, applying for contracting jobs, and considering going back to school, if only for a little while, to obtain a certificate in technical writing. I still have no energy to stay after school and offer tutoring to my students, stick around to support them in their sports and fine arts activities, and hang out with my friends.

My goal at the end of my school day is to get home, curl up in bed with my laptop ready to stream a favorite show (more than likely Downton Abbey or King of the Hill), enjoy a Dr. Pepper (the soda fix has been insane lately, much to my closet’s dismay…I’ve gained a few pounds), finish my daily prayers (at least my faith is still strong), take my medications, and go to bed. If I’m in bed by 8:30, I call it a success. 9 PM is pushing it…9:30 PM is late for me. 

I find myself unwilling to get out of bed in the morning, even if I have been going to bed earlier. I can hear my mind telling my body ‘no’ and I end up sleeping through my alarms. 

I am sure most of my lack of energy is due to my past medical diagnoses. I still haven’t figured out physical therapy (it’s rare to find someone who specializes in pelvic floor therapy nearby to where I live), a biopsy I had over the summer only left me in more pelvic pain, and I’m finding it difficult to complete simple chores around the house because of how much pressure the bending and kneeling (example: cleaning the bathroom) places on my pelvis. I still get my chores done, but I’m in a lot of pain afterwards.

I know I need to try to get some exercise in - yoga has been recommended to me as it doesn’t place as much pressure on the pelvic floor - but once I’m home, having been on my feet most of the day at work…exercise is the last thing I want to do.

I have no energy to be the best for myself because I exert most of it at work. I want to be the best I can for my students…but even then, I find myself struggling to give them my best.

Then I factor in my personal life, and oh dear lord, I really just do not feel like trying anymore. 

I feel like I’ve lost any sense of who I thought I was. I truly believed turning thirty was going to be a wonderful year of growth, happiness, and settling down…and it wasn’t.

My thirtieth trip around the sun was spent with too many medical visits, questionable dating choices, arguments with my dad about my dating choices, and an extreme amount of doubting of my career. If I hadn’t been holding onto my faith, I know I’d be feeling even worse about how this year went. 

A couple of months ago, I had one particularly terrible week that started with a Sunday visit to my parents’ house. I found out from my father that a family they know at our church recently hosted a wedding. The eldest son of the family just got married and we found out that the bride was not even Christian, let alone Catholic. I was surprised when my mother told me this, because I thought, based on how devoutly Catholic this family is, that the groom would have married a Catholic girl.

This discovery then caused me to wonder…if this family can accept a non-Catholic/Christian daughter-in-law…why can’t my father accept a non-Catholic/Christian son-in-law? I proposed this question to my mother.

We decided to have this discussion away from my father’s ears. What started as an honest and calm discussion led me to burst into tears, not in anger (and not directed at my mother) and tell her that I am honestly scared to date and fall in love again because I could not bear to:

#1 - lose my relationship with my father over my choice of husband, should he turn out not to be Catholic.

#2 - have someone leave me again because my father would not want to maintain a relationship with a potentially non-Catholic (or Christian, even) son-in-law. 

While I was able to get past a good guy breaking it off for me for this reason last summer (as he claimed at the time of the break-up), and eventually become friends with him, I do not wish to have someone else provide this as a reason to not pursue a relationship with me, as a choice of my father’s is something that is 100% out of my control. 

It took me awhile to get myself together and drive home after that conversation. My mother checked in with me all week, but I knew that mentally, I was struggling. I had paused on seeing a therapist while I was recovering and going to a chiropractor after my car accident last year…but this break down helped me realize it was time, at least, to restart my mental health care journey.

I asked my friend for the contact information of her daughter’s therapist and before I knew it, I was signed up for my first session to see if we would “fit.” Thank God we did; I’ve had four sessions with her now, and while I’m still struggling, she’s been giving me some amazing coping strategies. Most importantly, she’s been reassuring me that I’ve come a long way since my initial start with mental health care three years ago (wow!)…and that I should be happy with the progress I’ve already made (even if there are days where I feel like I haven’t made any progress).

I turned thirty-one just this past week. While it wasn’t as festive and fun as my thirtieth birthday celebrations were, I’m relieved that as I started this new trip around the sun, I’m aware that I’m struggling with my life choices and where I’d like to be in my life right now. At least I’m trying to start some sort of recovery and plan by resuming therapy. At least I know that I have a fear of dating and falling in love again - even though having a marriage and my own family is something I’ve always prioritized. It’s not immediate progress, but it’s progress nonetheless, and I’m sure I’ll have some setbacks as I continue to make progress. 

I’m empty. I’m faking it for all it’s worth right now at school, and my coworkers don’t suspect anything…but I know I’m not myself anymore.

I’m not the feminine, constantly in a dress, perfectly coiffed girl I was always noted to be the past few years - as much as I adore putting on makeup and wearing heels and stockings, even during the winter.

I’m not someone who is willing to open her heart, wax poetic about literature and history, and immediately fall in love with the first handsome history nerd she encounters.

I’m not the optimistic, bright eyed, history loving educator, that I started my teaching career as, five years ago.

Right now, I don’t have any semblance as to who I am, and that scares me…but I’m hoping this first small step of progress with my therapist (and being able to recognize my struggle) will help me gain momentum once more.

Like that Aesop’s fable about the tortoise and the hare…

I’m the tortoise and right now, I must echo his mentality: 

Slow and steady will win the race.

God willing, I pray.

many happy returns (and a blessed and merry Christmas)

-kate.

goodbye to all that.

The time in between the beginning and end of that relationship in my previous post are all a blur to me now. I do not wish to remember that time because I refuse to spend another moment worrying about him.

He’s moved on. He’s found someone else who will give him everything I wouldn’t. I’ve moved on by using my writing as an emotional platform to rid myself of lingering feelings.

The beginning - that seemingly magical moment we met in college - and the end, are the moments that will truly remain with me. Our end arrived, and although it pained me to let him go, I know now that he was not God’s plan for me.

And I thank God every day for the path I am on now, without him.

I wrote this piece on March 9th of last year, when I realized it had been his birthday and it was the second one I wouldn’t be celebrating with him. I was saddened by this realization - I, admittedly, did cry and spent the better part of his birthday in bed. But, the next day marked the turning point for getting over him the moment I chose to write down my feelings on paper.

That day, I wrote our ending and let it remain a relic of my past - a past that I do not ever wish to return to.

So here, dear reader, is our end:

March 9th, 2018

Yesterday was his birthday. It was the second birthday I’ve spent without him. Two years since I last saw his face. Two years since everything fell apart. I still wonder if he kept the DVD set of Downton Abbey  I got him for the first (and last) birthday we were together. I then smile, and think back to when we watched the series together - he’d never seen it, and I kept begging him to watch it with me. He adored it, and it was yet another thing that we could say we had in common.

And then, I feel my heart break all over again when I recall how we ended things over a phone call just a few months later in May.

Tuesday, May 3rd, 2016 to be exact. 

My worst day.

Just a few days before I’d started my comprehensive exams for my history graduate program.

The day that he finished his term teaching history at the community college.

He didn’t have anything to worry about if he was hurt by us ending things - no exams, no classes to play student in. He’d achieved what he wanted. He already had his MA. He had his job. He had the whole summer free to be away from writing papers, and thinking of a thesis for graduation. A broken heart wouldn’t affect his studies - he didn’t have any. 

Me? I cried non-stop, and listened to The Beatles (Rubber Soul, by the way, is the perfect melancholy break-up album) on repeat as I typed three exams from a variety of topics ranging from post-colonial Europe, Communism, Josef Stalin, modernity, and totalitarian governments. I wondered how the hell I even passed my exams. I couldn’t be bothered with thinking about what impact and role Fascism played in Mussolini’s Italy as I worked on the essays. I didn’t even think about the possibility of me failing my comps, and what it would mean for my future in the grad program, thanks to my altered state of mind. All I wondered was:

Does he hate me?

I miss his hazel eyes already. And those freckles. 

Is he thinking about me? 

Does me miss me?

Is he going to show up on my doorstep, profess his undying love for me, and ask me to marry him? 

I submitted my exams - all thoughts of him still fresh and painful the moment I emailed them to my professor and clicked “send.” The last hope I had for him did not occur in that four-day period, burrowed up in my room, as I struggled to write each exam.

He was gone. There would be no grand gesture from him. He didn’t love me. He didn’t want a life with me. He told me that, plain as day, especially when he told me I’d never be the girl who would be the mother to his children (my heart broke at that statement). He was over me. He didn’t want to fight for me.

He didn’t want me. 

I can easily state these realizations now. It took me almost two years to get to this point.

Almost two years. And my feelings remain unchanged. I don’t know if I’ll ever really get over him.

(But, oh, dear reader. I did. I’m so glad I did.)

Many happy returns…

-Kate

first impressions

As someone who has, to put it lightly, uhh…unusual tastes in the history I study, I have struggled to find a “better half" who will tolerate my quirky interests. Here’s an example if you’re wondering what I mean by “quirky.” My mom and I were talking about weddings and cliché proposals. I said that I would absolutely hate it if my boyfriend (we’re talking imaginary here - as if that’s going to happen any time soon) proposed to me on Valentine’s Day, my birthday, Christmas, or New Year’s Eve. So, she then asked me what my ideal proposal scenario would be.

Without missing a beat, I said, “June 6th, the Normandy beaches, preferably on the Omaha or Utah sector.”

Then she dared to ask what day the actual wedding would occur on.

Again, without missing a beat:

“May 8th of the following year, to commemorate Victory in Europe Day…and grandma’s birthday.”

I’d really need to find the right man to make that happen. The right man who would just get me enough to make those scenarios happen. Someone who wouldn’t be afraid to take my quirkiness on, but accept and love me for it. I could be wrong, but I doubt there’s a man out there who would do all that for me…just to make me happy. Now you’re probably wondering, my goodness, are all of these posts going to deal with sappiness and heartbreak?

To answer your question: no, they are not. I think, however, it’s okay for me to talk about my (lack of a) romantic life because I want you, my readers, to know that:

It is absolutely okay to be yourself. I have thought, for years, that I need that better half to define me. That myself isn’t good enough for this world. I’ve only recently come to the conclusion that no, I do not need a better half. I can be my own better half. I can be a better me and let the world take me as I am. I am happy with the way my life is turning out so far. I’ve finally embarked on the path I’ve wanted to take. I’m using my historical nerdiness in a relevant field. I am a teacher, sharing my passion for the subject to a varied pool of students from all walks of life.

I teach Language Arts to preteens, hoping to instill the value of reading in them while they are still young. I teach world history to college students - most of them are in my class to fulfill general education requirements. I, however, have some older students that are there to prove to their family members that it is never too late to get a college education. It makes me feel like I am making a difference as a teacher by being that educator who will help them prove that no, it is certainly never too late to learn.

If there’s not a better half for me out there, wanting to stand by my side and be my cheerleader as I become a seasoned educator, then that is his loss. I know I have achieved an iota of self-fulfillment by doing what I do best - sharing my love for learning and history…and I get to do it in a professional realm.

That still doesn’t mean I don’t hold on to hope that my better half is somewhere in this world - whether he’s somewhere where I live in northern Virginia, an ocean away in Ireland…

Waiting. Just waiting. For me. Little, unremarkable, unashamedly nerdy me.

Once upon a time, I thought I had found my better half. I thought this would be the guy who would give me that Normandy beach proposal. I thought I was going to marry this man - I prayed that he would ask me to be his wife. I had dreams of us blissfully married; our days filled with history, books, being underpaid teachers, living in a cozy house with our cats…and eventually, our children.

I was wrong. I was so so wrong. It took me a long time to get over him. Sometimes I do wonder if I truly am over him. Part of the reason I started writing about my historical endeavors was because of him. I began to put our story to paper - the two history nerds in love - as a way of coping with the heartbreak. The writing process has finally helped me get over him.

So, I offer y’all First Impressions, a vignette of the day I truly believed I met my better half:

I’m pretty sure I was in love with him from the moment I caught him smiling at me during the first class session of one of my graduate history seminars. I walked in the room with my friend Christina, and I could feel a gaze on me instantly. This bearded guy, wearing a black and red checkered shirt and glasses. I took him in…his adorable freckles. His mirthful brown eyes. His floppy dark hair, sprinkled ever-so-slightly with grey. His good-natured grin.

Just him, really.

He wasn’t trying to play coy; that was a definite. Not with the way his gaze remained fixed on me.

So, I take back my earlier sentiment: I know I was in love with him upon our first meeting.

I didn’t think that first day back to school would have me instantly falling for some guy I’d never even spoken to. I honestly thought I’d be on my own in that seminar. Christina, of course, was with me, and at least I’d be able to make some snarky commentary with her underneath our breaths during whatever lecture we’d have, but really, the class was meant to be an independent research project. Maybe I’d have to make some awkward small talk with the other students at some point in the semester. Cultivating relationships? Nah. I was beyond caring about that in grad school, and this class was giving me the opportunity to work (mostly) independently.

I liked relying on myself. I liked being alone. Alone meant I could focus on getting a good grade; the class was a “capstone.” You needed to pass to meet all requirements in the MA program. The final paper was worth 60% of my grade—I knew it would be hard work. I didn’t need (but probably secretly wanted) the distraction of a man to prevent me from doing thorough research and writing a concise, well-mapped thesis.  I didn’t want to take the risk of having someone break my heart in the middle of the semester, causing me to have an emotional upheaval, and jeopardize my work. With my track record, I knew that’s exactly what would happen. 

(Just sayin’, men are absolutely, the worst distractions.)

But that evening, when my professor asked each of us to introduce ourselves, had me pray to God that I’d get to know the man who smiled at me. No distractions weren’t an option anymore. Who was he?

Name. Concentration. Ideal topic that we would base our final papers on. That’s what we were forced to tell the class as we went one by one around the classroom to speak.

I barely paid attention to everyone else. I didn’t even care; everyone was like, I’m so and so who just loves America so much, that I made my concentration American history!

Those damn Americanists. Where were the European historians at? I get it; we’re in America, but still…

So it’s this one other guy’s turn. He’s the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome. Couldn’t resist staring at him for a moment; he was total eye candy. Still, didn’t even care to note his name. He said he was interested in Scottish history. Okay, cool…decided I wasn’t interested. My eyes followed back to my man. I waited like an impatient sod, desperate to hear his response. If it was Europe, that was it. We were soulmates.

Finally. It was his turn.

“My name is David. My concentration is European history—”

Oh, thank God.

“And I’m interested in researching about Oscar Wilde and the sodomy charge that was brought against him.”

Interesting, I thought, as I processed what he’d just said. I myself would not have decided to research about Oscar Wilde in a history class. I think it’s because I relate Wilde too often to a literary background that I forget that yes, the charges that were brought against him would have had historical impact. As I continued to dwell on his topic (and how much I really wanted to ask him about his research), I completely ignored everyone else’s turn. Before I knew it, I had to speak.

I cleared my throat, aaaand…

“I’m Kate. My concentration is European history (there were like, five of us in the room, compared to the nine Americanists—clearly, we were the minority, but whatever), and I would like to study the libel trial against the Irish nationalist leader, Charles Stewart Parnell.”

Boom. That’s right. Go Ireland. My professor commented on my topic but I can’t even remember what he told me. My mind was elsewhere.

I dared to look at David.

(Wasn’t even paying attention to Christina, who was now telling the class about her research project.)

And he was still staring back in my direction.

(Those pretty brown eyes.)

Class ended at nine that evening. Tall, dark, and handsome, to my surprise, flagged me down. Wanted to know more about my fascination with Parnell.

Especially was wondering why I hadn’t signed up for the “Ireland in War and Revolution” course that he was in.

Honestly, I had wanted to. My favorite professor was teaching it, and he’d told me about the course before I’d signed up for fall semester classes the previous spring. The truth was, I was craving a different area of Europe to study (as much as I loved Ireland), so I told him that I opted to take “Stalinism” (of all topics) with my second favorite professor in the history department instead.

And I was barely paying attention to him. I was trying, not-so-subtlety, to look for David, but he’d walked out ahead of me and this guy, who politely introduced himself as Josh (glad he did, because I really didn’t remember his name from the classroom introductions.)

Like the nerd I am, I continued to ramble to Josh that I wanted to learn more about Stalin… because I loved discussing rhetoric in totalitarian governments (truth) and that was the reason I hadn’t wanted to take the Ireland class (double truth). My history obsessions are sooo seductive, I know. I thought Josh would be turned off after that (he probably thought, wow, this girl’s a weirdo, let me walk away from her slowly), but no! He continued to walk with me to the quad. Josh was talking up his interests in Scotland (…meh), but said he had an interest in Ireland, and then I’m there correcting him when he merely referred to the Provisional Irish Republican Army as the “IRA.”

They had different names. The PIRA, the faction that emerged during the Northern Irish “Troubles,” was the one we were discussing, and I always get so pissed when people just call them as the the “IRA.”

(Nitpicky, yes, I know.)

But on our way to the quad, I saw out the corner of my eye, someone lighting up a cigarette. Oh eww, secondhand smoke. Gross. I turned my head from Josh, and looked at the offender.

David. Trying so desperately to get his lighter to work. The flame met the cigarette just as I locked eyes with him again for probably the sixtieth time that night.

He looked at me guiltily, and it was sooo awkward that I just turned my attention back to Josh. We walked past David, and I felt like a total jerk.

Ugh.

(I was a fool. In love.)

And it would be another week before we saw each other again.

(Double ugh.)

Until next time…

Many happy returns,

-Kate