It was coming home. The feeling leading up to the trip, the anticipation on the plane, the thrill of joy when we clamored out of the Fiat and soaked in the churchbells, the leaping of my heart when I caught sight of Paola waiting in the street outside Bar Bonci.

Within minutes, it felt like the last two years had been a dream. Which leads me to conclude that the brain is a rather stupid instrument—it can only process what is directly in front of it. When we arrived home from Italy, the whole year took on the hue of a fable. And the instant we returned, it was like all the things that happened in Virginia for the past two years were a collective hallucination.

That was from our perspective. As for Spellani, I noticed it took a beat for folks to recognize us. Even people who knew we were returning let their eyes slide past us a time or two before performing a comedic double take and moving towards us, arms outstretched. So many outstretched arms. Letizia came running down from her apartment when she heard we arrived in Bar Bonci, Giorgio looking as dapper as ever, Marcello with a special ruffle of the hair for Gabe, and even the alley ladies. One grabbed my hand as we walked through the alley, looked into my eyes searchingly and stuttered, “É lei? É lei?” (Is it her? Is it her?). I’ve realized that Italians have figured out the art of adoring people. And goodness, being in radiance of someone’s love—well, that is a thing apart.

And of course Angelo. On our first day walking up the hill, I spied him and practically collapsed into his arms. Later in the afternoon, I visited him with a gift I’d waited years to deliver. He sat me across from him at the desk where I stubbornly refused to learn about the posta and instead sidelined him with questions about tortellini. He beamed at me and nodded, and I placed my book into the hands of the man who taught more more than any school teacher. He held it for a moment, weighed it in his hands (yes! It’s long! But half the size it could have been!), and then settled it in front of him, to discuss each aspect of the book, pronouncing it un bel lavoro, a beautiful work.

That was the beginning of seeing Il Bel Centro all over town. This book has lived in my heart for years—an homage to this town and its people, a journey into my process of settling among them. To see it stacked in Paola’s shop, on the counter at Bar Bonci, on it’s own table at Vinosofia, never failed to make my breath catch.

I was invited to a meeting with Irene, the Head of Culture for Spello as well as Antonio, who was vice-mayor when we lived there. They told me that they wanted to throw a manefestazione, a party, for me and my book. I listened as they discussed Il Bel Centro. My comprehension kept up until my brain fogged from emotion. A glowing New York Times book review can’t ever compare with the ache of tenderness as I listened to Spellani discuss how best to celebrate Il Bel Centro.

The manefestazione was part of a month long event called Incontri per le Strade (Meeting in the Streets), where the arts of Spello are showcased. As such, I was encouraged to attend a press conference discussing the schedule of events. I did, and spent more time gaping at Constantine’s tablet granting Spello permission to hold gladiator fights than paying strict attention. I did stumble on the program for the month long celebration which is how I found out that the book party was supported by I Borghi Piu Belli d’Italia. Angelo took many copies of the program, and cut out the entry about the manefestazione, glued them in a grid on a piece of paper, drew a red border on each, then made what must’ve been a hundred copies. Then he cut out the slips of paper, and handed them out to everyone in the street. He and Keith had this running joke because Keith asked if the slips of paper were biglietti, tickets, to the event. Angelo would declare, “Biglietto si… IN. Biglietto no… OUT.” Finger waggling.

Knowing that I was expected to give a speech for the manefestazione, for ten minutes, in Italian, created not a little stress. But working on it with Paola became a collaboration, and I’d pop into the shop several times a day to discuss the translation, what I’d wear (this made me nervous, but I ended up being outfitted by Paola, hence my greater than average level of sartorial sophistication), which shops were contributing, and how to translate two of my entries into Italian. Paola felt it was important that the Spellani in attendance understand why my book was important for them as a community. She imposed on herself the task of translation, and I treasured not only our discussions in her shop about how impossible it was to translate “My heart is full” into Italian, but also the daily texts from her reading, “Shiver of anticipation—what means?”

When I woke up the day of the manefestazione, Keith sat down next to me and asked if I was ready for my big day. My stomach lurched. Remember, my daughter comes by it honest—being the center of attention twists my insides into uncomfortable shapes. I reminded him that this was the book’s big day. Not mine. He nodded with mock seriousness and then we left for our morning coffee.

It was our last day in Spello, and as a family we were struggling to keep our spirits up, so it was a boon to have the distraction of the afternoon event. At 5:00, we wandered down to the piazza. The manefestazione was held at the base of the palazzo communale. The area is open on two sides, and then closed against the wall of the palazzo on two sides, which makes it open, but shaded. Important for events in the heat-soaked Umbrian August.

As Paola was artfully setting my books around the area, Angelo zipped up in his yellow Fiat and ordered Gabe to come with him to the macelleria to pick up the butcher’s contribution to the event. A ride which, if Gabe’s wide-eyed glee when he returned was any indication, had all the speed and daring of a roller coaster. “Plus, Angelo didn’t make me wear a seat belt!”

People began drifting in. Tom appeared walking down the hill—seeing him and Colleen the week before had been a highlight of our trip, and we were saddened that a virus kept Colleen in Piegaro, but thrilled to have a representative from our children’s Umbrian grandparents in attendance. Sicilian Angelo drifted in, smiling at me, smiling at everyone, smiling to be smiling, as is his way. Giorgio and Marcello appeared, and Marcello looked at me searchingly to ask how I was doing. I said I was a little nervous. “Ma, perche?” I told him because it was scary to be speaking in front of so many people. He told me he also had some words to say. I figured I misunderstood him. An alleylady, elegantly attired and looking beautiful found a seat. Gabe’s first grade teacher (Alessia in the blog, but over gelato and prosecco in Assisi she asked to be referred to with her real name in future copies), Antonella hurried in to get a seat right in the front, next to Gabe. Brenda smiled and winked as she settled herself down. Our landlady, Patrizia, squeezed my arm reassuringly on her way to find an open chair. The owner of La Cantina asked me to sign his book, and I told him how much we’d enjoyed our last lunch at his restaurant just that day. Members of our Infiorata group, Pochi, Ma Buoni stood in the back and beamed. And then I spied Sante, Conci, Silvano, and Roberta. If you have yet to read the book, it will be hard to explain the tears that leapt unbidden into my eyes when I saw them. This family folded us into theirs with an ease that forever changed me. They taught me how to cook, how to eat, how to savor, and how to look across a language and culture divide with nothing but love and a willingness to embrace. I feel like I would need an entire post to dedicate to how moved I was to see them walk in, my book tucked tightly under Conci’s arm. They rushed to me and smiled with pride. I felt folded into their hearts, safe and adored.

It was a “who’s who” of people that were vital to our year in Italy, and central to my book.

And then it began.

I sat in the middle of five people—Irene and Antonio on my left, then Anya (there to translate) and Paola to my right. Irene spoke first, about the book and what the book can mean for Spello—including a suggestion that it can be an excellent way for young people to practice reading in English. Then Antonio spoke about how we met, and how much he enjoyed my writing, and even though there are aspects of the book that sound critical of Spello, he feels that this is an excellent opportunity for the town to look at itself honestly, as that is the way towards real growth. Which struck me as sort of metaphor for my book. Then it was my turn.

I had no microphone, and I had to battle with those beloved rattling apes, and yes my voice did shake at the start (and I blew some of the pronunciation that I’d worked so hard to master— soddisfacente is really hard to say), but I found my groove where I expected to find my groove, when I got to the part of the speech about what I learned during the course of the year.

Reading this love letter aloud to the town that has shaped my life and my journey, gave the words resonance. The moment was deep, and I plunged into those depths, blinking back tears at the end when I professed my thanks to the people of Spello. At my final words, the assembly erupted in cheers, which was really the final straw as far as those tears were concerned. And that was okay. More than okay. I breathed deeply to imprint on my heart the emotion and gratitude.

And then came Gabe. He stood up and gave a speech saying that he loved Spello because the cats are cute, the scenery is beautiful, and the people are kind. I’ll leave it to you to imagine the hooting and applause when he finished.

Paola then read her translation of two entries from my book. My words transformed into Italian rolled over me, but I was more aware of the laughter and appreciative sighing of the 75 or so people in front of me. That is, when I wasn’t distracted by shopkeepers gliding in to place food on the tables that were growing progressively mounded with offerings. Prosecco from La Cantina, Il Trombone, and Ristorante Drinking Wine. Boxes of biscotti from the forno, trays of melon from our negozio, La Tavola Dell’ Umbro (along with a supportive patting of my shoulder), salumi from Teresa’s panini shop on the piazza, pastries from Bar Tullia, drinks from Bar Bonci (with a note of good luck), a cake from Maura, pizza from L’Orlando Furioso the new pizzeria in the centro, Jiulia Ristoro. Food is now mingled with the memories of my book’s celebration and that is intensely right.

After Paola sat down, Angelo walked to the front. He spoke about how I write with my heart, and therefore this book about Spello is more than just a book of the sights to be found in their community, but a book about the “anima della Spellanitá” I’m not even sure how to translate this, since I’m pretty sure Spellanitá is one of those made up Italian words. He went on to say that this is a book not for the regular tourist, but for the cultural tourist. For those people who want to know the true character of a village.

Then it turns out, Marcello did speak. He took Gabe by the hand and walked to the front and spoke about meeting our family, but really about how much Gabe has meant to him and the community—through his openness, his art, and his card playing. Seeing as several people have told me that Il Bel Centro can alternatively be titled, “The Book of Gabe,” this was a dear tribute, by a dear man.

After the applause died down, Keith rose and spoke about how much Thomas Jefferson (whose home, Monticello, is just a few miles from our house) was inspired by Italy. And how some of Jefferson’s most noted ideas come from his Italian friend Philip Mazzei. In recognition of the ties that connect our countries, and connect our family to Spello, he presented the town with an engraved silver cup from Monticello, known affectionately in Charlottesville as a Jefferson Cup . He spoke eloquently and with force in his voice, and I was so proud of him. His speech really brought home how this book, this experience, are vibrant threads in our family tapestry. Irene assured him that the cup would be placed on display in the town hall.

More applause, and then it was time to eat. Well, for everyone else. This was like my wedding, in that I got to see the pretty food, but eat very little. My time was spent meeting people that were so friendly and interesting it felt frankly wrong that we were leaving before I’d have the chance to sit down to share a meal with them. And there was book signing. And trying to connect with those friends I could before we left.

Finally the last of the food was divided up for others to take home and Paola and I looked at each other with tearful smiles. She had been such a rallying force, from her help in translating at the organizational meeting with Irene and Antonio, to her offering to keep the boxes of books in her shop to give to vendors, to sitting me down over coffee and telling me that this book should be a bestseller, but we simply must have it translated. Our hearts had been knit on this project and her happiness was a mirror of my own.

We agreed that we were too exhausted to eat a proper meal, so instead we dined on gelato and spritzes on Tullia’s patio. A fitting end to a celebration that was a fitting end to a memorable family vacation.

I spend a vast proportion of my day guiding my children towards a Beautiful Center. I only now realize how much I should listen to my own admonishments.

Parent thyself, indeed.

1) “Be Bored“: Being bored garners zero sympathy in this house. Instead, I crow, “Good! Boredom always comes before a good idea,”  an idea lifted from Sharifa Oppenheimer, a local Waldorf teacher. Nothing wrong with being bored. Neil Gaiman claims that allowing himself to be bored leads to imaginative story ideas. Am I good at following this wisdom? Not. At. All. During pausa, when Gabe is rolling around, thumb planted firmly in mouth, other hand clenching and releasing his fuzzy blanket, I’m deep into my computer. I dive in, and the deeper I go, the more twisted and murky I feel. My eyes cloud. My head goes numb from switching sites as fast as I switch thoughts. When I can muster the self-control to close my laptop, I feel a dawning sense of openness. And things get done. I pick up the book that was at a boring part, and slide into a captivating section that stimulates my brain, while relaxing my soul. Laundry gets folded. Clutter gets organized or tossed. My present feels more mellow, and I feel good. Then why is it so hard? Because passive entertainment is easy, and therefore effortless to fall blindly into.

2) “Take a Time-Out“: I love time-out. If I can get any of my children to take a few minutes to reflect when they are being horrible, they invariably come back calmer, apologetic, ready to move on. The trick for me is knowing when I need a time-out. When my temper begins to flare, or my heart begins to feel wounded, I wish I had someone who would suggest pausing to find perspective. But ultimately, I know that would end with me biting off the head of the messenger. Which is why I need to do it for myself.

3) “Have a Taste“: Of lamb lungs or life—just try it. Experience the possibilities. Lately, I have found this useful when my ego is bruised. I wonder to myself, “What would this situation feel like if I let it roll off me. If I didn’t let it mean anything about who I am?” Just sampling this change of frame creates an automatic feeling of power. And a consequent Lightening.

4) “Hands to Yourself“: This is a tricky line to navigate after a year in Italy. During that time, Gabe went from a child who hovered in corners to a child who pulled and tugged alongside Italian children. Italy is a handsy culture, and I think that was a good spiritual fit for our family, many of us who struggle with taking up space in the world. Living in a culture where privacy is laughable and everyone knows the results of your CAT scan before you do is refreshing. With neighbors eager to correct you, it’s much harder to be sensitive. We are so polite here, so agreeable as a rule, that I wonder if it makes our skin a little thin. So my American self still veers into the overly sensitive, and my Italian self is forced to be mindful of balance. Which is what it comes down to, I expect. Balance. Keep those those hands to yourself—be careful not to bruise or injure—but be comfortable reaching hands to connect.

5) “Clean Up After Yourself“: The older I get the more I value people who can clean up their own messes. Yes, putting away one’s legos is valuable, but even more valuable? The ability to look around and see where one has messed up, take responsibility, and work to make it right. People who can’t say they are sorry, whose defensiveness can’t yield to being wrong, have become increasingly difficult for me to bear. When my children say they don’t want to clean up all the clay they left on the counter, my question is, “Who do you expect to do it for you?”  It’s the same as we get older. Only it’s not clay, it’s respect and care for others. When we let our insecurities or vulnerabilities mar a situation, it’s understandable. We are imperfect creatures—hallelujah—but that doesn’t excuse us from cleaning it up. And the older I get, the less interested I am in surrounding myself with people who create drama out of their inability to clean up their messes.

6)  “Stop Spinning“: A word of advice—if you are in the market for barstools, avoid those that spin. Or you will have three children across from you spinning like tops. It’s dizzying. And clearly mindlessly reinforcing. Once the spinning starts, it cannot be stopped. The only thing that works is a card at each place that says ” no spinning”. Stopping before they start helps them catch themselves. I need that “no spin” card all around me. How often do I take one event and spin it out of control in my mind? Until it the spin takes on a life of its own? Answer: Too often. Stop spinning. Stop before I start.

7) “Brush Your Teeth and Make Your Bed“: Sometimes in the onslaught of our modern American lives, I can forget to take care of myself. This two-fold message of the importance of self-care and that these tasks need to happen before moving on to other activities is critical. I admit there are days when my day gets away with me, and I forget to brush my teeth. For which I apologize, and feel grateful that I have a screen between the two of us.

8) “Use your Words“: Don’t just stew and marinate in your thoughts. Say your truth. This one is hard for me, but getting easier the less I’m worried about being wrong.

9) “Listen to Your Body“: It began with potty training, but then generalized to stopping to pay attention to hunger, thirst, tiredness. An intention that sometimes gets shoved aside for me in favor of zipping to one more errand, or fulfilling an extra expectation. But that pause—it allows time to reflect, and notice my leading. Where is it taking me? What do I need? Where am I stuck? My body tells me where my soul is, and what I need. If only I can listen to it. Which brings me to…

10) “Be Quiet“: Three children can sometimes make for a noisy household. Especially when my youngests wriggle into a pattern of pushing each other’s buttons to gleeful hysteria. I hear that high pitched cackle, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I know something is about to break. Nothing as easy as a vase, more likely a shattered feeling. “Be quiet!” I yell, unobservant of the hypocrisy of the message. Quiet. Blessed quiet. This is why I resonate with Quaker Meeting. In the quiet, I can let my fledgling thoughts come to fruition. I can make sense of the scatter and static of my day. I can feel my Light and hear my leading. I’ve also noticed that a year in Italy has made me a quieter person. I had to think about everything I said, formulate it in my mind. Often in the internal translation, I’d realize my burgeoning words were irrelevant. They were more about proving something or hearing myself contribute that they were about furthering conversation. As someone who can trend towards the wordy (as I’m sure you’ve never noticed, Patient Reader), it was a lesson well learned. And still in process. Yes, I need to listen to my body and use my words, but sometimes those words come from a place of trying to make myself feel better, and there are more effective ways to do that.

Perhaps I need to spend less time in lip service, and more time in genuine practice.

Okay, quiet now.

I miss being somebody’s cara.

Nobody knew us when we landed. We had no friends, nobody who was socially obligated to be kind. But we were welcomed with genuine warmth, and we all become somebody’s loved one, somebody’s cara. We were each beloved, and our children were cherished in a way that wrings my heart. They were doted on, fussed over, and cared for. Perhaps part of this was that they were foreigners ready to be loved by locals. This is especially true of Gabe who went in arms open, willing to cleave his heart with anyone who expressed a modicum of interest. But I saw many, many children in our time in Italy, and they were all adored. Squeezed and hugged as if they were precious beyond imagining.

Which they are, each and every one of them.

It’s different here. Adults don’t look to connect with my children. Adults don’t look to connect with anyone’s children that aren’t related. Instead, other people’s children are often measuring sticks to hold up to our own. Understandably—after all, our lives can seem out of control in the flat out race that is living, and we look for ways to make sense of where we are. The easiest way is to compare. My child’s math level is above Sally’s—check! My child makes daisy chains on the soccer pitch while Jane is scoring yet another goal—fail! We love our kids, we want their lives to be perfect, and so we sweat these details which have nothing to do with the whole. We walk around vibrating a tenuous mixture of pride where our children excel and anxiety where they don’t measure up.

How horrid.

I happen to know. I shamefully admit to all of this. But watching how purely the Spellani embraced not just my odd assortment of progeny, but all the radiant faces coming out of that school, I’ve realized. Love is better than judgement.

Love is better than triumph.

Love is better than best.

Now, each time now I find myself reaching for the comparison yardstick to measure my child, I stop and reconsider. I recognize each child as soul in progress. And love instead. Love my children for their combination of sweetness and craziness, and love the other child for the innocence of their souls and the Light in their eyes. Like the chasing tail image, I find this shift of frame grounding.

It allows me to step off the merry-go-round of our competitive culture, and it creates a path towards tenderness. Loving just feels good. Loving instead of comparing creates brightness to chase away cobwebs and clutter. Loving instead of comparing means accessing what is most deeply primal and real within us. Humans are social animals above all. Connecting through love links us to each other and it links us to ourselves. And there is a resonant hum, a vibrato of joy, that comes with that connection.

So while I miss being somebody’s cara, maybe my job now is to make somebody else a cara. Every day.

Now, please excuse me while I go look for someone to love without reason.

Do you love how I’m still using photos of Spello even though I’m in Virginia?

For the record, this isn’t my last post. I’m not sure when that last post will be, as I’m allowing that to happen organically, but I since the spiritual relief of writing Quitting the Blog, I’ve discovered more I want to explore. I think a few more weeks, and then I’ll write that wrap-up post, and perhaps I’ll write periodically afterwards when the spirit moves.

Since writing that last post, I’ve been sitting with this notion of “bests”. In America, it’s implicit and omnipresent. Look on TripAdvisor, everyone wants to know where to find the best gelateria in Rome, the best cathedral in Venice, the best place for bistecca in Tuscany. Look at pre-teen girls, and their ranking of who is their best friend. Look at awards shows or columns, shouting what an arbitrary panel of judges claims is the best of the year. Listen to people talk, this friend just found the best recipe for pancakes, that friend just had the best beach vacation.  This isn’t just other people, this is me, too. I’ve said all of these things. But now I realize, those pronouncements set up an illusory scaffold. When I report that I just found the best deal or that I enjoyed the best cupcake, I put myself on a precipice. Any other choice would have by definition been substandard. I’m at constant risk of making a cataclysmic choice, and must keep striving to do or be better. And on the receiving end, when I hear that my neighbor just bought the best set of pans, what does that mean for me and my choices? Well, that they are wrong, of course. I’m wrong. Let the tacit self-flagellation begin.

In Italy, I never heard “migliore” (best). Instead, people talked about what they liked. Mi piace tanto. “I like it very much”, or literally, “It’s very pleasing to me”. When your frame is what you like rather than evaluating on some external standard, then it’s about you, what you like, where you feel led, your experience. It says nothing about other people, it says nothing about your previous or future choices, it creates no judgement or expectation. It is just pleasing to you. Punto e basta.

Mi piace.

What a difference. Our culture is suffocatingly competitive. One parent’s school choice calls into question another parent’s decision. One child’s fabulous experience with judo suggests that soccer doesn’t teach important life skills. One child’s dyslexia is cause to self-congratulate one’s own child’s easy reading. One child’s life changing sleep-away camp encourages a sense that our own child lounging away the summer reading comic books is tantamount to writing off any future happiness. We’re always looking to know where we are on the ladder. Are we successful? Are we doing it right? Are we making impeccable choices?

Add to this the sheer number of choices in our culture, and now I understand why I have been so emotionally wrung. I find myself staring at two packages of paper towels, identical except one boasts that it is “the puddle soaker” and the other declares that it is “super thirsty.” Which do I want? I stand there with my eyes going back and forth to determine a difference, to evaluate which is best along a dizzying array of criteria. I stall.

And then the other day I stood baffled as my adult cat chased her tail. She acted like she’d never seen it before and whipped around in circles trying to catch it. Just when she thought she had it, her restless appendage surprisingly whipped away and she was flummoxed and pounced anew. I thought, “My cat is the dumbest. Four years old and she doesn’t even know her own tail. Look at her spin in circles, getting absolutely nowhere, she doesn’t even know how foolish she is.”

Revelation.

That is me. This push for bests, that’s my tail. This striving to have my choices validated and confirmed as exemplary, that’s my tail. This need to exist beyond the reach of other’s real or imagined judgement, that’s my tail. Before we left for Italy, I chased that tail without question. I was Juno. Just as clueless, just as frantic, just as baffled by why I always felt off-balance. Then I spent last year in a culture that lacks this habit of comparison, this need to rise like pure cream. Italians are quite the opposite, and veer headlong into fatalism (sometimes to their detriment—a little tenacity is often a good thing). Ah, well. Too bad my child went to school in the wrong shoes. What’s for lunch? They don’t look for what is best, they look for what they like. So they send their children to the free music lessons the school provides, they live in the home they inherited from their family, they cook the way they’ve always cooked. They don’t have best friends, they have “amici del cuore,” friends of the heart.

Now we’re back, and I can see that the trying to avoid judgement, the wanting to make sure my children follow all the steps to get into a good college, the insecurity that I’m doing it all wrong, the looking for evidence that each step I take is peerless—that is tail chasing at its finest.

And this, I believe, is why I feel shoved into a life that no longer fits. My wide-open Italian spirit chafes within the shackles of judgement.

Constant speculating forward to assess how my choices will play out is completely contrary to a year of mi piace. Now I get it, and the mental image of tail chasing helps me nip it when I sense it. Since that light bulb moment of watching my demented cat, there have been many opportunities to practice simply not allowing myself to get whirled into this frame of best. When I notice my mind filling with static, I scan for where I’m either chasing an illusion or I’m getting sucked into somebody else engaging in appendage wrestling. I launch a mental image of tail chasing, and I get off the train. Static goes down, and all of a sudden, I feel so clear. It’s kind of amazing. Without the tail chasing, everything feels easier. My heart feels open. I can breathe more deeply. The moment feels like a cozy place to sink into rather than a prickly place to flee from into some uncertain future.

Mi piace. 

Mi piace tantissimo.

I’m okay, really.

I have days where everything seems pretty good, actually, and sure I tear up when someone says, “Dimmi” (“tell me”—what Gianni would always say when I approached the bar) or when Keith hands me a spritz, but mostly I feel sort of normal. Upbeat, even.

And then there are the other days. Days when I just feel joyless. Like my life is a shackle around me, something to be bear with, rather than celebrate. On those days, the only thing that brings me any happiness is laundry. Laundry. Keith points out that that is the exact reverse of my life in Spello. Maybe that’s what reverse culture shock really means.

The thing is, I feel like a spoiled brat even admitting that I’m struggling. Because I know it’s the height of petulance to cry “Boo-boo, I had an idyllic, dreamy life for a year in central Italy, and now I’m living in my beautiful American house surrounded by fabulous friends and wonderful opportunities.” Believe me, I know exactly how stupid that sounds. How exactly stupid that is.

But I can’t help it. On those darker days, I just can’t help it. I’m not actively longing for Spello, I’m not reminding myself of what I wish I had. On the contrary, I think I might be doing the opposite. I’m expending so much energy trying not to remember Spello, that it’s taking up too much of my brainspace. I just feel deflated. A balloon with no air. And everything makes me cranky. Especially my children. I find myself seeing friends and really loving that, but nonetheless feeling edgy and distant and unable to make myself feel differently. The best that I can do is follow-up those flat gatherings with an email apologizing for my lackluster company. Luckily, I’m surrounded by marvelous people, and they tell me they are just glad to have me home.

Lucky.

I’m so lucky.

Why can’t I feel it?

I had a run of bad days last week. Again, not missing anything in particular. Just swamped under a general feeling of being oddly stuck in a life that bristles where it should soothe. Which unexpectedly turned around when Paola sent me a photo she’d taken from outside Marcello’s shop. It was a poster that Angelo had made of all of us at the farewell party.

It brought Light to my spirit.

In Spello, we all solidly knew that even though we were the crazy American family, we were their crazy American family. We belonged to them. And knowing that at some level we still do eased some of my grief.

Since then I felt a little easier. And even easier when I realized that Corpus Domini is June 22nd next year. After the children get out of school for the summer. Which means, if we play our financial cards right, maybe we can get to Spello for the Infiorata.

Allowing a connection, no matter how tenuous or imaginary, between me and my former life—it helps me feel that that life was real, vivid, and available. Living it again is over, but to know I can dip my toes in once more, refreshes the ache in my heart.

This is what happens when you don’t have a microwave for a year, and neglect to re-instruct your child on the finer points of using this radioactive box of energy.

She may well explode your microwave.

She didn’t mean to. But really, who means to explode a microwave?

Our microwave is admittedly not immediately user-friendly, since it has a toaster on the side, so it includes buttons and dials for both units on one panel. Siena put bread in the toaster, and remembering that I had told her “EZ On” heated for a minute, she pressed that, rather than using the toaster buttons. Which meant the microwave was empty and on. Thirty seconds in she started to yell that the microwave was acting scary, and by the time the buzzer dinged, the display was blinking like an irate C3-PO and a fire had broken out inside the case.

It’s melted, and ruined.

In a word—exploded.

And strangely, I find myself not caring.

I went a year without a microwave and I got used to it. And frankly, paranoid as this may sound, the fire out of nothing in my microwave made the dangers of radiation suddenly seem real. If you ask me how the fire broke out, or even how a microwave heats, I’d be stumped. Any ideas I have would have sound awfully post-apocalyptic. And I’m all of a sudden a little leery of heating my food with technology that I don’t understand at all. The direct heat of a toaster oven seems much more friendly.

But then I picked up Nicolas from his friend’s house, and maybe he was too tired to think straight (it was after all, close to noon, and he’d just woken up), but he developed quite the attitude about our decision to not replace the microwave. Dismissed my concerns of glow-in-the-dark cancer with annoyance. I know I can be an idiot and I know I can be alarmist, but I really liked it better when I could tell my child that winged monkeys hung the moon and he’d hug me with joy at the news.

Besides insisting that microwaves are safe (based on nothing but willfulness, he’s written no meta-analysis on the subject), he is adamant that microwaves are more convenient. To support this argument, he tells me that he’s heated his own food more in the last 2 weeks than he had in the last year. Because he doesn’t want to heat food in a pan. He often doesn’t know how, it takes too long, and it creates more to wash.

This is all true, and yet I am unmoved. If we are not spending time preparing the food we eat to nourish our bodies, what are we spending time on? So much about our lives is directed by what’s convenient. It’s become the height of priority. We reduce all sorts of tasks—communication, cooking, connecting—to the most convenient version, and then find we aren’t really engaged with any of the aspects of our life that we thought were important.

It reminds me of an episode of Jamie Oliver’s Food Revolution that I watched recently. Jamie creates a menu for elementary school students, and a ruckus ensues around the fact that his food requires a knife and fork. Previously, all the food was hand-held, or used a spoon. Jamie was stunned, and asked what are they teaching these children if they only ever gave them food that was easy to eat with one’s hands. I had never thought of this before, and have started giving Gabe a knife at mealtimes. He’s now drunk with his own power.

Yes, it required a teaching moment. And probably several moving forward. But that’s work that underscores what I value—competency around the table, alertness to what we’re eating, focusing on each bite.

Taking time for what we value, rather than striving towards convenience is something I believe in. And so yes, it will take me longer to reheat leftovers. And every time I’m staring in my refrigerator wondering how to repurpose what I have rather than sticking them in the microwave, I’ll be connecting with what I’m doing. I can’t do it mindlessly—it will take intention. That’s my choice. It’s not for everyone, but that’s okay.

Nicolas, as may be expected, is disgusted with the whole affair.

Which I understand, he’s 14 after all, but I’m adamant. And frankly, on the look-out for more ways we habitually opt for what is easy or convenient, instead of striving for actually spending quality time with what we value. I don’t want to live to save time, I want to live to live. And do what I value. By saving time, we dilute it. I’d rather take more time and make a chouquette.

Siena exploded the microwave. And maybe it was about time.

Spello is behind a veil. I sense her presence, I feel her heart, but for the most part, I push away the conscious awareness that she and I are divided. But there are times that I startle into realizing the global gap between us. More than just distance. Custom, habit, ritual, tradition. Sometimes those moments are quick and amusing, sometimes they spur a frisson of grief. Earlier this week we took a family walk downtown to get gelato, though opted for American-style ice cream knowing that gelato would inevitably engender too much disappointment. Being together (which is rare right now, as the children are pulled in different directions), walking towards frozen confections, and stopping to talk to a neighbor about cats—all of a sudden, Spello was omnipresent for all of us. For the rest of the evening, we couldn’t escape the memories. Four of us sighed longingly; Nicolas was really just focused on ice cream.

He actually told me that Charlottesville is the the best city in the world. Though in response to my puzzled look, he admitted that he suspects himself to be in the same honeymoon stage with Charlottesville as he initially was with Spello. It will be curious to see if once the high of old friends, soy sauce, and engaging academics fades, will he be where the rest of us are—limping on a wound we can’t see, but only feel?

In any case, even my stoic eldest has been stopped short at times by what was familiar just a short year ago.

• The first morning we were home, I looked out of my window and about had a heart attack. “Ack! There’s a woodchuck climbing a tree in our yard!” No, that’s just a squirrel. I haven’t seen a squirrel in a year. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen a woodchuck either, so why that should occur to my feeble brain is beyond me. I plead jet lag and disorientation. Though I should confess that I still startle every time I see a squirrel. Cardinals are surprising, too. As are hummingbirds that are actual hummingbirds, and not bugs dressed in hummingbird prom dresses.
• The size of appliances should cease to amaze me, but every time I open my refrigerator, I’m stunned. I feel like I could park our old Fiat Punto in there. I have yet to fill it; I’m convinced if I do, much of my food will spoil in the corners.
• We went to the library, and that felt like an amusement park. I walked in and lost my breath. So many books. And I could take any one I wanted off the shelf, walk up to the counter, have it scanned, and I’d get to keep it for 3 weeks. Cookbooks, novels, even a movie. I walked out high. This is one aspect of American life that inspired awe and gratitude. Even the kids were blown away by the opportunity. And not just because I bought them a cupcake on the way there.
• Every time I stop at a red light, I’m dumbfounded. Therefore, I’m dumbfounded a lot. I calculated—a trip across town, 10 minutes of driving, and 10 minutes of stopping at red lights. I am not used to red lights. I saw a handful during our tenure in the boot, but Italians are solid proponents of the traffic circle. I had no idea how genius this was until we returned home, and now spend so much time stopped. No wonder Americans have high blood pressure (I’m making this up, I have no idea if Americans have higher blood pressure than average, but if they do, I bet this is why)—it’s infuriating to constantly be blocked from getting where you are going. Now, there are certainly some nice parts to American traffic habits; we are all consistently astonished when cars stop for us to cross the streets, even sans crosswalk. That’s pretty wonderful as a pedestrian, but the flow of traffic as a whole is dysfunctional in this country. And here’s the funny thing. Despite the fact that in Italy there are no traffic lights and few signs, despite the fact that Italians drive like someone is chasing them with American coffee, despite the fact that Italian notions of personal space extend towards drivers such that they creep close enough to your bumper that you can see in your rear view mirror how many days of artful stubble the driver has cultivated, despite the fact that in Naples drivers are so undecided about which lane they want that they take two and literally straddle the line for long stretches of time—despite all of this, I saw one accident the entire year that we were in Italy. I don’t know if all the American rules of the road make drivers more complacent and likely to go on autopilot, and therefore less tuned into what’s happening around them, or if Italians’ repeated shots of espresso keeps them more alert. Or even if accidents are cleared so fast that I just never saw them. I just know that the sluggish nature of movement here is a consistent reminder of the smooth flow of driving in Italy. I’m pretty sure there is a metaphor in there somewhere.
• There is a new mall in Charlottesville. Nicolas went to see a movie there with a friend and pronounced it bigger than many towns we visited in Italy…he was not wrong. When we later went to spend $50 for a family movie and $30 for some snacks (hope everyone enjoyed it, we’re not doing that again anytime soon) I found that it’s not only gigantic, but the lobby of the movie theater is a profusion of textures, lights, and colors that made my head spin. Truly, how much stimulation is needed? It was headache inducing. And brought to mind the simplicity of hand-chiseled stone.
• What the heck is a venti? Winds? Twenty-somethings?
• We received a list of school supplies our children would need, along with a roster, and a school calendar. Over email. After a year of struggling to find out what we needed to do, not knowing how to contact anyone, and subsisting on a patchwork/google-translate approach to understanding—having an organized list land in our e-mail inbox feels too crazily easy. And as we prepare those school supplies, and think about school starting, Gabe is getting increasingly excited. We had a long conversation with him and now he’s itching to get to school. He’s telling anyone who will listen that they don’t spank in American schools (earlier he reminded me that they weren’t supposed to spank in Italian schools either, but it happened, to which I responded that it was a much more serious breach of conduct in the States—to his palpable relief). The biggest revelation for Siena is that her school bathroom here will be a proper bathroom, rather than the squat-and-aim hole in the floor in the Scuola Elementare (which she studiously avoided, to the probable detriment of her bladder). Let’s hear it for American notions of modern hygiene. You can bet those bathrooms will even have soap.
• Grocery shopping not only makes us startle in the overwhelming number of choices, but shopping for produce is a whole different system. Keith told me that he stumbled, feeling like he was missing something as he put the produce in the bag, and then put the bag in the cart. And then he realized—in Italy, you have to weigh and label your bag. So he is used to reciting the produce code to himself as he walks to the scale, weighs the produce, prints the label, affixes it to the bag, and then puts the bag in the cart. Not having a cycling number in his head tugged his brain that he was missing something. Though he still felt like something was wrong and remembered—he wasn’t using a plastic glove to pick up produce. Italians may be cavalier about bathroom hygiene, but they are fanatical about produce hygiene. You either use a plastic glove, or, in smaller establishments, you have the grocer pick your produce. Picking up a piece of fruit with your bare hands will earn an old fashioned tearing down. Even if it looks like that fruit is for sampling. Anyone remember Florence?
• Speaking of produce—it seems chronically underripe. Most produce has very little fragrance, and picking up a tomato that doesn’t have a sharp, green smell or strawberries that don’t make you swoon when you are still meters away feels strange. I wonder if produce is picked underripe so it can survive transport. Italy has less of an ethical leaning towards local eating, but it has a default leaning towards local eating, in that it is a small, nationalistic country. So in the stores, most of the produce is from Italy, and it doesn’t have quite so far to travel.
• I could probably go on and on about grocery shopping. But here are two more moments of awareness yesterday. One, the checkers seemed awfully tall. Why are they so tall? It took me a minute to realize that in Italy, all the checkers sit. Our checker probably thought I was creepy , the way my eyes kept traveling from her midsection up to her face, but in reality, I was just trying to figure out where she was. And two, despite the hundreds and hundreds of shampoo choices, none of them are for oily hair. I have a teenage son, and I’m pretty sure being oily is part of the diagnostic criteria of teenager-ness. So he can’t be alone, where are the products for oily hair? When I was in that boat, I remember having that option. Nicolas maintains that Americans don’t like to acknowledge flaws, so they can’t sell something if it caters to a deficit. We opted for a shampoo that boasted “super clean.” I need to know the euphemism for oily. Lustrous?
• Every night as I snuggle down on my fancy foam mattress and under my lofty comforter, I breathe a sigh of relief. There is much I regret about leaving Italy, but summertime sleeping is not one of them. Every night, I’d toss and turn if it was hot, and regardless of the temperature, I’d be constantly aggravated by bugs. Mosquitos, yes, but also papatacci, which are also known as sand flies. If you think tiger mosquitos are bad, you’ve never been treated to an evening spent serving as an all-you-can-eat buffet for papatacci. Papatacci are dun colored, tiny, and harder to spot than mosquitos. It took us all of last summer and half of this one to start being able to discern their sinister sand-colored bodies floating in on the drifts formed by our warmth. And their bite is not to be described. First of all, they look more like ant bites and they cluster rather than polka-dot. Second of all, unlike mosquito bites which if ignored, will stop itching, these create an itch more like poison ivy. Rampant and constant. But even if that siren call is desisted, those bites itch for weeks. I still have red welts all over my midsection from voracious papatacci. Third of all, after enough bites, one starts to develop a new kind of reaction. At the time of the bite, or a few moments afterwards, theres a zing like an electrical pulse. It really hurts, and sleep is hard to come by when you keep starting “Ow!” And these bugs are insatiable. Our first night back from France, Gabe got over a hundred bites just on his legs. We went into high defense—repellants for our bodies, plug-in repellants, electrical zappers, long jammies for the kids at night, a fan (which I think was probably the most effective). So to snuggle down in the cool (in Spello, we even took to closing our windows—one to avoid cat escapes, and two to lessen the number of nighttime visitors), aware that no insects will trouble us, smelling like ourselves and not like chemicals, wearing what we want to wear instead of the Hanna Anderson-equivalent of a hazmat suit—every night our awareness of the bliss tickles our brains.
• Water tastes weird here. Kind of like the American cheese version of real water. Processed, with a hint of chlorine that hits the back of my throat. Drinking water makes me miss our Spellani water, that evoked the chain of rain falling on Subasio, collecting in underground caves, then channeled to our stone town. You could taste the earthy minerals, the cycle of fall and collection. I have a hard time drinking the water here, which may explain the persistent throb in my temples.
• I knew that the butcher shop here would not be like Sauro’s. I knew it. And yet seeing that small case of meat, and facing the scent of iron turning rusty, and mostly trying to discern what was in the shrinkwrapped packages tossed carelessly into the freezer case—it was heartbreaking. I miss the lessons at every shopping trip, the assumption that I’ll want my meat cut to order rather than pre-ground and sitting in a bacteria bath, the beautifully clean and arranged possibilities, each more delicious than the next. And the prices. I’m going to have to go partly vegetarian. I can’t stomach the readily available meat here anymore, which means I’ll need to spring for sustainably-raised, local options. Which I completely believe in, and support, but it does cost a small fortune. But I’d rather eat beans and rice three days a week (particularly if I can pair that with my favorite hot sauce, which is easily found here) and have my meat be quality, rather than eating substandard meat that makes my heart hurt. This means less salumi, too. Cured meats here are double, if not triple, the price they are in Spello. So much for my daily snack of salsiccia secchi.

I’m told these moments of awareness, those times I mentally trip over place, will fade. As will the pain. But I don’t want that. The pain means that I’m carrying Spello in my heart. When I pass a coffee shop and mourn Letizia, or when I consider making pasta and I remember meals in our kitchen with the terrazza door opened to the sounds and smells of Spello, it keeps it all close. I don’t want those thoughts out of my existence. If they create a yearning, I carry it like a badge, like beautiful counterpoint to those papatacci bites. It means I still have a connection, illusory though it is.

I’m not ready to let it go.

I have yet to work up the courage to walk into a big American store of any kind. No Harris Teeter, no Barnes & Noble, and definitely no K-Mart. Keith has, and his shocked expression when he comes home is enough to scare me directly into agoraphobia. He went to Bed, Bath, and Beyond and reports that he was first of all overwhelmed by the constant bludgeoning stimulation of TV’s at every end cap and intense smells around every corner. But mostly he was overwhelmed by the choices. We’d been warned about this, of course, but it didn’t prepare him for the giant aisle of bath mats. He said his mouth literally sagged open, and his eyes became glazed and dull. Like I said. Directly into agoraphobia.

My feats of daring are simpler. Less impressive. I’ve walked down our pedestrian mall and enjoyed some burgers until the sensation that the walls were toppling in compelled us to leave. I’ve gone to a smaller specialty market, which was quite pleasant. And I drove. That was kind of a big deal, my first time behind the wheel in a year. I’m taking it slow, I just went to the Mexican market to stock up on my favorite hot sauce, and the locally owned all-purpose market nearby. That was fine. The woman in the Mexican market spoke to me in Spanish. Those tones are so similar to the lyrical sound of Italian that I felt like weeping (and how funny that in Italy, even if we spoke in not too shabby Italian, we’d often be what Nicolas called “English bombed” where the other person insisted on speaking to us in English; but here, I was spoken to in Spanish).

But I felt that same feeling of moving through water. I thought slow, I moved slow, I spoke slow. The checker at C’ville Market recognized me from my weekly marketing there in the past, and she asked me if Italy was as relaxed and happy as everyone said. I confirmed her impression, and added that where we were, there wasn’t a compulsion to be more or do more, so there was much more time to just connect. She said she doesn’t have a push to do or be more, but she has to work so hard to make ends meet. I offered that the national health care also helps, as people don’t have the pressure of increasing health care costs. And she quickly cut me off, “It’s great to have you back!” I guess she didn’t want to hear about that. I’ve been in a country with multiple political parties for so long, I forgot about the bristle that happens when one casually endorses an idea from the “enemy camp”. I often think that the horse race mentality in America really explains the division between us. If your party is right, then mine is wrong, and I can’t have that, so I’m sticking with my insistence that yours is wrong. It is so black and white. In Italy, there are over 30 political parties. Much more room for nuance. So communists and capitalists can have a conversation without it becoming personal. Just don’t get either of them started on Berlusconi.

My friend Mark who works for the foreign service sent me a lovely message with some words of advice gleaned from his many, many experiences coming home after years in another country. He said that in his opinion, it takes more effort to reintegrate into the U.S. than to integrate overseas.  Mostly because when we return, we forget that we actually have to make an effort to acclimate.  Whereas we automatically expect to do so when we move abroad. Which is a great way to explicate something I had realized—when we moved to Spello, it felt unfamiliar and it was unfamiliar. That matches. No problem. Whoo-hoo, adventure, etc. etc. But here, it is familiar but it feels unfamiliar. That’s strange and my brain doesn’t know what to do with it.  Mark suggested that we put ourselves in the frame of mind of tourists here. And put as much energy and enthusiasm around trying to understand life here as we did with figuring out the Italians we just spent a year with.

It’s good advice.

Because there is a lot I’m puzzled about, and maybe instead of startling at how odd things seem, I can put intention towards understanding it. Rather than judging it, which I admit, has been my default. Even though I announced here not that long ago that I wanted to appreciate without judging, I have totally been judging. Not necessarily explicitly, but more like noticing a difference and instantly looking down my nose at that difference. Maybe it would be more useful to dig into that difference, and grapple with the difference, the same way we tried to figure out why the line at the Italian post office was so long at the start of the month.

Here are some examples of things about life here that have stunned me since our return:

1. There is a lot of water in the toilet. I know that doesn’t seem like a revolutionary observation, but the first time I used a bathroom in the States when we returned, I thought it was getting ready to overflow. Why is there so much water in the toilet? The flush seems odd, too. I can’t quite get the hang of it, partly because my hand keeps searching for a low versus high flow selection and there isn’t one. One flush.  A lot more water.
2. This is also not revolutionary, nor is it polite, but it is factually true. Americans are huge. I can chalk some of that up to metabolic disfunction in any country—I know people here and in Italy who follow healthy dietary practice and still are large, or who are wildly sedentary and unhealthy and are skinny as rails. But, as a visual, it’s stunning. Even though I knew to expect this, it’s still stunning. Like I can’t believe my eyes, kind of stunning. How can there be this many people whose weight is clearly in the danger zone? How can they allow this to happen? How can we as a society tolerate this kind of rampant unhealthiness? It feels absolutely crazy. My family thinks that it is a combination of high sugar intake (perhaps soda is a culprit, that’s certainly what we’ve heard) and processed foods. Whatever it is, I think we need to take a hard look at our culture and figure out how we are enabling this push towards obesity.
3. Cars are huge, too. I mean really, really giant. At first, I felt like we were at some monster-car rally. No, that’s just the freeway. Also, the way people drive is different. At first I kept thinking cars were hanging out beside us because they were trying to tell us that our taillight was out or something. But no, that’s how the flow of traffic works here. People drive in packs.
4. Also related to cars—people sure love their vehicles here. Not only are the cars enormous, they are shiny and have tinted windows and buffed hubcaps. In Italy, cars were faded and dented and nobody gave a crap. Your car is how you got around, which might be surprising when you envision the homeland of Ferrari. But at least in Spello, cars were functional. I can imagine the Spellani disbelief at the American custom of washing and waxing the car on a Sunday afternoon. In the driveway (Siena noted, too, how strange it is to have houses set back from the road—with yards! They all have yards!). Also, cars function as identity announcers. Personalized license plates, boastful stickers about kids making honor roll, window decals that demonstrate how many people are in a family, and nauseatingly loud bass. I’m thinking pretty hard, but I just can’t think of any instance in my year abroad where I noticed an Italian striving to prove an identity. Not through their cars. Not through their homes. Not through their activities. Maybe it’s part of that emphasis on being special I wrote about earlier this year. Italians just don’t have that. And really, that is so freeing. But there I go being judgmental again. Bad dog.
5. This may fly in the face of what I just said, but I’m used to being the least fancy person in the room. Now I’m middle of the road. Everyone here is come as you are. I know I should value that, given that here I am with my hair as frizzy as it was when I washed it yesterday and my face bare of any make-up, but it just feels funny. Last year I was surrounded by stunningly beautiful people who had long ago figured out how to make that beauty shine. Sometimes it made me uncomfortable, because I felt chronically dowdy and mousy. But now that I’m here, fitting in with my lack of polish feels strange.
6. There are so many choices here. The problem with 100 shampoos is that it creates the impression that there is a best we should be searching for. What’s the harm with spending five minutes trying to isolate the best shampoo? None, in the moment, but it perpetuates the myth that perfection is not only attainable, but expected. Sure, I’ve heard Italians debate where to find the best pizza in town or who makes the best lamb scottadito (let me take a minute to sigh and mourn here), but those are conversational fodder, ways to engage with our food system in a way that sparks thought. Rather than a quest for perfection that paralyzes a person in the cereal aisle (a whole aisle for cereal) and underscores a consistent belief that if only this, if only that, we too would be perfect. Which is delusional. And hardly helpful. I only hope I can resist this compulsion, but I fear I will fall like we all do. For Madison Avenue’s idea of what my life is supposed to be like. Even if I don’t watch TV or interact with advertisements. It sort of seems like life itself is an advertisement for all the things one is supposed to have.
7. Numbers. I can’t read dates, I am getting so confused. But worse is weights and measures. A year of the metric system totally sold me. I was ordering French ham (and wasn’t that a blessing) at Feast! and I got completely stumped on how much to order. What’s 3 etti? The cheesemonger (oh, yes, that’s what I said) helpfully suggested that I could order by number of slices. He also tolerated the slow, breathy talking that seems to be my reentry voice, with a gracious smile. Later, Siena said he was like an Italian. Open and friendly, without seeming like he was working at a carnival.
8. I peered into my washer, and it felt like I was looking down a well. Hellooooooooooo! And I had a start of excitement when I realized that I didn’t have start a load of laundry just to have clothes ready for the next day. In fact, my dress was washed and dried by the time I was finishing breakfast. It was a laundry miracle. And my oven? I could make two Thanksgiving turkeys. Even the tall, rangy Italian kind.
9. I still don’t have a phone, but when I’ve borrowed a friend’s, I find myself walking outside to get reception. Completely forgetting that I am not within medieval stone walls. I can get cell reception anywhere in my house. Wow. In Spello, people keep their cell phone on their window ledges. If someone gets a call while they are in our house, they instinctively move towards the window or terrazza.
10. Speaking of phones. Why is everyone on their phones, all the time here? What’s so important that nobody can spare a moment to sit and contemplate the sky? Even when people are with other people, the phones are out, the fingers are flying across invisible keyboards. I can’t imagine there are that many people mid-breakup, or other disastrous event that requires this kind of solid disengagement with actual reality in favor of virtual reality. Judge-y, judge-y. This is harder than I thought.
11. We still haven’t gotten our hands on American money. I saw some the other day and was surprised by how plain it is. All the same size. All the same color. But we haven’t needed it because there are ways to pay besides cash. Feels so strange to hand over a piece of plastic and pretend it’s money. Even stranger when the shopkeeper plays along and also pretends that card is money. And it made me remember—checks.
12. Everyone speaks English here. I know that shouldn’t be strange. It’s strange anyway.

So perhaps it’s understandable that we wince when we step into the outside world. That I limit my outings to one a day to avoid mental exhaustion. Even aside from the grieving of the Spellani daily rhythm, the world here is so different it’s hard to process all at once. So my goal is to continue to take it slow. And try to appreciate and observe and understand without judging what is around me.

Except the coffee.

I’m definitely still judging the coffee.

The best way to describe being home is that it feels both foreign and familiar at the same time. I walk down the pedestrian mall, and I feel, as Siena says, “out of place.” I recognize everything. It feels like I just saw it yesterday. I’m not comparing it to Spello or thinking about Spello… and yet, I have this sense that I’m both under a microscope and wildly distant from what I see. It doesn’t feel like we’ve been gone for a year. And at the same time, nothing here feels the kind of easy that comes from steady residency.

It’s not particularly comfortable.

I’m okay in my house. I’m great in my house, actually. I love my house with an American possessive prideful materialistic joy that I can’t quite contain. And since the house was finished only minutes before our tenants arrived a year ago, there are pieces of it that feel new. For instance, we were all surprised to find that we have a downstairs bathroom now! Who knew? Well, I guess we all did—I have a vague memory of painting it, but since none of us ever used it, we’d forgotten. Even beyond the parts of our house that were completed so late we’d forgotten about them, there are juicy bits that we’d neglected to look forward to. Like, oh, goodness, have you ever seen so many books together in one place as on our bookshelves? It’s like Disneyland for the five of us who have been virtually without books for a year. The feel of the paper grain, the smell of aging sawdust as the pages turn with a rustle, and words that are instantly understandable, no translation needed. It’s magic. The thought of a trip to the library is blowing my mind.

And then there are friends stopping by in a steady stream of love and hugs and bags of food. We’re feeling like we are in a dream state, so having people to ground our place is steadying.

At first, I didn’t even want to write. I actually thought I might have to write an explanatory parting post and be done, because the thought of writing here filled me with a kind of choking anxiety I couldn’t place. Which is so strange, because the night before we left, after a day of saying goodbyes (which I’ll detail later) all I wanted to do was write, and though I didn’t because I knew I needed to sleep to prepare for our early morning exodus, I wanted to get it down in black and white. It’s become my process, my way of coping and working through my life. I needed it.

And then we arrived and I had a sudden need to never write another word for the rest of my life.

So it’s nice to know that my tendency towards drama is virtually unchanged.

It took me the day to realize why. Over the year of writing in Spello, I created a vocabulary, a way to capture my experience, even if that experience was at a flamenco show in Sevilla. My process was always the same, same place, same cat curled on my hip. And here, I feel rootless, rudderless, without the pantry of words I could wrangle to express my heart. It was an illusion, I hope. Because I woke up this morning, like I would often wake up in Spello, with half-formed themes and sentences struggling to come to fruition. It was encouraging. And so here I am. Not in my bed, no ape rattling by, no shouts of Italian greetings outside my window—but instead Siena in the bathtub upstairs, while Nicolas relishes the peace of his sunlit room to re-read his favorite books and draw at his desk, and Keith is outside teaching Gabe about architecture with the century-old bricks from our original foundation that somehow we still haven’t gotten rid of, and I am standing at my bamboo parquet kitchen island (that I’d forgotten about, as it was put in 3 days before we left and then was completely covered with to-do lists and paint cans—I saw a to-do list on it yesterday and mentioned this to Keith, and he said, “Yes, but this time the to-do list just says one thing: Get Aperol.”) with my cappuccino and the humming dishwasher, and it feels okay.

The words feel scattered, sure, but at least they are making an appearance.

Which is a comfort.

So I think I’ll be able to stick with my plan of writing through the transition. After that, I’ll be moving my focus on figuring out how to get Il Bel Centro published. Which is, I realize, the next step in the dream.

I’m getting my bearings the best I can, and the fact that I can write again is helpful. I will admit to having a minor anxiety attack at Five Guys yesterday. All of a sudden I started scoping out the exit—Keith noticed this, and promptly directed the family towards the door as “Mommy is getting that panicked look in her eyes.” We all were finished anyway, and Siena hurried, saying that she was feeling “like everything is about to come crashing down on me, and I feel strange”.

And strange might be just about the best way to describe it. Or, I’ll feel fine, and then all of a sudden, I’ll unpack our Italian vintage aperitivo glasses from the Pissignano flea market, or our Vinosofia stemware, or our book about the Infiorata that Marcello gave me, and I have this odd sense of something being out of place.

I think that something is me.

I know this will pass, and time will make this all feel more like predictable background rather than jarring foreground, but I’m committed to telling you the truth, and the truth is that I feel unglued, unstuck, like a cutout cartoon character superimposed on a photograph. Just…odd.

There are nice parts of that. Our Chinese food dinner was incredible after a year of asian food deprivation, and it was fun to go to the video store again, and look at covers for DVDs that I never even knew were movies. And all the candy packaging has changed. “Skittles After Dark”? It was a little Rip Van Wrinkle-y, but not unpleasant.

In summary—when I’m in my house, I’m fine. Home is home, and this home is so thoroughly our home that it feels quite natural to be here. But our experience walking downtown yesterday was so disquieting that I am reluctant to go to populated areas again. To be surrounded by English, and Americans that are not tourists but rather firmly planted on their own soil, and to have so many of them—it’s oddly difficult and everything feels too big and too bright. I’ve read about reentry adjustment, and maybe I read the wrong stuff, because they all focused on what would be hard (shopping, seeing friends, etc.) or that feeling depressed was natural, but nowhere in my reading about reverse-culture shock do I read about people feeling like they are moving through water—like they must speak slowly and carefully and hold their bodies in space with tender exactness. I don’t know, maybe that’s just me.

But now we are about to try this stepping out thing again. We’re going to Main Street Market, home of some of my favorite food shopping in Charlottesville. I have firm plans to buy soft cheese. I’m hoping that a day in America under my belt, and smaller circumstances with less activity, will make for a better experience.

And if not, at least I will console myself with some good Camembert.