La bella vita

Moving to Italy is not as romantic as it sounds.

I mean, I knew that. They told me that. And I said I understood. Yeah, I know, I said. It's not vacation, it's real life, I said.

Just like you. You, who are reading this. Of course it's not vacation, you'll say. It must be soooo hard for you, living in ITALY.

You'll hit what we call, "the wall," they said, in about three months, give or take a few weeks.

Not me, I said.

You'll find yourself sitting on the living room floor, they said, with your head in your hands, asking yourself, "why did I ever come here?"

No way. I'm a wanderer, a free spirit, a gypsy soul, I said.

But don't leave, they said.

It will get better, they said.

It won't bother me. I've always been independent. I'm used to doing things myself. I'm strong, I said. Stronger than most.

Being here is like being a child again. Simple tasks are new and frustrating. You have to learn everything all over again. You will beat your head against the wall trying to buy gas with a credit card, turn the electricity back on when it goes out once a week, connect the water to your washing machine, or freaking turn on the oven. You're no longer a self-sufficient adult. You're an ignorant foreigner. You can't manage your personal affairs by yourself. And you ask really, really stupid questions.

There will be really high highs and really low lows. It will be an emotional roller coaster, they said.

I'm sitting here on the edge of my bathtub, 10 weeks in, with one shoe on and one shoe off, after having had my most reliable credit card denied at the grocery store for god-knows-what reason, putting some dents and scratches in my rental car and wondering how much that is going to cost me, opening my dishwasher only to find that it took some of the finish off my dishes for lack of enough "dishwasher salt" (what?), learning that I will probably not have internet or the use of my oven until January, having an old man sternly scold me and my dog in Italian on the street for reasons unbeknownst to me, taking freezing cold showers for the last three days, and waking up to a flooded laundry room.

It will get better, they said.

Just hang on, they said.

The Italian Way

Before I expatriated, I attended an Italian culture training that was intended to make the assimilation process a little smoother.  As the Italiani say (often), I learned a little about "the Italian way." 

La famiglia, the family.

It's allllll about the family.

"Theeees ees the Italian wayyyy-eh."

OK.  Va bene.  Got it.

And you can see this played out everywhere, real-time, in both personal life and work life.  Not that the two are separate and distinct.  Because in the same breath you can talk about your mission statement and your date last night.  It's the Italian way.

It sometimes makes me anxious to take caffe' breaks with Italians.  There are at least two breaks a day that are at least ten minutes long.  An American coffee break lasts as long as it takes to walk to the coffee pot, fill your cup, and walk back.  Italians gather around the cappucino machine and gab like they haven't spoken to each other in ages.

It kind of reminds me of "Friends," in "The One Where Rachel Smokes."  Even though she's not a smoker, she has to join her coworkers on their smoking breaks so she doesn't miss out.  She eventually succumbs to the pressure and smokes a cigarette.

I am the Rachel of Italian coffee breaks.

Sure, I frequented Starbucks back in the States, where, for only $2.95, I could get not only a cup of coffee, but also, an absolutely defining sense of self.

Tall, skim, caramel macchiato, no whip for Bry-... Br-...ummm...Bryan?

But, I'm not a caffe' drinker.  An Italian Caffe' (espresso) is strong enough to put hair on Justin Bieber's chest (much love, Biebs...I ain't mad atcha).

And, like Rachel, I have given in.  I only drink a cappucino before 10 a.m., and I'm even starting to enjoy my macchiati (it's NOT what you're thinking of, if you're thinking of Starbucks).  I have at least two coffees a day.  And, like Rachel, I may "feel a little shaky and a little weird," but "I HAD to, I HAD to do it for my career!"

It's the Italian way.




Want to know what else is the Italian way?

Using the same phrase to mean a gazillion different things.

Like, "allora," which is THE MOST COMMONLY USED PHRASE in Italian.

There is absolutely, positively, no way that you can make it through an entire conversation without hearing this phrase.  I dare you to try to find out its literal translation by asking Italians. They will all tell you something different.

"Well,..."
"So,..."
"Ok,..."
"Oh well,..."
"Then,..."
"Now,..."

It just depends on the context in which it's used.  Normale.

Donnie Brasco explains this concept perfectly:




It's like that, only less vulgar.

Somehow, it just makes perfect sense.

Allora...

language not-so-barriers

I've heard people say that the best way to learn another language is to watch television in that language. 

But after two episodes of C.S.I. - Scena Del Crimine, I remain unconvinced.

I would, however, be interested in hearing Darth Vader dubbed in Italian.

"Luca, io sono suo padre."





Last night, I met two of my Italian friends downtown for a "chocolate."  I accepted this invitation on good faith, not really understanding what a "chocolate" was, and I'm still not sure after having ingested one. 

Ingested is a gross word, but I'm not really sure if I ate the chocolate or drank it, so it's the best I can come up with at this late hour, that SHOULD be 10:15pm but instead it's actually 9:15pm because of stupid un-daylight savings time.  Don't get me started on that.

Today I was complaining about un-daylight savings time at work, and someone said something to the effect of, "that was my favorite part of the Bush administration - he extended daylight savings time."

And it just struck me funny that that was the best part.

But, I digress.

A "chocolate" is somewhere between a melted Hershey's bar and a cup of hot cocoa, served in a cup but eaten with a spoon.  Think microwaved chocolate pudding, except way more classy, of course, because it's all Italian and you eat/drink/take it in a quaint Italian cafe and you have to do everything the Italian way including pay with exact change, because God forbid they have to break a bill (--huh?).





I've been working on teaching one of my Italian friends all of the most important American idioms, phrases, and concepts that are an absolute necessity for her to get by in life, such as:

-baby mama drama
-Italian stallion
-easy cheesy, lemon squeezy (this happens to be her favorite) (she especially likes the ones that rhyme)
-on the prowl
-[it costs] an arm and a leg
(Italians have something similar: un occhio della testa, which means, "an eye of the head")
-See ya later, aligator / After while, crocodile


She has a no-kidding American idioms spreadsheet where she keeps track of such phrases that she started learning from a previous expat, and I have taken it upon myself to continue his hard work and sound tutelage.

Just trying to help an Italian gal out.

Also, it's hilarious hearing her toss out these ridiculous phrases at random times in conversation with thick Italian accent, all non-chalant as if it is the most natural thing in the world to say.

No way, Jose.

Name Game

"Brrrrreeeeeeeeeen!"  Frederico exaggerates how Italians pronounce my name in a sing-songy voice with a big smile on his face as I walk in the door to the hotel. "Like a very old telephone, uh?"

Ciaoooo, Frederico.

"No, no, no, it's FADE-UH-RRRRI-CO."  He writes it down for me: FEDERICO.

I guess if I'm going to correct how he says my name, he should probably correct me, too.

I told Gianni a couple days ago that I wrote about him in my blog.  Apparently, "blog" translates, so he wanted the address.  I asked Federico if he read it, as well.

"Yesterdayyy, Gianni ask me to read-eh your blog to heeeeem, buhhht, it is very hard for Italians to read, so I say to Gianni, 'I am too tired,'" [he pretends to yawn for emphasis], "and I go home, and I-" [he whistles as he pretends to flip through a book], "so I can see some of these words, and todayyy I read it to heeem!"  Federico is extra lively today, and I'm loving it.

Later on that evening, I walk downstairs to take Koda outside.

Ciaooo, Gianni!

"Ciao, Brrrrreeeeeeeen!" he laughs.  Gianni has a great laugh.  Just the way you would imagine an Italian would.

I guess you read my blog.

"My name, you say 'Jee-YAWN-ee'...but is just...'Jyanni.'"

Oh.

Welp, now I know. 

He laughs again.  "I liiiiike that you say we sounds like very old telephone with your name."

What I think they liiiiiiiiiiiike is that I wrote about the way they sounds like at all.

All cute and Italiany.

fotografie

 

 

Remember the time I said I only had 3 seventy pound suitcases?

 

 

Well, uh, what I meant was...

 

3 seventy pound suitcases

1 carry on

1 personal bag

and 1 large kennel.

 

 

And remember the time I told Frederico that

 I didn't think he knew how much luggage I had?

 

 

Well, this is what I was talking about:

 

Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport

 

Some people say I'm high maintenance,

and I say, "well duh."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Layover in the Big Apple.

 

Where I had to carry my 50 pound dog through a metal detector.

 

???

 

Thanks, TSA.

JFK Airport, New York, New York

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nevertheless, this workin' dog is always smilin'.

 

And showing off some tricks for the New Yorkers.

 

After pooping in the middle of the street.

 

Grrrrreat.

Koda Joe

JFK International Airport

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Found this on the side of a house that my realtor showed me.

 

Reminded me of "Under the Tuscan Sun."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Beautiful Lake Maggiore.

 

Just a hop, skip, and a jump from where I'm at.

 

In fact, I drove up there for the afternoon just to see what all the fuss was about.

 

I get it.

Arona, Italy

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pretty cappucino across from the Prefeturra.

 

Cappucino only before 10 a.m. in Italy.

 

Why, you ask?

 

What a silly question.

 

Because of all the foam on the top, of course!

 

It will fill you up, and you don't want to ruin your lunch!

 

Clearly, you are not Italian.

 

A silly question, indeed.

 

Milan, Italy

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Just some buildings near the University of Milan.

 

 

Just buildings.

Nothing special.

....

Yeah, right.

They may be "just buildings," but they're still wonderful.

 

Love the colors.

Milan, Italy

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Doesn't it speak for itself?

 

What can I even say to describe?

il Duomo di Milano

The "Fashion Capital of the World" starts here.

 



prada.gucci.maxmara.ferragamo.versace.louisvuitton.chanel.valentino.burberry.vonfurstenberg.louboutin.etc.

 

#inmydreams



La Galleria - Milan, Italy

 

 

 

 

aggiornamento

"update"

current events of the last two days:

-Was stopped by Franco at the gate yesterday morning, who invited me into the guardshack to make me some coffee, ask me if I knew J.R., show me a picture of himself in his prime, try to set me up with his son, point out where his family is from on a map, tell me he was going to make me some homemade picante (should be interesting) (did i mention he has a GARDEN next to the guardshack???), and implore me to sing.  Naturally, I obliged.  Who wouldn't want to sing The Beatles for 4 Italian guards accompanied by a Napoleon on the guitar?  Not this gal.  Here comes the sun, doot un doo doo...

-Explained the concept of "it's 5 o'clock somewhere" to an Italian girl in my office, Claudia.  She gets it.

-Learned what to yell at cars when they are driving too slow: "Le frecce sono solo per gli indiani!" which means, "arrows (turn signals) are only for the indians!"

-Came home to the hotel, saw Gianni, said "Gianni, you're always here!" and he said, "Si, I am furnitures!"  -How cute is that!?

-Posed at il Duomo di Milano.

-Charmed my way around Italian beaurocracy.

-Bought $120 worth of napkin rings.  ITALIAN napkin rings.

Milano...what a wonderful city - it's metropolitan but not overwhelming.  People are actually friendly when you attempt to speak a little Italian and are eager to help you learn.  There's a laid-back, easy-going, no-rush kind of vibe that is usually absent in such a big city. 

Pictures coming soon, as requested.

Shout out to my blog readers in Australia!  G'day, mates!

Ciao ciao! :)

Gianni

Gianni is the owner/manager of the delightful hotel I’ll be staying at for the next two months – my home away from – , well, for now, it’s just home.  He is a nice-looking man of 50+ years, always crisp in a Ferragamo shirt, watch, and tie, the color pallette complementing his pale skin and freshly shaved head.  He was, when I checked in, a little serious.  Hesitant to speak English, he politely passed the task to his front desk agent, Frederico, who is at least ten years younger and has an easier time communicating.  While Gianni was all business at first, I have begun to wear him down, as I make it a point to talk to him every day, forcing him to practice his English, and me, my Italian, or lack thereof.  I will even go as far as to say that I think he’s started to enjoy our short, simple conversations, even appearing from the back office to chat when he hears Frederico and I exchange greetings, sharing with me stories of his family, his past career in waste management (hmmm…), and his trips to the US many years ago.

Frederico caught me on my way down to breakfast this morning and told me that Gianni wanted to move me to the biggest room in the hotel.  “It will be more room-eh for you and your dog, ehm, Koda.  If this would be good for you, if you waaaant, we move your things for you.”  I assured him that while the offer was extremely thoughtful, it was unnecessary, explaining that I didn’t think they knew how much luggage I had.  But, Frederico insisted, “Gianni said this room will be much better for you.”  Oh.  Well, if Gianni said so.  “Donnnn’t worry, Gianni, himself, say he is going to move you.”  OK, well, thanks, I’ll just, uhh, go pack my suitcases, then.

Twenty minutes later there was a knock at my door.  “Ciao, Brynn!”  When Italians say my name, it reminds me of a vintage telephone ringing.  Italian is not a language for the lazy tongue – every letter is meant to be articulated, and if you fail to do so, it will likely change the meaning of the word, which is sure to be followed by snickering.  In Spanish, the double “rr” is rolled, but in Italian, E-V-E-R-Y “r” is rolled, and the double “rr” is emphasized by extending the roll.  Italians cannot pronounce a lazy “r” that is so common in Texas, so, if you can imagine the piercing “rrrrrinnng, rrrrrinnnnng” of a telephone in an old black-and-white classic movie, you can understand how the Italians pronounce my name: “Brrreen.”  How charming.

Gianni loaded my suitcases on a trolly he had brought up and assured me that the new room would be much better for me, saying “it is much more fresh.  There is doors to balcony you can open that will be good for your dog to get some fresh air.”  He turned and looked at the 16 pairs of shoes I had lined up against the wall and let out a long, slow whistle, followed by a chuckle.  “OK, we make two trips.”  I laughed and said that he didn’t know I was going to work him so hard.  He replied, “I’m used to work hard – I have a wife and three daughters.”

I followed him to the new room, one floor down, pulling one suitcase behind me with one hand and holding a bag in the other.  He opened the room and let out a sigh of relief.  “Ah, here we go, much better!” he said, satisfied with his decision.  He went to the balcony doors and pulled them open, scratching Koda’s ears as he trotted over.  “Ciao, piccolo.”  He turned to me.  “Do you like it?”  Si, Gianni, molto bene.  Grazie.  He smiled.  “Prego, Signorina.”  He left only to appear moments later with my shoes.  What a saint. 

Tonight was the first night I ate alone.  I’ve been by myself before in Fort Worth, but being alone there is not the same as being alone in Italy. 

There is a restaurant in my hotel called L’Ocera Nera, or, “the black goose,” that I decided to try.  I followed the signs pointing the way to the restaurant downstairs.  A red sign with big white letters spelling RISTORANTE was posted above two plain white doors that blended in with the hallway, save for the red crash bars across the length of the doors that gave them the appearance of an emergency exit.  I stood still for a moment looking at the doors, perplexed and a little doubtful that I had the right entrance.  I considered turning around and going back to my room, but instead I held my breath and prayed that the alarm would not go off as I slowly pushed the doors open.

I was surprised to find the restaurant extremely busy, as I had barely seen anyone in the hotel except for employees.  The buzz of Italian chatter filled my consciousness as I awkwardly stood just inside the door, not sure if I should seat myself or wait to be seated.  I made eye contact with a young man in a suit across the restaurant, who presumably recognized my look of bewilderment mixed with embarrassment as a universal plea for help, and he rushed to my aid.

“Just one?”  He didn’t even have to ask if I spoke Italian.  Si.

He sat me down at a nearby table where I was facing two couples sitting directly in front of me.  After he explained the menu and left with my order, I found myself staring straight at the empty chair across from me, hands folded neatly in my lap, denying my natural instinct to watch either couple seated no more than ten feet away.

You can only awkwardly stare at an empty chair for so long.

After a few minutes, I allowed myself to look around the restaurant.  Parties prattled and hummed with laughter, throwing their heads back and cheering with gaiety.  I strained to hear any sign of familiarity, but they all spoke too quickly for me to understand anything.  I snatched an “otto” out of a conversation, but, realizing I had absolutely no frame of reference, dropped my hopes of any triumph. 

I let my gaze drift to one of the couples in front of me.  A man and wife in their late 50s, they spoke quietly and with the ease and comfort that comes from years of marriage.  The man reached his hand across the table to let it rest on hers.  He glanced in my direction, and I quickly shifted my intruding stare back to the empty chair across from me.  Caught me.  I looked back up for a moment to search the restaurant for the young man in the suit.  Surely my meal was ready by now…

I felt a warm hand touch my right shoulder.  A bit startled, I looked up to see Gianni smiling down at me.  “Buonasera, Signorina.  Tu come stai?”  My self-consciousness melted and suddenly I wasn't quite so alone in the world.  He asked me what I ordered for dinner.  “Ahh, gnocchi…a good choice." 

If you think you have ever had basil pesto, you are wrong.  I can say this with confidence, because I was sure that I had had good basil pesto before, but I had not.  I was wrong, too.  Don’t feel bad, we can both be wrong together.

How do you describe delicious?  There was a mound of gnocchi scampi before me.  The tiny dumplings were perfectly gooey on the outside with what I’m convinced must be the richest, freshest basil pesto sauce in the world, while still maintaining a warm doughy inside.  Delizioso.  I actually let out an audible “mmmm” with the first bite, almost in disbelief that such a magnificent flavor is in existence.  I took another bite to ensure that my palate hadn’t deceived me.  It was just as good, if not better, the second time around.  My glass of vino bianco was the perfect complement to this delightful dish, and I sipped it slowly as I enjoyed my gnocchi. 

I made it about halfway through my meal before I put my fork down for the first time, and I decided that that’s where it should stay if I were to have any hope of walking out of the restaurant instead of having to be rolled.  I looked around to see if I could find any sign of a waiter.  Peculiarly enough, throughout my meal, I had seen several different members of the wait staff attend to the tables surrounding me, but no one had said anything to me.  I looked to the front of the restaurant and saw a cash register.  Do I pay there, or do I wait here?  I decided I would try to follow suit by observing the Italians, but in true Italian style, all the people surrounding me were there when I arrived and didn’t seem in any hurry to leave. 

Finally, a waiter noticed me looking around in confusion, once again, and came over to my table.  I realized that none of the waiters had stopped by my table because they didn’t speak English.  The man looked at my half-empty plate and looked concerned, saying, “is not good?”  Surprised, I replied, “no, no, molto bene!  I’m just full.”  I could tell he didn’t understand.  “It’s just a lot of food.”  I touched my stomach with both hands to try to communicate the message.  “I get my boss,” he said.  Oh- okay.

The young man in the suit came back to my table.  “You didn’t like it?” he part-asked, part-accused.  “No, I liked it very much!  It was delizioso.  I’m just full because it was a lot of food.”  “But there is still half a dish,” he looked at me inquisitively, “are you sure?  I can get you something else…?”  I smiled, almost feeling guilty for not finishing the meal.  “No, grazie, I’m fine.”  He smiled, so I knew I had him convinced.  Phew.  “Do I pay here, or at the register?”  He replied, “if you put it on your room bill, I can bring you check for firma.”  I agreed this was the best way to pay, and he returned with the check momentarily.  He opened the book and pointed at the bottom line.  “Your signature here,” he paused as I signed the line, and then pointed below it, “and your phone number here.”  I looked up at him, not sure if he was serious or not.  He burst out in laughter, “I’m just kidding you, I’m just kidding you!”  I laughed and snapped the book shut, handing it to him and shaking my head as I stood up.  “Buonanote, Signorina,” he called after me as I walked toward the door.

Buonanote.

Americani

72 hours in country, and I'm loving it.

I went casa/appartamento hunting on Mercoledì with Andrea.  I enjoyed myself to the hilt, as he gave me many good "advices" about day-to-day life in Italy, bought me my first delizioso Italian pastry, and told me that I was the queen (winner, winner). 

He also tried to teach me how to be more Italian, as I've noticed many Italians do as a favor to we Americani.

"We have a joke-eh about Americans-eh," he said.  Italians don't know how to end a word with a hard consanant - MUST. ADD. EH.

"An American-eh came to an Italian supermarket-eh.  He pointed at una mela and say to the grocer, 'what is this-eh?'  And the grocer say, 'that is an apple.'  And the Americani say, 'in America, the apples are THIS BIG,'" stretching his arms apart to show the size.

 "And then the Americani points at a - ehmm, how do you say, ehm," he turns to his Italian counterpart, "Come sei dice la lattuga in inglese? ...Ahh, si, si... he points to a lettuce-eh, and he say to the grocer, 'What is this?' And the grocer says, 'This is lettuce.'  And the Amercani, he laugh and he say, 'In America, lettuce is theeees beeeeg,'" he stretches his arms wide again. 

"Then, a truck of watermelons-eh drives eh-by, and the Americani say, 'What is this?'  And the grocer turns to him," Andrea shrugs his shoulders, "and he say, 'These?  These are just peas.'"  He throws his head back and bursts out in laughter at his own joke.  I am as much amused by his delivery as the joke itself, so I join him in merriment.

One of the things that distinguishes Italians the most is their lack of any sense of urgency.  This can be either extremely charming or irritating, depending on the situation, but you just have to accept these cultural differences at face value.

It's not better, it's not worse, it's just different.

I happen to find this "tomorrow...normale" attitude delightful (I am told that after a few months, I won't find it quite so charming anymore, but I prefer to be optimistic, no matter naivete).

On my first day of work, I had to wait at the gate to get my photo badge before entering.  Upon approaching the guardshack, I peaked in the open window and saw 3 men gathered around another gentleman, who I would later learn to know and love as Franco, while he played and sang a rendition of "Volare." 

Volare!?  Are you kidding me?  Could this BE any more perfect??

He acknowledged me at the window by a nod of his head without wavering from lyric or missing a note.  He played for another minute or so, finishing with a smile as he reached his arms out, directing an Italian phrase at me that I could only assume meant something like, "what do you think?" or "not bad, huh?" while the other guards applauded and looked to me for my response.  I clasped my hands together and cried, "bellissimo!" which I gathered was the proper reply from his cheerful reaction.

Franco, 60 years old and harmless, has taken a fast liking to me, and I must admit that I fancy him in return.  He speaks Italian to me every day, fully cognizant of the fact that io non capisco.  Today, as I was leaving, he held up traffic behind me at the gate in order to "chat."  He came prepared, dragging along a younger man who spoke a little English.  The young man apologized for not being able to understand me very well, as he had been out of school for a while and was out of practice.  Franco waved at the car behind me to pull up alongside me.  He asked the man if he spoke English.  When he replied, si si, Franco cried, "Ah! Bravo!" rolling his "r" extra long for emphasis and holding his hands out toward me as if we had both won.  The man translated an exchange of pleasantries before ending with Franco's appeal for me to learn Italian, saying (apparently), "you live in Italy now, you must learn Italian."  I assured him that I was trying to learn, if only to enable me to speak to him.  With this, he smiled and nodded, seemingly satisfied, and sent me on my way, along with the lengthy line of cars that had formed behind me, bidding arrivederci.

The one about the boots.

3 seventy pound suitcases.

That's it.  That's all I get for the next two-and-a-half months.

So for all of you who asked if you could come stowed away in my suitcases and I laughed as if I hadn't heard that before ever from anyone and responded with something like, "haha, that's funny Ted, I'll let you know..."

The answer is no.

Because then I wouldn't have room for my steel-toed boots.

...yep.

Since I spend most of my days in 6 inch heels in a work place where the majority of people wear tennis shoes, you can imagine how horrifying the steel-toed boot shopping experience was for me.  Let me tell you, there is a market out there for ladies' decent looking work boots. 

After much online shopping and a failed attempt at purchasing one pair not quite as bad as all the rest (out of stock), it took two cowboys and a full hour to sell me one pair of ugly boots. 

This was, of course, after much scoffing when I inquired about the possibility of adding the steel toe element to a pair of  cowboy boots that I already own.

Me: Can't you just put a steel toe in my Old Gringos?

Cowboy 1:  Lady! Did you even hear what you just asked me?!

Me: ...sooo...yes, then? That means yes?

It meant no.

Cowboy 2 had a better approach.

Cowboy 2: Ma'am, are you telling me you're gonna be wearing these boots in Italy?

Me: Yes.

Cowboy 2: Around Italians?

Me: Well, Italians and Americans, yes.

Cowboy 2: With all due respect, ma'am, no one's gonna be lookin' at your feet.

SOLD!

8 days

 

I was going to title this post in Italian to showcase my preparedness for this post’s namesake, but that would have required a trip to my newfound favorite website, freetranslation.com, which I have become well acquainted with over the last 6 months and a stack of immigration paperwork about 6 inches deep.  Only otto days away from my move date, and I admittedly do not even know the Italian word for “days.”  I’ve been kinda busy, alright?  It’s amazing what you unearth while sorting through boxes of crap you haven’t seen in years, including my trusty ol’ college keg tap that saw me through many finals weeks.  And look at me now!

So, needless to say, I haven’t hit the Rosetta Stone as hard as I would have liked.  In fact, the only real sentence I can string together off the top of my head is “gli uomini portano delle scarpe,” which I only remember because I like the way it sounds – all Italiany – so I filed it away in the ol' memory bank in order to dazzle all you non-Italian-speakers when you asked me how my language lessons were coming.  And you were all impressed, because you didn’t know that it meant “the men wear shoes” in the simplest form possible.  So, if I step off that plane and someone asks me what those guys have on their feet, I’m golden. 

As long as they ask me in English.

It's official.

First of all, I would like to say that I went straight to the "create new post" button without having to search for it, which, if you read Saturday's post, you would know is a great feat.  At least I accomplished something today, never mind the 3 piles of dirty laundry on my floor. We need not talk about them.

Second, but more imporantly, it's official.  I received my work permit today.  Well, what I really mean by "received" is that I was notified of it's issuance and given a tracking number because the original copy is officially in the mail.  Yep.  That nulla osta is on its sweet little way to my hot little hand in Fort Worth from Milano.  Yeehaw, y'all! 

I'm totally going to say things like "yeehaw" and "y'all come back now, ya hurrrr?" in Italy.  I'm going to milk it for all it's worth.  I'm going to tell them I'm from Dallas and they are going to ask me if I know who shot JR and I'm going to say yes, of course I do, I'm from Dallas.  It is going to be sooo much fun.

I once wore a Texas A&M sweatshirt in London and as soon as I stepped off the bus a man leaned out the window of a car that was driving by and yelled at me, "I love you!" except it was in a British accent so it was more like, "oiay lowve yeuw," and much more charming than I can possibly convey via blog.  And it was sort of the perfect beginning to a wonderful trip, because I'm pretty easy to please like that.

Back to the matter at hand.

The next step is to buy my one-way (eek!) ticket.  The destination: Milan-Malpensa.  The date of departure: October 8.  The time: ...to be determined.  Don't rush me.

I'm trying to decide if I'm going to live in a more rural area, where I could get more bang for my buck and probably have my own private garden where my puppy can run and play and pee on things freely and I won't have to carefully and awkwardly walk behind him at all times with baggie and pooper scooper in hand.  Another pro is that if I live in a smaller town, it is sure to not be as "touristy," and, in my experience, the locals of a small town are much more friendly and interested in getting to know you, which is kind of what I'm going for.  It's also super close to work.

Orrrrrr...

I could live in a quintessential Italian city in a second story apartment with window boxes full of flowers and walk out my front door into the Centro Storico where there are shops on my left and cafes on my right and if I want to go get a pizza, I can walk there, or if I'm more in the mood for a cappucino, I can walk there, too. 

How am I to decide??

Luckily, I have [up to] 2 months in a hotel to figure it out.  Maybe, just maybe, I will have an Italian friend or four by then to give me some advice.  For now, I'll continue to dream of Centro Storico...

44 days left in the US of A

Currently watching "Julie & Julia," which is inspiring me to both write a blog post and master the art (and joy) of french cooking, but since I'm not a huge fan of french food, or the french, for that matter, I'll settle for the former.  Not to mention I couldn't flip a crepe in the air by hand and skillet to save my life.  But I digress.  As I've had this blog for a number of years, and this is only my 25th post, I know as much about blogging as I do about flipping crepes.  In fact, every time I want to create a new post, I have to search for the "create a new post" button (it's at the top left, for all you other forgetful ENFPs).  I'm going to try to blog more regularly, if only to document for my future self the events of my Italian adventure. According to Julia, you've just got to practice, much like cooking.  And playing the piano. 

"You've just got to have the courage of your convictions."

So, only 44 days left in the good ol' US of A.  At least, that's my best guess.  Technically, I haven't received my work permit yet, or applied for my work visa, and no, I haven't yet bought my ticket, but I feel verrry sure that October 8th will be the day of my departure because I want it to be so badly! 

I have a tonnnnn of things to do before the move (read: as an ENFP I don't really know what I have to do because I can't [won't] function with to-do lists so instead I will remain unnecessarily stressed out because I can't possibly get a grip on everything there is to be done if I refuse to identify those things...breathe...somebody get me a brown bag...Meryl Streep is the best actress of all time...Julia Child is a freakin' hoot...what was I stressing out about again?), the most important of them being to secure one of these amazing custom leather luggage tags, and then, of course, win the lottery so that I can afford this $7000 Louis Vuitton piece.

Did you get that, people?

Seven. THOUSAND. Dollars.

For a single suitcase.

I need a minute.

...

Ok.

Since I don't have the lung capacity to hold my breath that long, I did a little searching for some affordable yet fabulous luggage.  And lookie here what I stumbled upon! Purchasing a set of this chic vintage luggage would allow me to travel out of my suitcase instead of being forced to live in it.

Isn't that convenient.

Almost one year ago, I wrote a post about how I should like to live in Cinque Terra.

(sigh)... Italia.  Images from "Under the Tuscan Sun" float through my memory.  Diane Lane in that fabulous white dress on the shores of Positano ("ladybugs, Catherine, ladybugs").  Market day in Cortona, where "the piazza is an ongoing party and everyone is invited. Clichés converge and you almost want to laugh, but you can't help feeling that these Italians know more about having fun than we do." 

And here I am, one year later, anxiously awaiting my Italian work permit.

Eek!

Once upon a time there was a boy who loved a girl, and her laughter was a question he wanted to spend his whole life answering.

I was enchanted to meet you