Homeiversary

Snapshots of a late morning walk:

There are always 60-year-old women roaming near the pharmacy as if on patrol. They each have a bag with the familiar green plus sign stamped on the side, and they eagerly show the contents to each other: hemorrhoid medicine, cellulite cream, bunion ointment, pills for a number of increasingly shocking maladies. They lift up their breezy shift dresses to show off injuries amid sympathetic tsk tsks. Many times, the conversation prompts a tirade against doctors or a medical horror story that happened to a friend of a friend of their cousin’s son’s hairstylist (or both!), and a glorious time is had by all. By noon, the patrol is over; the women separate to shop for support bras in the nearby merceria or pick up a loaf of bread for lunch, armed comfortably with medicine and gossip alike.

A large group of young teenagers is clumped around, on, and occasionally under a row of scooters in my parking lot. This is their social epicenter, their designated spot on earth to discuss trivial things with great importance until they grow wrinkled enough do the same in smoky wood-paneled bars. One of the teenagers has brought a car (his mother’s?), and the prettiest girls of the group keep climbing in and out to appreciate the leather against their long tanned legs. (The driver simply appreciates the legs.) The younger teens who are not cool enough to associate with cars or long tanned legs stand around their scooters. They are joking constantly, by the looks of it, or at least making a concerted effort to have fun. A few of them have lollipops, which they try to pass off as cigarettes. They look hopelessly young, peach-fuzzed babies with scooter licenses and budding opinions of the world.

The parks are deserted today except for a few hyperactive pigeons. I don’t know if this is because August is national vacation month or if it simply too hot this morning for children to be allowed outside (they might sweat!), but the swings hang limp and sizzling and forgotten. In one month, these little neighborhood playgrounds will be swarming with babies in strollers, grubby toddlers trying their hardest to eat the gravel, and caregivers trying their hardest to leave the gravel where it belongs. The boisterous older children that are usually here clambering up slides or jumping off see-saws will be in classrooms learning how to become useful members of society. These parks will sparkle with tiny voices, and mornings will cool into an easy rhythm once again.

***

One year ago yesterday, we arrived in Italy. One year ago today, we were exploring our new niche in the world—what doorways in this lovely neighborhood led to produce or ice cream or matches or clothes. I have a hard time believing we’ve been here a year, but the differences are obvious when I let myself see them. For example, I step out of the house with purpose now, or at least little purposes arranged along my route. My feet know where to go for baby formula, for blood tests, for phone cards, and I am so grateful to be out of the haze of unknowing. Also, and more significantly, I understand almost everything people say to me now—80% from this person, 98% from that. (Occasionally 2%, but that’s usually a matter of the speaker’s dialect and/or number of teeth. Or, uh, the amount of sleep I got the night before.) I have not sat down to study Italian since our first month here, but the language has crept into my consciousness little by little until I suddenly realize my vocabulary has doubled. Maybe tripled. I am so relieved to be able to communicate; it feels like power and friendship and one step closer to fitting in.

I can think of so many more ways that I wish I were taking advantage of this sunny Umbrian life, but that will come in time I think. We’ve had a lot on our plates this last year, what with moving in and scavenging for documents and having babies and all, but I’m slowly starting to find my footing here. Next year will seem more natural, as will the year after that, and who knows? Maybe one day I’ll wake up and realize I’m one of those 60-year-old women chatting animatedly outside the pharmacy. (Though I promise you now, I will never show you the contents of my bag.)