Fra Venti Giorni

Do I have to get a real job again? Can't I just stay in pasta-land forever?

It’s normal to be researching “How to start a business in Italy” or “How to gain your Italian Passport”, right?  I want to go home and see my family and friends; I need that individual time with them, not to mention attend three weddings, BUT what awaits me after the summer? To be honest, I’m so nervous to live in Granite Bay. What the heck am I going to do there? The last time I lived there longer than six months was high school. Granite Bay isn’t a bad place; it’s the perfect suburban town. I would like to raise my children there. Children, that’s another factor in this equation. Not for me, but I want to enjoy my soon-to-be-born niece, Naya Grace, and hear Milana say her ABC’s. 

This isn’t what I expected at all.

This isn’t what I had planned, I never though I would fall in love…with Italy, and Europe.

It hypothetically was a one-year adventure. Learn Italian and travel Europe, which turned into ‘oh just four more months until December’; which magically evolved into the past two years. So here I am at a crossroads, overseas or over Folsom Lake? Well, let me tell you about my weekend…

Saturday night carried its normal excitement. Nathalie and I didn’t leave her house until half-past midnight; by now this should be customary, but I still find it oddly strange. We strutted down the fairly dark street in our new matching black leather boots we had bought earlier in the day. We were headed to a taxi stand when we saw a car slowdown and flip around, two Italian boys in their twenties rolled down the window and said, “Ciao belle, dove andate stasera?” (Hello Beautifuls, where are you going tonight?) Like I said, Nathalie and I just bought molte belle Catarina Martin Boots, although we did get them at a major discount, they used up most of my weekend allowance, actually all but about 15 euros.

“Campo di fiori, e tu?” I said to the driver.

“Porto io, abito quasi vicino,” (I’ll take you, I live sort-of close).

I look at Nathalie with a sly smile as I hastily investigate these boys. One is wearing an ATAC symbol on his shirt, a good sign; he drives a bus or works for the public transportation.

 “I think they’re alright,” I whisper to Nathalie as she reaches for the door handle and hops into the back seat of the gray Fiat. “Yea, they’re nice boys,” Nathalie reassuringly says. We dove off and to our surprise stopped at a road side panni stand. By this time it’s nearly half after one and we still haven’t started our night.  After quasi un’ora we finally arrived.

“Campo really doesn’t change much, does it,” I say to Nath, as I glance at the half-dressed young American girls screaming things like Oh MY GOD and WHAT THE F. I can’t really say much, I’m guilty as charged. And so is Nathalie, although she’s Dutch last weekend on our train-ride home from Positanto, Nath, Kristina and I were on about something to the point of combustion. It think it was when we were trying to speak “Dutch” to each other, when it some how turned into fake “Chinese”. We were laughing so hard tears had begun to form. I felt bad breaking the serious Italian domineer that lurked in the train like the grim reaper. I tried to ‘shhh’ ourselves a bit when Nathalie remarks in the most matter-of-fact way possible, “Whatever, who cares, we’re America!” That sent the tears rolling…

But she is right, what’s so wrong about laughing?

“Hey, Peter says he has a table with a friend from Dubai at La Cabala you wanna go,” as Nath reads her text message out loud. Sure why not, it’s something different then just Campo, “Yea let’s do it” I say.

And that is when we met Mr. Abu Dhabi, as I like to refer to him. Mr. Abu Dhabi is the Nephew of Mr.‘Vice President’ (Next in command to the Prime Minister) of Dubai.

The next morning lying on the beach I receive a message from Peter, “Spa day? At The Grand Hotel, 5plus stars, come by.” Tia, having missed out on last night, was more than excited to go out tonight, so the four of us girls packed our beach bags and headed straight to the hotel. This was a proper hotel, one fit for a Queen; well in fact, the Queen of Dubai had just left that afternoon. Snuggled in our white fluffy robes and bamboo flip-flops we spent the next few hours hot tub-ing, steam room-ing, and sauna-ing. As if the day wasn’t perfect enough, Tia reminded us that tomorrow was Memorial Day, and in honor of it we should celebrate at HardRock Café. That was the best idea, and it was over Nachos and burgers that we got to meet Mr. Abu Dhabi’s uncle, the Vice President of Dubai.

And that was last weekend.

Last I left off was the end of April...

And Barcelona couldn’t have come at a better time. Although I love Rome, towards the end of April I was ready for a break. It marked the end of a ‘semi-friendship’ with the ‘semi-guy-I- liked’ who himself was in a not so ‘semi-relationship’. Things often complicate themselves when the unknown lurks above like, will I ever see him again? It’s not like we go back to our parents’ house like summer in college, and all return in the fall; we honestly don’t know who is coming back. Is it possible to share part of your life with someone, and then in an instance have them disappear? Not just in accordance to my ‘semi-friend’ but to my real girlfriends; the reality is we all leave back to our prospective countries and therefore, I might never see them again.

 I know that there are other fish in the sea or a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow somewhere. The day I said ‘Goodbye’ to my ‘friend’ was the very same day I fell in love with another man in Barcelona. His name: Gaudi. If you haven’t had the chance to go to Barcelona, fear not, Gaudi can be Googled. And if you are unsure of whom he is; I recommend you Google him now. You don’t have to be an architect lover to appreciate his work. He derives his inspiration from nature of all kinds: sea, flowers, life, animals… his work is a bit madding with endless curves and colors. It can be sensual to the eye, or deceiving in fantasy. For instance, the roof top of “La Pedrera” protrudes air ducts that are transformed into skin colored columns simulating (can I say this) the male reproductive organ. It’s alluring, yet beautiful and vast in creativity. The inside of “La Pedrera” creates an underground ocean, with iron window ledges shaped like seaweed. His work is scattered over the city like sprinkles on a cupcake. It’s simply stunning.

The second man I fell in love with in Barcelona was Pablo Ruiz Picasso. Ruiz…Yes Pablo RUIZ Picasso, we’re related (well I could only hope one day I could find out if I really was). I have studied art for most of my life. I wasn’t an art history major or anything like that, but I have taken my fare share of art classes in high school and college. Both my parents have a strong appreciation for art, my mother taught my elementary Art Docent Classes, and I would call my father a little cartoonist. I knew quite a bit about Picasso already, I knew about his Blue Period, his Paris Period (my favorite), and then his ‘off-his-rocker-ending” period. But to see his work, to actually look at his name is the corner  (all of his early works say ‘Ruiz Picasso’),see the brush strokes and cracked paint was unreal. Tia and I were overtaken and humbled by our opportunity that at one moment we both looked at each other and saw our eyes start to water.

Similar to what happened to me and Nathalie when we saw the famous National Geographic photographer, Steve Mc Curry’s expo in Rome.  The pictures draw you in like a black hole, suddenly you find yourself in the scene that is depicted. There was one picture of a young Asian boy around 4 years-old with a handgun to his head. Tears were streaming down his dirty olive skinned checks, his eyes were a dark chocolate brown, as wide as the ocean, yet capturing you in his fear. Again, humbled by what we have and the grace that God has bestowed on us, brought us to tears.

I still have to tell you all about our trip to Positano a few weekends back…but that in itself is another blog…

And the day I had a photographer stop me in the park and as if I would be his model. Now I know I am five foot tall and chunky-grazie pasta di Italia- I maybe a bit of a poser but I am no model that’s for sure. I was about to shrug off his attempt to hit on me with, “Oh my husband would love to take pictures…” when I asked… ‘How about five models does that work for you?’ And that is how we had a three hour photo shoot in Villa Burghese, on the Spanish steps and Via Venito.

Again...

Just a regular day with my girlfriends in The Ancient City that never dies.

See you in 20 days!xxxbaci