My jeans were soaked in water, Italian sweat, and whatever other kinds of filth culminate in a public fountain in Veronas main piazza. But I obviously wasnt the only one who had forgotten all hygienic standards. About 30 other crazy Italians and tourists had also leaped into the fountain with their soccer jerseys and their green, red, and white striped flags, splashing friends and hugging strangers with little to no discretion. Hundreds of other people cheered around the fountain, and thousands more chanted in the surrounding park and streets. Italia had won the 2006 FIFA World Cup. And if every city in Italy was like Verona, I bet France could hear us from across the border. It didnt matter that my friends and I dont have a drop of Italian blood in us. We chanted Chi non salta un francese (whoever doesnt jump is a Frenchman) and my personal favorite Francia, Francia vafanculo (France, France, go fuck yourself) as though Zidanes headbutt and the final shootout had somehow triggered a touch of national pride within us all. The 21 study abroad students and I all agreed that we had chosen the right time to be in Italy. We witnessed a parade of mopeds and ATVs blazing through the small lake town of Bardolino after the game against Ukraine, the word Germany scrawled across two severely hairy asses in the streets of Verona after the victory that would send Italy to the finals, and lastly French flags ignited by flares and thousands of proud Italians in front of the Roman arena in that very same town days later. Just think, if the United States had magically won, a few drunk Americans would have stopped tossing down beers long enough to embrace each other in a less than heterosexual way, and later that week, President Bush would have shaken the hands of the new champions, congratulating them for their brilliant strategery. Thank a higher power that soccer isnt our forte. Id be lying, however, if I said jumping into that fountain fully clothed was the craziest thing I did in Italy. For once, I could say the oft-used phrase from the point where it makes the most sense: When in Rome (though Ill be honest. I didnt even go to Rome). We lived in a monastery that topped one of the highest hills in Verona. From there, we bussed down to the university each morning. Or if we felt lively enough, we could walk down the lasagna. I recognize that this is the name of a classic Italian dish with ricotta cheese and meat sauce layered inbetween pasta sheets and sometimes garnished with basil or some other form of leaf, but its also the name for a thin cobble-stone road that cuts straight down a steep hill. Thus, we walked on the lasagna. It was fun. Except sometimes there were local Italians exposing themselves on the lasagna. That was not so fun. After three hours of learning Italian, we had the rest of the day to roam the City of Love. Shakespeares Romeo and Juliet took place in Verona, so tourists were always flocking to the famous stone balcony (where Juliet, who is fictional, didnt live) and snapping pictures of family members groping the breast of a bronze statue of Juliet. Apparently, if you rub the statues right boob, its good luck. That or Italians just really love the chance to feel up Juliet. I know I did. On the weekends, we traveled, sometimes with the whole class, other times with friends. And this is where the fun came in. Imagine crowding onto a sticky, sweaty train, typically delayed for at least twenty minutes. You squeeze into a seat, foam bursting out of the cushion, as you try to avoid breathing because the man next to you isnt wearing deodorant and there is no air flowing throughout the entire train. The smell is so horrendous that you have to assume the man beside you has rubbed his armpits with a stick of concentrated B.O. My Italian teacher, Petra, denied that Italians smell (on the third day that she wore the same light purple cotton dress with a sweat stain gradually spreading down her back). If youre lucky, the man doesnt talk to you. I had the pleasure of sitting across from an Italian in his late 60s who decided it would be fun to take pictures of me. For forty minutes. Though each time you step off the train, youre somewhere new and beautiful. Like Venice, a maze of canals, bridges, and clothing shops that you admire only through the window because the doorman is dressed in a suit and you would feel stupid knowing that you couldnt even afford his bowtie. But you probably smell better than him, so HA. Screw you Versace. After a day of touring churches and galleries, a few friends and I went searching for Venices nightlife. We stumble upon the Piazza San Margherita, a rightly named plaza lined with active bars filled with Swedish boys looking for action and Brazilian men who wouldnt share their pizza (those bastards). A South African guy named Rob sits down with us at a bar and tells us if we find him a dance club, hell buy us all tequila shots. Yeah, yeah, he might be in his early 30s, but free drinks! Alas, the discoteccas are just about closed. Time to head home, we think. But beware the maze that is Venice. As we attempt to navigate its convoluted canals and alleys, we end up traveling almost a half-hour in the wrong direction where we stumble across a bar run by a Russian guy named Sergei. Hes wiping off the counter, stacking glasses, ready to close up. Undaunted, Rob bribes the cute Russian guy to serve us even if it is past hours. Inevitably, we get trashed and I somehow have an hour-long conversation with this fellow named Marco, a quirky squished-faced guy whose stubby nose reminds me of Pinocchio. Marco desperately wants to bring me and my friends to a secret place where no tourists go. Adventure! One of my friends is making out with the South African dude, and my other friend maintains a sense of logic and says no. I make them go anyway. Marco leads us far into the depths of Venice until we arrive at a dead-end with a large baldheaded man blocking nothing. After Marco and the guard exchange some angry sounding words, the guard slides back a cardboard panel to reveal a closet-sized room with two more guards. After another confrontation, the guards unlock a door which leads to another door which leads to a stairway. At this point, I should have been thinking, Oh God, our organs will be sold on the black market. Instead I was thinking, Ooooooo, a secret passageway. We enter a dimly lit room at least 100 feet deep. Cigarette smoke drifts from the right corner, a smoking area semi-enclosed by glass. Were led to a chipped, dark-stained bar on the far left side. The bartender appears less than pleased by the site of Americans, but a fat patron with a mustache smiles drunkenly and introduces himself as Angelo. After that, he doesnt say anything but continues to smile, and his red and white striped shirt beneath his black vest reminds me of a pirate. So I smile back. I like pirates. Marco buys me a drink and we all wander over to the slot-machines. As I sip quietly on my vodka-lemon soda, a skinny, unshaven man asks Rob for some advice on his betting. When Rob replies, Marco snatches his shoulder and whispers, That guys a coke dealer. And if you give him the wrong advice, hell stab you. I thought this was funny until the unshaven man approaches Marco and yells at him in Italian. I see the flash of a blade in his pocket. And I dont know much of the language, but after hearing ragazza americana (American girl) and a few other things, I realize hes challenging Marco. For me. I slowly back away because the only thing I can say fluently is I dont speak Italian well, and at 50 and 100 lbs, Im a little less than a match for a grown man with a knife. Though as I sneak off, I bump into two huge Italians who are grinning in a way that would have set off sirens for any sober person. They try to corner me, but I manage to squeeze through them and return to Marcos side. He kisses me on the cheek and says to the coke dealer, Questa la mia ragazza, okay? (This is my girlfriend, okay?). The dealer rolls his eyes but backs off anyhow. The other two men also laugh and leave. I guess I wasnt worth the trouble. My friends and I take this chance to escape to the pool tables on the very opposite side of the room. Sergei the bartender joins us and I learn from him that were in an underground illegal gambling center called Il Billiardi (billiards). Oops. I honestly dont know how we got out of there with our lives/organs/virginities (or what have you), but we exited the billiard hall unassaulted a few hours later. When we return above ground, its bright as day out. I dont mean a rising sun. I mean a risen sun. And rather than heading back to the hotel where the rest of the class was staying, we decide to go out for coffee. When we return to the hotel, its 8 am. Our instructor is none too happy. Oops again. The rest of my stay in Italy was just as eventful. I swam in the Adriatic Sea and danced the night away at an outdoor dance club in a beach town called Rimini. I nearly got stabbed by a gypsy with a shard of glass in Rimini also. My friends and I shared 33 free drinks (courtesy of the lovely Italian boys) in one night during our stay in Florence. I traveled to Perugia and attended a jazz festival with some Australians I met at my 10 euro hostel. And of course, we witnessed the excitement that exploded throughout all of Italy when they won the World Cup. Italia is two worlds. One world is like a pop-up text book that puts the phrase American history to shame. You can stand where Caesar stood. You can touch the work of Michelangelo. You can visit a wine shop that has Since 900AD written on the window. The other world is the young girl that sings beautiful arias that echo throughout the alleys of Florence. Its the Italians that follow you home at night because they dont know the word stalker. Or the gelato that no one in their right mind can pass up. Italia is a mix of history and modern times smashed together, sometimes in perfect unison, sometimes in a disastrous clash. I tried to see it all, but the more I saw, the more I realized I was missing so much else. So my summer trip wont be the last time I visit Italy, hopefully. Besides, I absolutely love hearing how beautiful I am several times a day. Im going through Ciao bella withdrawal. And the only cure is more Italy.   Want to help Meghan through her withdrawal? Send her some amore at m-watt@northwestern.edu