Tricks and Treats

I have things to say about international plane travel with small kids and babies. I have things to share about having an 8 month old in Italy. There are neat festivals in the towns around us, activities at school, and new friends from France and Greece, but I just can't seem to get caught up! From a road trip beginning in the heel of the boot stretching to the northern reaches of this country, and back again, and then sick kids at home, and then top it off with a teething baby, I haven't had a moment to even breathe. My only solution is to do this in small doses... so I will back up... only a smidgen... to Halloween.
Italy doesn't do Halloween like America, but they make an effort. Why ever so, I am not sure. Probably because of the fun portrayed in American films, and I can't complain. It is easy to feel homesick this time of year, and being able to share my childhood memories and traditions with my kids helps a little. In my seven years here I have seen a slow progression in the amount of holiday paraphernalia that stores carry. Mainly witch costumes and some gory masks. Then some jack-o-lantern banners and some black and orange balloons entered the array of holiday decor. And, for their own touch the Italians added sparklers and those "pop" things that you throw at the ground on the 4th of July. Usually the week before Halloween I can find a big American pumpkin running about 11 euros. The candy is their usual mix of fancier chocolates or gummy fruit chews, but no over-sized, mega bags to accommodate the masses that go door-to-door... mainly because I am not sure very many actually go door-to-door, and if they do, they are older elementary schoolers and middle schoolers. There are no "Elmos" or "Buzz Lightyears" totting house-to-house, or I guess that would be, apartment-to-apartment.

However, my kids' preschool celebrated the holiday with a Halloween party at school. Funny, there is no controversy in honoring America's tradition in their Italian public school. If they only knew the line that this festival sometimes draws in the USA! Here, it remains innocent.
Anyhoot, my day had begun, as usual, with buckling the three, a strawberry fairy, a pumpkin fairy, and Buzz Lightyear, in their carseats. Upon arriving at school, I could see that my 2 were the only ones dressed up besides a few kids with witches hats and the teachers in full witch garb... even though the teachers had told them they could wear costumes. I hate having them stand out as "different", but my daughter could have cared less-- she was in a tutu and tiara, and costume would be her daily preference for attire any day. My son, however, was stricken shy, but happy to be out of his grembule, which is a smock that Italian kids wear to school through middle school. It is the style of a doctor's coat (but more feminine for the girls) and the color depends on the school or grade. Usually white, royal blue, black or light pink or blue, or light pink or blue gingham. I digress.

Maestra Rosanna show off the Little Pumpkin Fairy.

The kids sang really cute songs, in Italian of course, about bats and owls and pumpkins. The school even had a glowing jack-o-lantern that was of a greenish pumpkin variety, more commonly found here. Then, as the Italians interpret the tradition of "Trick or Treating", the teachers, dressed as witches, hid inside the school's playhouse and let the kids knock on the door for either a treat, candy (that I supplied from Walmart), or a trick, a spritz of water! I also made Kleenex sucker ghosts with Sharpie drawn eyes and mouth, like my mom did when we were kids, as a little treat for my kids to pass out. I guess our family's tradition will be more along the lines of passing out the candy, instead of receiving it.
Of course when the kids got home I had Halloween treats of pastries and cookies waiting for them that one of the local bakeries had made, but I also had their bags packed as we were rushing out of town for a 7 hour car trip up the Adriatic coast to my in-laws house, and then the following day, another 3 hours north to check on the house we own in the Veneto. It would be a long, hurried weekend (Halloween falling always the same time as All Soul's Day; the Monday after Halloween was a national holiday with everyone out of school and work) and my kids repaid my festive mood my making their own Halloween coriandoli, or confetti, and decorating the living room as I put the finishing touches on their suitcases in my room.


Was I tricked or treated?

They were grounded from scissors for a week, and I am still finding their merrymaking in nooks and crannies of the house, or I'm pulling bits of the paper out of the baby's mouth. 



The real treat of the Halloween weekend, however, was taking the kids to see their cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents in Rimini. After cleaning up the living room, we got on the road late and arrived at the Nonni's, or grandparent's, house at 2am. This was the first time for many to meet the baby so we were up way into the wee hours of the morning eating strudle and talking. It didn't make it easy to get up in the morning and drive on to our old stomping ground, but nothing could have taken the joy out of being back in the north of Italy in the golden fall weather.



An American friend with an Italian husband and her 3 Italo-American kids had us all over for lunch which included all the courses-- appetizers, the  primo of gnocchi with gorgonzola and walnuts, and the secondo of cavallo steaks... and for we two American ladies to eat the latter, you know we've lived in Italy long enough to not care! Next were sides of vegetables and a salad, which follows the meal in Italy. Dessert and coffee last. But, the biggest treat was her huge bowl of American Halloween candy that her kids had gotten the night before as a nearby American Army post opened its gates for local kids to trick-or-treat.  I was pleasently pleased to find Reeces and Skittles and candy corns and all sorts of America-only goodies!



Like Easter eggs and the Easter bunny, Santa at the mall, Thanksgiving, football season, 4th of July, and all those other marks on the calander that I have had to give up, Halloween as I knew it is just a distant memory as long as I am here in Italy. It probably isn't a big deal, and my kids wouldn't be any worse for the wear if they never had all the glitz of an American holiday, but it is fun. And who am I to deny them that... but I will supervise the use of scissors from now on, afterall, paper snowflake season is right around the corner.



Trick-or-Treat? Are you awake?



Oh, that little goblin!



A girl went back to Napoli

Rosemary Clooney sang in Mambo Italiano, "A girl went back to Napoli, because she missed the scenery..." It's not exactly why I went back, and if you ask my mother-in-law, the scenery isn't what it used to be. Today Naples, Italy looks as if it is held together by wire and crumbling plaster. Wire clotheslines are strung from balconies as far as the eye can see. Television antennas poke into the skyline from every which way.

Five hours up the road, and our first long car trip crowded with 3 car seats and tre bambini, we made the journey to the American Consulate in Naples for one Report of Consular Birth Abroad, one new passport, and three renewals of passports. Worse than a thousand are-we-there-yets from the backseat, was the speculating on how far we were from "the volcano" and if it would be safe to stay nearby Mount Vesuvius. With that came a thousand questions on what "dormant" really means, as I was happy to lecture on the status of that particular volcano... until I got home and googled it to find, I quote, "Mt. Vesuvius is still active today. It is the only active volcano on the European mainland. Its last eruption happened in 1944. The danger is that over 2 million people live near Vesuvius and may be in danger. I think that the reason that they still live there is fertile soil."

Lemons from Zia's garden

Whoops. Guess I was wrong. Maybe I wouldn't have slept so well knowing that bit of info, but I guess that fertile soil is what makes the fruits and veggies so tasty.

My husband has family in the big city so we were able to plan to stay relatively comfortably for a few nights. Ha, comfortable. We would be staying in an older building. The kind that as soon as you hit the door you are invaded with the oppressive smell of mildew, at least on the ground floor. It is an apartment building that was built by my husbands grandfather, who was a builder like my own father. The building has lots of layers. For instance, a basement that I have never dared venture into, a rooftop terrace spackled with old Christmas decorations, a back garden that you must enter from a kitchen window and then scale down a rickety wooden staircase to the patio.

A few years ago, I would have shuttered at the idea of having to put the family to sleep in the same room... a hot, un-air conditioned room, furnished in the 1960's, worrying over if silly kids would ever settle and sleep. I've learned to adapt and, this trip, I found comfort in hearing all of life's sounds out our open window as we slept together, like emigrants crowded into a ship's cabin. I could hear children playing into the night and families watching the soccer game. In Naples, it seems as though everyone, including pet birds, cats, and dogs, lives outside on their balconies in the summer. I have also noticed that they can grow almost anything in pots and containers to make their own balcony gardens. Plus, I guess it is easy to get kids to fall asleep, after all, if you have an Italian aunt who keeps the kids up until midnight, feeding them lemon sorbet.

The morning we went to the American Consulate, I expected an hour appointment and had been advised online to not bring in too many things, as there would be a security check before we entered. The hour appointment took four hours of waiting and I found myself with nothing to entertain the kiddos. Not a problem. My kids have learned how to make friends fast from their early exposure to Italian preschool and they soon found a boy only a year or two older then themselves to play with. I had also expected to find a waiting room full of American families, but that was not the case. I am guessing that foreigners must apply for a visa before they take an American vacation, so, the boy my kids found to play with was probably from a South American country, I am guessing. The boy must have attended Italian schools because he knew the same sort of kid-games that my kids know, like a game called Uno, Due, Tre Stella! which is like Red-Light, Green-Light. I was happy the kids were playing, although some of the games were getting kinda loud. I ushered the kids away from the waiting people to a corner along the far wall of the stark, office-like room. On the wall I had noticed three nicely framed photos of the President, Vice-President, and Secretary of State. Hmm, I noticed the similarity in my kids' new playmate and the President. Same coloring. Same hair. I could tell he was a smart kid because he kept quizzing my 5 year old on various things. I wasn't surprised, then, when he looked up and asked my daughter if she knew who the guy in the first picture was. I, too, had thought about giving her a social studies lesson and had tried to point out the same thing. She must not have paid attention because her answer was, "your dad." Well, guess if we had been there for a citizenship test, we would have failed. Good thing that in proving I had lived in the US for at least five consecutive years, and I am married to my husband, they just give my kids their citizenship and passports. Well, with that and for about $400 for all we were getting done this particular day.

I'm glad that we got to spend time with the family in Naples. Over the years, most have moved away, as Naples isn't what it used to be. Maybe that is why my great-great grandparents left Naples to immigrate to America. Maybe they foresaw the city changing into a beast of traffic and dirty streets, and guessed there was more land in rural America to grow fresh fruits and veggies, volcanic soil or not. Who knew, I would return someday, and be claiming my kids American in a city that is a complete contrast to what my American life was in the suburbs in Oklahoma. Convenient, predictable, organized, quiet. However, what the city lacks in asthetic appeal, it makes up in character and big-hearted people, I guess that makes it a little like Oklahoma, after all.

The Long Goodbye

Italians can't just say goodbye and go. When you are saying farewell after a meal together, you must first decide if you will partake in an after dinner coffee. The tiny espressos usually take longer to get to the table than the meal did, as the waiters get busy with the diners that arrive at the Italian dinner hour, usually as we are finishing and ready for coffee. We, for the most part, arrive just as the restaurants are opening around 7, or more likely 8 in our neck of the woods. So, over coffee, you prepare to say your parting words. Without a doubt you are at the end of your meal. You stand to say goodbye, but chat a little more. Walk to the door, say your adieus, but prattle on. Again at the car, a ciao, but you collect your final words. Finally, a kiss on both cheeks. I think almost two hours can pass, just saying goodbye the Italian way.  I guess that's why saying our final goodbyes to our neighbors has stretched into a few weeks of nights out, and days at the beach together. We have been so busy I can find my way to blurt on Facebook a few moments, but not to blabber on my blog. One activity has stretched out to meet the next. We grown-ups are as bad as our kids, asking for one more minute. No one ever wants the fun to end.

If you are friend or family, you know that we are a military family. I am quite used to the possibility of the call to move always being around the next cobble stoned corner. I keep an uncluttered life, ready at a moments notice. We, ourselves have moved 4 times in the past 7 years, the last time almost 2 years ago. In the past 2 years here, our kids have grown from tattling toddlers to socially mature preschoolers. Their inner circle of friends quite a thing to behold. Their Italian language skills have blossomed, I realize, as I remember following them around in the beginning as their personal translator. I was worried as they were approaching an age where kids begin to play together and not just next to one another, that they would be left out to play only with each other, speaking English.

Time has told a different story. We live in military housing now, on top of, and all around our friends, in rows of apartments. We can see them as they come and go. We wave from our balcony as we hang out our wash; airing the dirty laundry not a worry amongst friends. They are my substitute family; home away from home. They have wiped my kids' noses, dried their tears, and received fistfuls of weedy flowers from them as well. They celebrated the announcement of last years pregnancy and saw me through to the delivery. They have  helped out by driving my other kiddos to school, and loving on the new baby, doting on her, passing her around, rocking her to sleep. From birthday parties to holidays, life deep in the boot heel of Italy is a little less like Lost and a little more like a combo of Modern Family and My Big, Fat Greek Wedding, with the good friends that we have.

Leaving is one thing if you have an adventure waiting ahead of you. But, being left behind is lonely. Over the course of this summer, 4 families will leave us to embark on their own new ventures. Tomorrow we will say, "Antio", goodbye in Greek, to our inspirational Greek friends. This is a family with 3 kids, large by Italian standards who usually stop after 1 or 2 kids, that arrived not knowing the language. They bravely enrolled their 2nd grader and preschooler into school within their first weeks being here in Italy. They arrived with a newborn and had to find a pediatrician and schedule vaccines and check-ups, with the help of a Greek-Italian dictionary. I remember how difficult it was in the beginning watching the kids stare blankly at each other and resort to making animal sounds as they played with plastic beach animals. Evi, the mom of the family, and I have a special bond as being the only moms in all of Italy and Greece that don't believe our kids, 6 amongst us, will catch a cold by actually getting cold.

They came, they saw, they conquered, and they did it all with the most brilliantly positive attitude. Even as their tour here in Italy has been cut short by a misadventure, they have remained optimisticly calm. In knowing these friends, we have been given the opportunity to be good neighbors and help them with little challenges along the way. Knowing people like that, even for a little while, is worth the conversation being cut short. Knowing people like that turns the nonsensical chatter of life into an epic novel.

All of our stories will carry on, but instead of chatting over ice cream cones or prattling over a pizza, we will email and Facebook.We have swapped Greek, American, and Italian recipes, over conversations about the etymology of Greek, American, and Italian words.  There are no words in any of the languages for how much they will be missed, but I think my kids' dollhouse that they have emptied of its tiny furniture, with the toy moving-container semi-truck parked in front tells me what they see. In fact, it speaks volumes. They see an empty apartment, and a sea of silence between them and their friends. I hope someday we will meet again, perhaps next time in Greece where we can say our long Italian goodbyes over Greek coffee and Baklava.

Made in Italy, (Part 3)

To recap Part 1 and 2 of my birth story I will hit on the points that differ the most from having a baby in America. First, you are not given a gown at prenatal check-ups. Second, epidurals are not standard procedure. Third, hospitals are austere structures made to make you better, not comfortable. Forth, my husband would be called into the delivery room only at the actual moment of delivery. Also, of importance, this was my third pregnancy and a complete surprise. I arrived at the hospital in the middle of the night, only to find that everyone in the birthing ward had been asleep and due to my, and my spouse's, continuous knocking, we finally roused the floor 45 min. after our arrival. Read previous posts. ( Also, thanks, Mom, Deborah Vivona, for the wonderful unedited photos you left on my computer.)

2:40
To find oneself in the total care of a stranger is, to say the least, unnerving. To lack the language of your hospital is much like being a dog in a veterinary clinic, and is, to say the least, a daunting experience. So far, my adventure in Lecce's hospital of southern Italy had made me feel very much like an animal being poked and prodded, led from one room to another, not knowing what would happen next. There is already something a bit feral about having a baby, forces beyond your control taking hold of your body, so to have a gentle guide to tame your fears and hold your hand is paramount. I would have liked the partner I had chosen in marriage to have been the one to share my burden, but my leader for the night, Giuseppe, a male nurse, embodied all the characteristics you might want by your side during childbirth.

While the Italians are domesticated, some of their bookkeeping is defiantly archaic in nature. When I arrived at the hospital, my husband was sent back down to the emergency room entrance to obtain some sort of admittance paper. All paperwork done in Italy has the feeling of ancient documents, yellowed paper stamped with serious red circles and official black squares. Also, files are made in giant bound books, sometimes as much as 4 inches deep, maybe even more. Offices are usually lined far and wide in the colossal manuscripts. Appointments and records are kept like this, and I assume, hopefully, later transcribed to computer. So, I wasn’t too surprised when Giuseppe guided Pier Carlo, my husband, out the door to follow the procedure of paper passing, while he ushered me in. I bided a quick farewell and the instruction to please try and find me as soon as he was finished. We left the bags at the door because the ward was empty and we knew they would not be disturbed.

2:45

Now, I was in the hands of the staff and I would be at the mercy of nature and the very sleepy delivery ward. Led down an incredibly long, empty, fluorescent lit, and mint green corridor we entered a darkened examining room. The ostetrica arrived for the first examination. Behind an old-fashioned metal and fabric-sheeted screen, like something out of M.A.S.H, I was checked, ultrasounded, and it was concluded that I was indeed having a baby, but I was only at 2 cm and the baby hadn’t dropped. Great, I thought, it would after all be a long night, and I clutched the hope that the anesthesiologist would arrive soon and that my husband would be allowed to stay with me, although against protocol, through labor and delivery.

2:50

Next, fetal heart monitoring. Again, another darkened room, a lone machine sitting in the corner, paper-covered table. Seemingly far from delivering, I spent the next hour griped in pain every minute or so, listening to the baby’s heart. Like all the rooms in Italian hospitals, there was nothing to look at but a cracked ceiling, peeling plaster, a lone crucifix. Knowing I had nothing to fear, I tried to keep at bay all the apprehension that comes with the unknown. When would the guy with the needles come? Where was my husband? Every so often Giuseppe would pop in to check on me. Where did he keep running off to? Back to sleep perhaps, catnapping in the coffee break room on a well worn sofa, watching a black-and-white TV running fuzzy reruns of Bewitched dubbed in Italian? He would ask if I was alright, but what could I say? I continued to ask if my husband had returned, and since there must have been some sort of bureaucratic hold-up, I soon realized that if I needed to hold a hand it would have to be Giuseppe’s. At the beginning of a contraction I took to grabbing hold and squeezing down through the pain. Trying not to think about, or care, if this was in his job description. Nevertheless, he did have a calm way about him and he didn’t seem to mind. I was trying hard to keep a stoic face, a good attitude and be a team player. But, for who? Still there was only a staff of two.  

3:45
When I had done my hour on the fetal heart monitor, it must have been time for another checkup because I was led to yet another room. I recognized it as the sala parto, or delivery room. This room was much brighter lit. It was large and in the middle of the floor was the ominous delivery table, all stainless steel and robotic-looking with levers and arms and appendages poking out in every direction. We passed through a large doorway to an adjoining room and along the far wall were three tall gurneys standing at attention alongside their own machines and sentry-like carts of tools. I was guided to the first bed and helped aboard. Giuseppe brought me the nightgown from my bag that Pier must have passed him and (as I stuffed issues of modesty into my mental American suitcase) helped me dress. After checking with me for about the 100th time that I had, in fact, completed the course to have an epidural, I was assured that the anesthesiologist was on his way.

I then suggested it would be nice if my husband came back with me now, but Giuseppe politely answered that because it was likely that other women could be in the labor beds and “little dressed” it was customary to have husbands wait outside. There went that hope flying out the slightly opened window into the cold February darkness. I said I understood, but secretly wondered where these “other women” were on this particular night. Perhaps it wasn’t a matter of modesty, but an issue of Italian men wanting to sip small espressos and puff congratulatory cigars amidst their masculine equivalents, versus staying in the confines of the sterile hospice. Maybe meeting other expecting fathers and finding similarities in fishing, military careers, and other shared stories is more appealing than the outcries of a woman in labor. For that matter, as all Italians carry a chatterbox gene, I guess I have seen women in labor carry on full conversations of my-cousin-said-this and babies-must-do-that banter. So, like all of life’s milestones, having a baby, for Italians is just another occasion to get together and mingle, have a coffee, and chat.

Later, I found out that Pier had returned with the admittance papers after some emergency room, middle-of-the-night drama, but upon the hospital accepting me, and because I was, without a doubt, in labor, he had to return again to the front desk to pass another document saying that I would be staying, at long last, finally admitted to Ostetrico.

3:50
All was calm and quiet. With the check-up they must have found that I was now at 4 cm., with the baby still sitting high. Pier and I compared notes later because, again like a patient in a veterinary clinic, I was talked about, not to. My husband was greeted down the hall with the update when he returned for the last time, and he settled in for a round of Super Mario Bros. on my kids’ Nintendo DS. There was a slight smell of new cigarette smoke carried in on the crisp winter night air. Someone on-call near-by must have been roused from their nap. I imagined their Moka espresso bubbling to its termination on a white enamel hot plate, and I wondered if you were allowed coffee while in labor. I really had no idea how far along I was. The stout obstetrician, her elegantly dyed and styled hair disheveled from her earlier snooze, glasses perched delicately on the tip of her nose, then broke my water.  It was, then, as if the gates of a great horse race were opened. There was shouting. There was a stampede to rush me over to the delivery table on my wheeled bed.

4:00
There was more yelling. I tried to ask amid contractions for a little information but the Italian language was all mixed up in the word soup that was rushing around me. “Well, this is it,” Giuseppe answered. Hmm? It like maybe I will be pushing until sunrise, but with the epidural to still soon arrive, or it like maybe my husband would come in now and we would have Hollywood’s classic screaming and pushing version of childbirth. With the gurney now pulled alongside the delivery table, I next found another person or two in the jumbled dash for delivery. All eyes staring at me, they implored me to scooch over to the delivery table. “No,” I answered. Their eyes all beseeched me, “No?” Blank stares wondered why I would suddenly resist. “I have to push,” I stated. Uh-oh, I did. This really sent them in a frenzy, screaming for the others, whomever they might be, to run. “Come on,” they pleaded again. Once more I answered, “No.” They scrambled towards me, two people grabbing each a leg. Assuming position, they must have given up on the quest to move me.

A few choice words. A push. Baby crying.

4:02

I gazed upon the fat naked baby lying in a puddle of goo and first thought about how my 3 year-old would have found this hysterical. With little graphic discussion, he had intuitively figured out that babies must come out “yucky”. Like most little boys he is fascinated with ick. The staff, however, was not as impressed, and I issued a small “I’m sorry”. Still, though, I couldn’t help but find a little humor in the situation, so when my husband finally arrived, I was beaming like the Cheshire Cat.  "Whoops. It just happened." Only having completed one level of the video game, he was grinning too.  Maddalena was a surprise from the beginning, so it wasn't a shock that she would enter the world in her own unique way. 

Babies made in Italy, are, I'm sure, like babies made in other parts of the world, with squished little faces, flailing little limbs on bare elfin bodies, and prestine little souls. Their desire to be held and fed and cared for, bellowed out to the new world in their first breaths.  The package might not be as pretty, but Italian hospitals and doctors are competent and kind.  Maybe Italian bambini arrive in a world a little simpler-- no whistles and bells-- but for an event that has been going on since, literally, the beginning of mankind, what more does one need than a loving mama and papa, a waiting big sister and brother.

Made in Italy, (Part 2)

Having a baby in Italy is like going back in time to when our grandmothers had babies, or at least what I imagined it was like. Not that there are nurses in white caps running around with stacks of towels and boiling water, but hospitals are very institutional. You won't find your own private hospital room with nicely framed art work and big cozy chairs for waiting family members. You won't find your birth team made up of your spouse, parents, in-laws and cousins allowed in the delivery room to cheer you on. You will, though, get to share your hospital room, after delivery, with other women and get to experience a feeling like you're staying in a pajama-clad summer camp. You will leave all modesty at the door and more than likely also your husband.

Made in Italy (Part 1, Intro)

Winging It
I suppose almost every young girl has dreams of a big custom-detailed wedding, but I can honestly say I never sat around day-dreaming the perfect colors, flowers, or dress. A lot of my big day was planned around convenience, knowing that a week after the wedding I would be jet-setting off to a new life abroad.

Hec, you didn't even hear a grumble from me when I found out that the guys here in Italy don't save three months salary for an engagement ring. My mom and I winged everything and it turned out beautifully. It was charming and full of personality and a great farewell to friends and family. And, it was just the beginning. If anything has come as a big surprise it is child-rearing in Italy that caught me the most off-guard. Don't as little girls we all assume we will play house just as our mothers did?
So, what better way to christen this blog than to begin with a birth story. Maddalena, the third edition to our family, was a surprise pregnancy and like all unplanned events a little ad-libbing would be called for. Being my third baby here in Italy some of the shock in differences has worn off... sort of. There are things you will never really get used to. Things such as the lack of gown that they should give you at your prenatal appointments or the long lines of socialized health care to get monthly blood work. But, because a baby is going to be born no matter what you are wearing or how many lines you were held up in, like with my other pregnancies, with the support of my pilot husband, what else could I do but wing it. The news of a new baby, 3 1/2 years after the last, would need a little improvising: throw together a corner of my firstborn's room into a nursery, make do with borrowed items since we had gotten rid of baby gear, and stand-by for the incoming bambina.

Here, nor There

Diplomat that I am, if you hear me condemn Italy you will more than likely also hear me defend it... nowadays. My first years in Italy were spent comparing the differences between here and there, in the USA. Unfortunately, Italy did not always stack up to America. It was too small, too crowded, too dirty, too complicated. Where was this stereo-typed simple Italian life?! Life was boring, isolated, and difficult. After the climax of a wedding and the excitement of jet-setting off to Europe, la vita dolce was left lacking. I wanted to be there, not here, and there was no "in between".
John Steinback said, "A journey is like marriage. The certain way to be wrong is to think you control it." And boy was I wrong when I first moved here. I lost my control of the most simple tasks in life. Everything from putting gas in the car to mailing a letter to pay a bill had to be relearned, or at the very least, the language to do it all in had to be . I was forced to reconsider all things previously known. Houses aren't bought with kitchen counters and fixtures or with bedroom closets, women keep their maiden names, and air-conditioning or clothes dryers are a luxury not a necessity. I was a foreigner in my own life and there was a deep chasm between what I had always been, an artist, a student, a daughter, a sister, and who I was suddenly expected to be, an expat wife.
Now, almost 7 years down the road I realize that somewhere along the way, the line dividing here and there has blurred. I love living the life in between. I feel most alive hanging in suspense over our next move, or moving through an international airport suspended between neither here, nor there. Our travels and mini-adventures have included friends from the top of Italy all the way down to the heel of the boot, big dogs, and babies. And, even though we don't stay rooted for long, my little space between two cultures has taught me how to grow where I am planted, whether that is a tomato patch in Italy or a wind-swept plain of Oklahoma. As old habits die hard, so do old habitats and while I tried so hard in the beginning to make a lil' America among the cobble stoned streets and marble statues, along the way I have learned how to cast off all unnecessary baggage and enjoy the adventure of living in between the old world and the new.
Usually when I wake up my first morning either here or there after traveling for 24 hours with two big German Shepherds or with toddlers I have a strange groggy moment right before I open my eyes of not knowing where I am. Last year, upon returning to my American home, the confusion came in the form of another question. Not where I actually was, but where would I rather be when I opened my eyes? There is no answer for this. I am forever doomed, or blessed, to ride the fence between this life and that. Diplomatically, this blog is the story of our family's life abroad, afloat, and afar.