This past week defied the laws of physics by reinstating my Buddhist philosophy that perception is (not) reality because the world is (not) my mind. Existence is internal. Insistence is external. Time is relative and irrelevant. Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana.
The week went by bloody fast.
A group of extremely friendly Italian girls showed myself and the other two tutors a helluva good time three out of five nights.
Monday night we went to Cisano on Lake Garda to enjoy the sights and Chuck Norris jokes. Noemi is the funniest person I've met here. Picture a female Italian Jack Black with a dirtier mouth (the bilingual community can curse twice as much).
Monday night we went to Cisano on Lake Garda to enjoy the sights and Chuck Norris jokes. Noemi is the funniest person I've met here. Picture a female Italian Jack Black with a dirtier mouth (the bilingual community can curse twice as much).
Tuesday we went to the hottest hangout in Brescia. Ok, the only hangout in Brescia. But it was hoppin'. College dreds and hippy dropouts lined the train tracks sippin' on God knows what while groovin' to a punk band jammin' at the abandoned station.
Wednesday my host dad and his brother-in-law took me to see Ana Popovic live at the Soiano Blues Festival. A blonde goddess demonstrating her dexterity on a cherry red Stratocaster to us mere mortals while sending shivers down the spine of the mike.
Thursday carried the buzz of the blues onto a karaoke bar where I took a stab at the limelight by singing some Muse. I left the stage in applause from strangers to my friend who was promptly booed off stage. I felt bad between bouts of laughter.
Friday found me at a town festival of Salsa dancing and fried cheese, all quickly ended by a tremendous downpour due to the gods' tears of joy.
After departing on Saturday to a camp in Malo of 118 children, 12 tutors, 3 directors, and Michael (the most intelligent and well-organized etymologist I know), I was promptly returned to Desanzano due to a tutor's family emergency back in the States. While I understand the circumstances and wish the afflicted parties well, I miss the camp in Malo.
Thursday carried the buzz of the blues onto a karaoke bar where I took a stab at the limelight by singing some Muse. I left the stage in applause from strangers to my friend who was promptly booed off stage. I felt bad between bouts of laughter.
Friday found me at a town festival of Salsa dancing and fried cheese, all quickly ended by a tremendous downpour due to the gods' tears of joy.
After departing on Saturday to a camp in Malo of 118 children, 12 tutors, 3 directors, and Michael (the most intelligent and well-organized etymologist I know), I was promptly returned to Desanzano due to a tutor's family emergency back in the States. While I understand the circumstances and wish the afflicted parties well, I miss the camp in Malo.
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