Advantage, America: (Part II)

Cute guys who say "yes, ma'am" in a southern accent (even when I, disappointingly and suicide-contemplation-inducingly, find myself as the "ma'am" they are referring to.)

Tearjerking country music on road trips through the midwest ("I know you're going to break my heart ... just leave the pieces when you go").

Witty satire on television. (Jon Stewart and Steven Colbert on a joint ticket in '08!)

Really good beer. Available everywhere. And particularly in Irish pubs. (Okay, this one is actually Advantage: Ireland, but America's knockoffs are pretty darn convincing.)

Cocktail Lounges. (With comfortable chairs and low, flattering lighting, where a server actually comes to your table and brings you beverages. Perhaps a little music even plays, low and quietly enough that you can still have a conversation.)

Made to order large lattes with skim milk and sugar free vanilla syrup that you can TAKE AWAY WITH YOU. I don't care what they cost, they make me happy.

The Geico Gecko. ("Pie. And Chips. For Free!!")

The fact that summer vacations have a long enough season that nowhere becomes a ghost town and all the beaches aren't crammed during exactly the same 2 weeks.

All the signs of a real American summer: Small town parades. Kids with lemonade stands and red wagons. Sports team car washes. Limos full of kids going to prom. Skinny dipping in the creek. Steaks on the grill. Hot dogs and s'mores at the campfire. National Parks. Roadtrips in the family car. Softball tournaments.

... which brings me to tonight. I find myself in Lincoln, Illinois (smack in the center of the state, turn right at the 379th cornfield...) at a Comfort Inn (oh, we travel in style!!). I have the last available room in the place, because the small town is full with exuberant 8 to 17 year olds participating in a softball tourney. I wandered over to watch the end of the last game, and got the perfect summer-night experience out of the deal: was offered a beer by the parents watching, the crack of the bat and the palpable energy of the crowd harmonizing with the undertones of the locusts. The perfect, anonymous, sultry summer midwestern evening. I caught a lightning bug and resisted the urge to squish him just to watch his luminescence on the sidewalk.

I hope THAT snapshot in my mind will be enough to get me through the 2 am running-up-and-down-the-halls and squealing of hormonal teenagers that I'm sure will follow. It will be THEN that I wish I was in a quiet Italian farmhouse on 20 empty acres. Travel necessity: earplugs.

Breaking the Seal

More than a handful of you have now written me offline to discover if I'm still alive, if I lost both of my hands in an unfortunate runin with a mountain lion, gone on a blog-fast in protest of the war in the Middle East, or what.

(ASIDE: you like me, you really like me! You miss me when I'm gone! Golly Gee! Someone best get to work designing the Viaggiatore Fan Club t-shirts.)

Long story short, no - drama has not befallen me, I'm still just living on the road. "What I did on My Summer Trip: See a Whole Lot of America in Six Weeks and Two Suitcases." Almost all work, but certainly some fun along the way (I could, in a pinch, amuse myself in a paper bag). Am I homesick for Bella Toscana? You bet. Though I must admit with the heatwaves (read: giant balls of fiery scorching ninety-plus degree days) currently running through both the US and Europe, I am happier for the moment to be in a country that embraces the incredible invention of AIR CONDITIONING.

That said, today finds me in beautiful suburban Detroit, where I am looking forward to a fabulous weekend of relaxation with UBlend and the Rugrat capped off with a visit to JillyBean, who it's been waaaaaay too long since I saw. But I thought I'd take a quiet moment (okay, to be fair, I'm trapped on the phone on hold with United Airlines for FIFTY TWO MINUTES AND COUNTING) to fill all ye out there in blogville in on some musings from my adventures:

Stuff America Seriously Rocks At:

The Cocktail. More specifically, The Martini. Grey Goose, Up, A Little Dirty, Extra Olives (blue cheese stuffed if they've got 'em). Most Italians would probably gag at a sip of it, but it is truly nectar of the gods in my world. Most memorable martini from this trip was the one at the Mall of America* at lunch with Josh Baskin, with the "Pomegranete Pink Slippers" at ChezTheMom a close runner up.

Inventive Food. Yes, I know, Italian food is amazing. But it's also kinda predictable. What? Pasta for a starter course? How surprising! Most memorable food so far from this trip was the Elk Sandwich at Cue Restaurant at the New Guthrie Theatre in downtown Minneapolis. That, plus Exec Chef Lenny Russo was a treat and a half to talk to. I look forward to seeing him next time he swings through Tuscany.


Stuff Italy Kicks America's Pathetic Butt At:

Knowing who won the World Cup. Heck, even knowing the World Cup was going on! Okay, I admit that it *killed* me to not be in Italy for this amazing moment (descriptive comments welcomed from all ye back in Bella Italia!) I text messaged my Italian friends the minute I heard...I'm sure that partying abounded even in the smallest of towns! I was on a shuttle enroute from Denver to Vail, Colorado when the game ended, and Beatrice and the Pensive Oak were kind enough to comb through every shop in tourist town to find me a blue ITALIA soccer shirt that I could wear to celebrate from afar with my adopted home.

Interesting boutique shops and towns with their own character. It has struck me on this trip more than ever that America is just one big sea of chain stores all strung together in different configurations. Is the Gap next to the Abercrombie & Fitch, with the Barnes & Noble and Pottery Barn across the street? Yes, if you're in Michigan. In Illinois, the B&N is next to the Chipotle, the Pottery Barn is at the other end of the shopping center next to the Gap. There's no real local cultural diversity anymore, proven by the many thousands of miles I've logged from Boston to DC to Colorado and everything in between. It's just one *!&#!&* Applebee's/Target/Starbucks after another. (*I would like it clearly on the record that the aforementioned Mall of America is a classic example of all this collective badness under one very large roof, and I was dragged there against my will and plied with alcohol to deaden my pain at the experience.)

The AutoGrill, with their clean and well-lit collection of made-fresh-today sandwiches, that they will HEAT IN A PANINI MACHINE while you wait! And then they'll whip you up an espresso for less than a buck. Now that America seems to have the strip shopping mall experience down to a science, perhaps we can redirect our urban planners' efforts into creating clean and consistent, perhaps even enjoyable, roadside stops on major highways? Instead, the midwest seems to be littered with sketchy, grimy, dimly lit Mobil stations crammed full of Funyuns and Beef Jerky and other packaged food of uncertain expiration date. I envy all you men out there who can pee anywhere, whereas gals like me on inter-state drives develop bladders of steel to avoid stopping at one of these joints (though I must admit that getting leered at by mullet-headed truckers is always an ego boost).

More musings from the road coming shortly, I promise. But for now, I've gotta run: UBlend just walked in the door and there's a martini somewhere with our name on it.

You should have one too, in celebration of the truly good things in America. Happy Weekend!

There's noplace like home

It's been a long but exhilarating few weeks on the road. I've missed writing, but have been a victim of complete sensory overload on all fronts. Comparisons between my new and old homes abound; I just need a few moments of peace in which to categorize them. I suspect I'll be doing much musing over the next few weeks about what "home" really is. And if it's "where your heart is," how can I break my heart in half?

Remember, in the Wizard of Oz, when Dorothy looks at Toto and says, "I don't think we're in Kansas anymore ..."?

Spending the fourth of July weekend at the midwestern hometown fair of sorts, there was not a single man wearing bright orange, yellow, lime green, or red pants. Nor were there any men with sweaters casually draped over their shoulders - in a languid, sexy, "I'm not trying but I look amazingly good" kind of way. There were, on the other hand, lots of black concert t-shirts and ratty blue jeans. And baseball caps. And guys with bad hair. And copious amounts of beer. And motorcycles. And skankily dressed women. And men in black knee socks.

(shudder!)

What both places have in common - my tiny Italian town and my mid-sized midwestern American one - is that time seems to be at a bit of a stand still. In Italy, it's still 1950 or so, and in middle America it's summertime in the late 80's. Neither is entirely delightful, though one is notably more civilized.

I'm clicking my heels in my mind ... wishing that the best parts of both worlds would somehow come together; and THAT would truly feel like home.