What I Know I'll Miss about America

Sure I'm excited for gondola rides and exploring Roman ruins, but there's nothing like ten days left in the States to make a gal cry out, "God Bless 'Merica."

1) Pills, Pills, Pills

I've read some mixed reviews on this one; some sources warningly report that Europe doesn't offer as many options in terms of over-the-counter medications (something about overdosing on milligrams and its adverse effects), and elsewhere, I've gleaned that there's Advil aplenty. Usually, I'm all about pushing the holistic healing way of life, or at least pretend to be, but I realized this evening, when I felt a little of that muscle misery that acts as an accomplice to sleep swindling, that perusing my medicine cabinet is like finding old mason jars in an unknown thrift store filled with antique buttons and trims and other notions: there are treasures sequestering themselves in each container. I came across some pills with little upwards pointing arrows, whose subtitle, so to speak, read "aspirin + caffeine." I simpered and arched my eyebrow like the capsules were an anonymous man across the bar room that I had to invite inside my body with the appropriate gaze and stance. The double feature of a pain killer and a pick-me-up was enough to make me feel better before I even got to swallowing it.

So, in case I can't get my fix abroad, I've designated room in my suitcase for one very large bottle of ibuprofen, because God knows that when monthly menstruation kicks in, you'd better get me some fucking pills now before I start telling every male I encounter that he's a "fucking idiot" and contemplate running away to a convent where forced face-to-face encounters with members of the opposite sex will be so rare as to be almost holy. Though, admittedly, I will miss standing in the check-out line at Rite-Aid with tampons, panty-liners, Motrin, and six different kinds of chocolate.

2) Around the Clock Closet Access

Yeah, I know I've only worn those purple suede stilettos on one occasion - to church, because for some reason my sixteen year old self thought that was undeniably acceptable - but what if I watch the Italian women balancing on some cobblestone streets in high heels with the elegance of symmetry and decide that I absolutely must learn to do something other than stumble around in them? It's terrifying watching all my essentials stowed away in one suitcase, and looking into my closet with the contorted rod and over at my bureau with the overstuffed drawers and wondering, what am I leaving behind? People have asked me, "do you wake up every day and pick a theme and dress that way?" Past roommates have shopped in my closet for Halloween wear and party apparel. Maybe none of that is flattering. Maybe it means I walk around looking like a costume shop gone awry, but it also means that I have about a gazillion garments to suit my fancy for the day. Nineteen forties film star? No problem. Casual cowgirl? Call me up. Boho babe? You bet. Let's just put a slogan on it: you name it, I've got it. Not having the luxury to act all totally Clueless Cher every morning with my wardrobe is, like, uh-uh, no way, not even!

3) Other Drug Addictions

Apparently Mexican food in Europe is like, peas and carrots thrown on a tortilla with a little melted cheese.

Wait, what? Isn't that the kind of mushy meal people force feed to babies? How will I ever fulfill my desires to turn up the heat? When will I ever get to eat a carb-overloaded dinner that doesn't consist of pi-zza or a-pas-ta? I'll probably smell like garlic all the time, but not from savoring my beloved bowls of fresh guacamole.

And while I'm on the subject of heart-attack worthy helpings of our daily bread, I just know I'll start acting pissy when I realize my ability to eat fast food judgement free is finito. Yeah, I saw Supersize Me and Food, Inc., and I heard all about Fast Food Nation. Does that stop me from thinking McDonald's is as precious a chain as my gemstone necklaces? No. Once, I went to Canada and ordered a medium sized number ten (hello, chicken nuggets and french fries?) and the cashier sized me up and down as though she were the most sought after supermodel in the nation, and said, "A medium?" The people in front of me had all ordered salads.

Since everyone knows every good burger joint serves you up a half gallon sized cup fizzing happily with soda and ice, let me just take a moment now to bow my head in remembrance of all that cold, cold, caffeinated Coke. Apparently I have to ask for ice in Italy? I mean, I know it's mostly there to cut down on costs for restaurants and make me buy Sensodyne like a good little consumer, but really, no ice? Gulping down a sweet carbonated beverage with crushed ice totally reminds me of the best part of being sick as a kid: mommy breaking up frozen water with a hammer in the kitchen and pouring coco syrup over it to ease my aching tummy. Forget cartoon marathons on the couch: that remedy totally convinced me that catching the stomach virus wasn't all that bad. Diet Coke from the fountain is ah, such a wonderful treat.

So yeah, buona viaggia to me.