Tag: Italy

20Aug

2 A.M. Delirium

Welcome to One Of Those Nights, the dark, sticky kind that prevents me from finding the magical hollow in my pillow that will quiet the clamoring from an entire unwritten week. Thus, my cure for insomnia: coaxing thoughts out of my tired brain and through my fingertips to freedom.

Of course, now that I’m out of bed and geared with laptop, I have no idea where to start. Every day is woven with countless emotions, a plethora of new vocabulary words, and a minute-hand steadily ticking off educational experiences. I couldn’t begin to accurately describe what my mind goes through on a daily basis, but I would hate to forget this time period… its unique mixture of confusion and satisfaction and — unbelievably — relaxation… the struggle of uprooting and the contentment of resettling.

Dan says I function much better as an Italian woman than I did as an American woman, and I think he’s right. All the repetitive daily activities that used to depress me seem to have a purpose here, even if that purpose is just practicing the language or getting some exercise. People’s genuine friendliness makes me want to leave the house and be part of society rather than hole up with my computer. Plus, I pretty much adore the built-in naptime that comes with life here. Every morning, I wake up a little less in the realm of the unfamiliar, and every night, I fall asleep feeling a little more at home.

I can feel this post teetering on the verge of incoherent rambling, so I’ll put my thoughts back to bed for the night. Stay tuned for next time, when I will try to write something that sounds a little less like 2 a.m. delirium…

18Aug

Mastercard Not Accepted

Milk frother for making perfect cappuccinos: 6 euro
Cheery sunflower rug perfect for building legos on: 10 euro
Tiny rose bush bursting with perfect orange blossoms: 4 euro
The thrill of finding perfect Saturday morning treasures at the open market for husband, daughter, and self, respectively: Priceless

13Aug

Eating Dangerously

Italians are amazing. They sit down to mountainous plates of spaghetti and immediately start talking to each other. When they stop talking long enough to take a breath three-and-a-half minutes later, all traces of spaghetti have magically vanished. This is where I start panicking. See, three-and-a-half minutes are exactly long enough for me to eat two bites of pasta, provided I don’t take breaks to talk, drink, or breathe. And anyone unlucky enough to lag behind during an Italian meal might as well stay overnight, because that’s how long it will take to catch up on the meat course, the drinks, the vegetable platter, the drinks, the bread basket, the drinks, the obligatory seconds of everything, the drinks, the dessert, the drinks, the fruit tray, the drinks, the espresso, the liquor shots, and — because your bladder is far too empty — the drinks.

Foreigners beware! Anyone accepting an Italian’s invitation to dinner should have the ability to:
– Politely shovel vast amounts of food into his/her mouth, while
– Politely interrupting everyone at the table, since that is the only feasible way to join in the conversation, while also
– Politely keeping both elbows on the table (much harder than it sounds!), all the while
– Politely declining the hostess’s urgings to eat seconds, thirds, and fourths of everything,
– Keeping in mind that “No thank you, my stomach is already bursting” translates to “I am on the verge of starvation; keep the food coming!” in the minds of Italian hostesses.
In fact, someone should offer courses on Italian dining, at the end of which certification cards would be issued stating that the bearer has sufficient stomach capacity and chewing velocity to accept dinner invitations. “Can you come to dinner tonight?” “Sorry, I haven’t passed Dessert Endurance 101 yet, but call me in a month!”

I just realized I am making Italian meals sound like something to be avoided, which could not be farther from the truth. The food is incredible, the conversation is lively, and the hospitality is legendary. For Italians, eating is much more than a survival tactic; it is an experience. It is pleasure and relaxation and companionship and satisfaction and life being thoroughly lived. I just need to expand various internal organs before the next time I’m invited to live this thoroughly!

10Aug

The Cowardly Lion Learns Success

I’ve known for months that once I moved to a new country and had the daily shopping responsibilities all to myself, I would quickly need to become a Brave Woman. Now that I’m here, I feel instantly disqualified for two reasons:
1. Brave Women do not lie in bed in the morning wondering if they can push the snooze button just 599 more times.
2. Brave Women are not afraid of the grocery store.

I feel like I ordered a side order of change, but when I wasn’t looking, someone added a combo meal with extra fries and super-sized the whole shebang. Now, I’m enveloped by a newness that I expected only in a fuzzy, theoretical kind of way.

It’s harder than anything to be patient with myself, a life-long perfectionist thrust into surroundings where trial-and-error is the only option. However, I’m slowly learning the vital lesson of how to appreciate each day by its small successes:
Drying three loads of laundry on a clothesline…
Ordering lunch meat at the deli next door…
Lighting a gas stove without horrendously burning myself, passing out from the fumes, or destroying more than two matches…
Chatting for five minutes with another mom at the park…
Recognizing our bus stop…
Learning how to say “Don’t throw the gravel!” like a good Italian mamma…

I wish I could write more about the whole experience, but time seems to be slipping away in erratic bursts. These first days have managed to be ridiculously short and impossibly long at the same time, leaving me with twenty-four misshapen hours to navigate each time. Plus, the combination of jet lag and internet withdrawal has me in a very woozy state of being.

Now, to get Natalie out of bed (where she put herself, by the way… What mother has to forbid her two-year-old from napping before lunch?) and to sweep up the inch of high-quality Italian dust that magically appears on our floor every hour, on the hour. Another [completely, utterly, and exhaustively] new day is underway!

6Aug

The TSA Should Be Banned

Navigating airport security with a toddler:

1) Grit teeth.
2) Take shoes off two-year-old.
3) Explain to distraught two-year-old that she will get her shoes back, provided that they don’t turn out to be flowery size-6T bombs.
4) Go through security gate to wait for our unsecured valuables.
5) Watch helplessly as husband–shoeless, beltless, and holding toddler–is instructed to take stroller to the farthest outskirts of civilization for special processing.
6) Observe x-ray technician letting our carry-ons through without even glancing at the screen.
7) Suppress the urge to put the carry-ons back through security just so someone will notice my excellent Ziploc-bagging skills.
8) Attempt to re-pack liquids and/or gels, laptops, teddy bears, and boarding passes while putting on shoes, belt, and four backpacks before next person in line manages to clear security gate. (Keep in mind that husband and child are still trekking back from the nether regions of Stroller Security Land.) Hope that next person in line will require a strip search.
9) Feel guilty.
10) Reunite with husband, daughter, and–eventually–stroller, once it has been deemed innocent of international terrorism. What a relief.

(We have, in fact, arrived in Italia. More updates once I snap out of the hazy world of Jet Lag.)

27Jul

Countdown Begins

After 7 months of being told “your papers will come any day now…”
After 960 unanswered phone calls to The Godfather…
After 2 summer moves to homes that aren’t actually ours…
After 6 excursions to the Italian Consulate…
After 38 emotional upheavals in the last week alone…
…the real countdown begins:

6 days until we leave for Italy.

Naturally, my brain has been replaced by a kaleidoscope. Cheerful orange elation clashes with deep purple worry, which keeps running headlong into clean green practicality, which occasionally shifts into an absurd yellow panic. And then there are the sudden revelations speckling across my vision like a TV gone haywire:
We won’t get Mac ‘n’ Cheese in Italy! (How will we ever survive?)
I’m going to be delivering this baby in a foreign country! (Do they know about C-sections over there?)
Italians speak Italian! (Why, oh why didn’t I put more effort into becoming fluent?)
We’re leaving behind some of the best friends we’ve ever had! (How have I never realized how much I’ll miss them?)

But then my less-placenta-brained husband reminds me of that day three years ago in Venice when we talked about throwing away our return tickets. And then I remember early morning bike rides and noontime strolls through the open markets and lazy afternoon drinks in the piazzas, sunset walks through the parks and hilarious late night gatherings in the pizzerias. I remember how effortlessly the Italians talk, their whole bodies animated with the joy of carrying on conversations. I remember the lovely winding roads and the rolling hills lined with grapevines. I remember the pizza and the pasta and the coffee and the wine and the chocolate.

And then all the pesky, swarming details seem less than important because, hey — we’re moving to Italy!

25Jul

Brain Cell Exodus

Yes, I know, too long without writing. Inexcusable. (Except that it’s very, very excusable.)

While I’ve been itching for a quiet hour or four with my laptop, the world has been spinning a little too fast… cartwheeling too, and back-flipping, and careening through all known variations of insanity. If I survive it with enough brain cells to count past 4, this summer will end up on a “Top 5” list (most likely Top 5 Reasons I Can No Longer Count Past 4).

Natalie tends to say things best these days:
“Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, I love you, Mommy, I want to go home now.”

Me too, kiddo.

(Stay tuned for exciting news!)*

*As soon as I figure out what it is…

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