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.

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!