(Be advised: I have to comment that I was having a bit of a bad day and might have been too harsh on Italy. I did not mention the things I love...like my 3 little guys who bring me so much joy and have taught me that I am very capable of being a mother, because I love them as if they were my own, their presence is why I am here, and why I will be back next fall. i <3 my little guys...)
It has been 10 months exactly today. 10 months since I entirely flipped my life upside down, stepping into a world that is exact opposite than the one I had created before, a world that no longer revolves around me, but instead spins on the dynamics of a foreign family. My apologies faithful friends and family for writing less, actually four months of ‘less writing’, but I have quite possible lived the most thrilling four months of my life, until now…
There is an Italian word I love ‘Stufo’ , sono stufo di autobus, sono stufo di campo di fiori, sono stufo di… Meaning: I am sick of.. I am sick of the bus, train, metro, tram...I am sick of the bars, the parking, the early morning rises and undressing-glares of men… I am sick… but most of all this week I have found myself to be dauntingly homesick.
There is a line, there is always a line, yet I constantly stagger on a line of too much or not enough. Last night I long jumped that line setting a new world record. Wednesday brought a sweet sunshine and loving familiar smile from a girl I met a few times while working in Newport. She has a beaming personality and stunning looks to match, almost reaching 6 foot, and you know how I love tall people, the cherry is we share the same birthday. I loved our day! Yesterday was another Italian holiday celebrating, oh who knows maybe voting again…but I wouldn’t be bothered, by the grace of God, I was off work! We spent the whole day in the city, it was precisely what I need to remind myself why I wasn’t at home holding baby Milana in my arms. Sight seeing all day in the hot sun, not eating much and drinking a bottle of prosecco for Aperativo, gave me the running start for my record long jump.
It was also the last night, of the last girl, in my group of girlfriend here in Rome, which achingly was sinking in. I am alone. Taking a journey back in time to the first month I had arrived, those all too familiar feelings rushed in. There I was in a black dress and heels, with two fun-loving friends, wishing I was the one getting on a plane tomorrow and heading back to the States. When we arrived at the third bar around 3:30am I posted on a stool, drank and texted until I could not text anymore (possibly because the girls had hijacked my phone, but the keys were a bit blurry anyways). I was addicted, I couldn’t stop texting! I wanted to know what my friends were doing, what they were making for dinner, what baby names they had chosen, what new clothes they owned…I wanted to just be there, I wanted to be home. The poor boy next to me must have chatted for an hour, and then asked me, “Well do you even know my name, or where I’m from”. “Huh, ohh I’m sorry, what?” I replied.
Honestly, I just don’t care. I don’t want to meet anyone, what’s the point? I’m not going home with you, and even if I wanted to (which I never would, but incase I met Cristiano Renaldo) I didn’t tell my “host family” I wasn’t coming home, so I can’t, and frankly sono stufo di men, actually, sono stufo di everything new! I don’t want new friends, especially new guy friends, I want my Old guy friends, I just want my old life.
I don’t want to ride the bus home at night and smell this horrific stench of a salty-sweat that has been marinating in the hot sun all day long and I don’t want to have to ‘go out’, just to get a brake from work, and I don’t want to eat anything un-vegan, I just don’t want to eat anymore food… for months, I don’t want to be celibate! I don’t want to dream of Miliana, I want to see Milana, I just want home. I want my mother to greet me with a hug and kiss when I walk in the door, I want hear Jack Johnson without my headphones. I want to come home to roommates watching trashy TV, I want my friends to lie on my bed late at night and share ex-boyfriend stories. I want my shoes! I want my new friends I made to come back to Rome! I want to drink wine and cook with my family at Sunday dinner. I want to sit next to the fire-pit at mom’s! I want to steal my sister’s clothes and piss her off! I want to see my brother hold Milana. I want my dad’s avocados! I want to hear his guitar. I want my fresh squeezed OJ I drank every day for two years made from the oranges I picked from my dad’s trees! I want to hear the Today Show while I squeeze my OJ. I want to wake up and run next door to see the pugs playing outside, I want to hear our old tennis coach tell us “now that’s a picture, girls”, I want my yoga body back!! I want to eat what I want, when I want and how I want, any f-ing time of the day. I want to be a Vegetarian again! I want to grocery shop at Trader Joe’s and Growers Direct. I want to wear the shortest dresses and not have a man ask me how much I cost! I want my 24 hour fitness membership and my Grande Soy Vanilla Spice Chi from Alta, I want to see Jenny prego, for the third time! I want to come home to my house, where I can have as many people over as I want. I want to throw a house party! I want to walk out of the shower and be naked as long as I like! I want to sleep in my underwear and wake up as late as I want and eat breakfast in my undies! I want my nails done, I want, well actually I NEED a pedi mani, haircut, hair dye, wax, facial, massage….ahhh after 10 months of a completely life switch, this week, I want my old life back. OMG I want my CAR!! I want to control the radio and BE allowed to sing as loud as I want with out boys screaming at me!!! I want the beach, My BEACH! I want my homes: San Diego, Newport, and Granite Bay…I have exactly one month, yet I need it now…
But the thing is….
I also LOVE Rome. I am in LOVE with Rome. From the moment I arrived I had been engulfed by its passion, splendor and rich history.
I might be sick…Homesick, but I’m not done with Rome quite yet. You see, after ten months certain relations are built that are unbreakable and etched in your mind; after ten months I have deeply changed due greatly to these relations. The past four months were no longer ‘I or Me’, but ‘Us or We’, and I found myself surrounded by the most brilliant group of friends. Which as of today, have all returned to their respected countries or spending the summer around Italy, but certainly our experiences are never to be forgotten. In the mist of my self-imposed bath of nostalgia I will pour the bubbles of the past four months in optimism to fill the perfect prescription for my current state of illness. I strongly believe in self-medication through writing particularly when you do not have insurance. Where are you on that one Obama? Without further a do, last I checked I left off at March…
For a much needed boost after the gloomy winter, spring was in the air. I wasted no time springing into action. Every morning after taking my boys to school I started running in Villa Borghese. It is beautiful at this time of the year; the tiny pink flower buds in bloom and the crisp sun warming up the air, it started to feel like Italy. I was fascinated by my fellow joggers, they provided hours of endless entertainment. Just their outfits alone are priceless; my personal favorite is the man who wears woman’s yoga pants. At any rate, I started a conscious game of Judgment. I would guess where each jogger was from, what language they spoke, if they had children, where they worked, if they were married or faithfully married; the best way to judge if a jogger is faithful in his marriage is to gauge his glare. If you run by and he glares at you and the glare continues beyond past inception and down past the small of your back, followed by a wide-eye-rapid-head-bob, ladies and gentleman we have found ourselves a cheater. I would let my imagination run wild, as I used Rome as my personal gym. The Spanish Steps became my Stairmaster and for lost of better words, it was just rad. After 2 glorious ambition filled weeks as ‘a runner’ I sprained my ankle quite badly while silently judging an old man on a bench, who in turn, silently judged me while I screams out a not so bella word…I couldn’t walk for a week.
Mondays and Wednesday I have Italian lessons, although much like college I tended to skip class for a coffee with my best friend. On Tuesday and Thursday mornings I met a student for coffee next to the Steps. Ella is in her late forties or early fifties, and seeing that she is a full time mother of two very active teenagers and holds a head position at a local TV broadcasting station, between the times she drops off her children at school and before she goes to work is when we have our lessons. I fell particularly hard for this dear student, actually incredibly hard. She is the perfect mix of my dear friend in Newport Beach who is also in her late 40’s and my darling mother. Ella stands 3 inches shorter than me, has bobby blond hair and a tiny petite frame. She loves to smile, laugh and shop. During our morning coffees we would take walks around Via del Corso and window shop in the fabulously expensive store windows. When I asked her why she was studying English she had told me that English was very important to her, she hoped to one day retire in Africa and work in an orphanage. This is the type of woman that she is. Some evenings I would skip over to her house (she lives across the street) and enjoy a wonderful three course Italian dinner. She asked me if next year I would live with her, so I could be her English teacher. As charming as she is and as sweet as she is I still didn’t feel quite right about the offer, so I graciously declined and went on our way never bringing up the topic again.
One Saturday morning Ella took me grocery shopping with her, you can imagine the supermarkets jammed packet with little Italian woman driving their carts through the isle with the same demeanor they poise with their cars, pure craziness. This is the market on a Saturday morning. I can’t imagine what these Italian women must had thought when the saw Ella picking up a cucumber from across the yellow basket filled fresh produce section and over a small child’s head, “And what do we call this?”
Laughing, I yelled back, “CUCUMBER and this is a BELL-PEPPER”. Within the next few hours we had transformed the supermarket, post office and hair salon into our classroom remaining a memory I will never forget.
