If not now, when?

One American woman. Twenty acres and a 1650 farmhouse in Tuscany. Random introspection and hilarity, depending on the day.

31 March 2006

Siamo una luna indietro

That's the quaint Italian vernacular for something like "golly, it's colder than usual for early Spring". I discovered this last night when I asked my neighbor - ( prompted by a conversation about when to move my lemon trees back outside) - if it was normally still this chilly in late March. He replied that we are "a moon behind." The following explanation was something about a late Easter, so we're still in the March moon, that it won't be until the April moon that it warms up, the crops aren't in yet ... (I, puzzled, stopped listening at that point and started mentally scratching my head.)

Those astronomy classes I took in college definitely didn't have the bonus farmer's almanac practicum; that must have been reserved for the state Ag schools. Damn liberal arts education, what's it good for?!?!

30 March 2006

A cruel mistress

Indeed, that jetlag, she is a cruel mistress.

Rather, I more appropriately should say 'trip-lag' (you can hardly blame the jet... which, in a virtually empty first class, was actually one of the best flights I ever recall.)

The sun was shining. The sheep were grazing. Nineteen hours after leaving Orlando (in my personal opinion, one of my least favorite places on the planet), I landed in Rome. Half hour in the rental car line and a two hour drive later, despite the fact that my bones ached to just BE HOME, I *was* alert enough to know my house was Hubbard-esque (Old Mrs., not L.Ron): bare cupboards.

Stopped for just the necessities at the Co-op (veggies, cheese, milk, yogurt, fresh sausage).

The very sweet woman at the grocery store chose my dazed 'just-off-the-plane' stupor moment to try to explain some intricacy about the points in my co-op account. Try as I might, my brain was slow and my Italian ear out of practice. I did understand that I have until Saturday to go back and try again, before I lose something... (points expiring??) One thing both countries have in common: all these ridiculous membership programs with their varying hoops and regulations. Candidly, I don't understand them in my own language, much less Italian!

Sunset brought the sheep to graze. They are looking ratty from the long, cold winter. The strong winds on the ridge had them on edge.

Me, I was just happy to be in one place without an airline flight in my near future. Feeling particularly lucky that that place is on a ridge overlooking the Crete Senese and the sun setting over Siena.

I made myself (you guessed it) plain white rice and spinach for dinner, watched some stupid Italian gameshows (which I really HAVE missed!), and crawled into MY OWN BED. (insert Halleluiah sound effect here!)

Though I tried mightily to wake up at 8 when the alarm went off to go hike the ridge and greet the slowly arriving spring, that cruel mistress trip-lag kept me in bed and sound asleep until WELL PAST noon here today. More than 15 hours of sound sleep... in a silent house ...

It's not heaven, but it's awfully damn close.

23 March 2006

The elusive 'basic'

Sigh.

Too long on the road.

Nine weeks.

Too many hotels. Unfamiliar pillows. Rooms too close to ice machines and elevators. Fear of bedbugs. Skanky carpets. The guy in the next room with the hacking cough. Sketchy wireless internet connections, dropping in and out.

Too many overly solicitous bartenders, fellow travelers, servers. Too little genuine. Too few authentic people, authentic experiences. (See Seth's riff on this, totally worthy.)

Too many fancy meals. Rich sauces. Stuff you can't pronounce. Overcooked everything, no matter what you ask for. People chewing with their mouths open at the next table.

Tonight, in a rare moment of peace, I had dinner by myself.

And ALL I WANTED was a PLAIN chicken breast, PLAIN rice, and PLAIN steamed spinach (all items on the menu. I am, admittedly, famous among my friends for considering the menu a list of ingredients available in the kitchen ... and I really, TRULY, do not mind at all waiting if it takes longer to do the special order that I want.)

It was no-go on two of the three. While all of these three were on the menu somewhere, they were 'mixed' with other things already back in the kitchen. The server got me "close": when the yellow rice/pea/carrot/corn mixture and the spinach and onion sautee arrived, I had to bite my lip to stop myself from bursting into tears. How HARD is it?!?!?! I just ... wanted... something... simple.

CONCLUSION 1: Our society has, sadly, pre-prepared itself to death.
CONCLUSION 2: At least the first half is true: you can't always get what you want.
CONCLUSION 3: People really don't listen.

Even when I speak the language fluently, there ARE circumstances in which it is still not possible to be understood.

22 March 2006

On unrequitedness

"Fall in love with me and move to Italy"
-or-
"Move to Italy and fall in love with me"

(the order of things becomes inconsequential here; the gist is the same.)

This is what my brain is screaming. My heard has long since gone inexplicably mute on the subject, and my mouth speaks neither truth nor falsehood, just confusion.

Am I in love with him, or in love with the karmic IDEA of him? The full-circleness, inescapable fate-ness of it. (Perhaps both. Certainly the latter.)

When pressed, I confess that don't actually know with certainty that I feel any of this, rather that I simply cannot stop thinking it. The ruminations in my brain are loud and demand attention.

I cannot otherwise explain the oddly perennial 'return to me' sense of our friendship.

I envy him the gift of brilliant obliviousness. He does not know how he cracked my heart ever so slightly with that pat on the head. It should be that the unintentional injuries hurt the least and heal the fastest; I am not certain that is the truth.

Would it matter if he knew? I would like to think so, but I can't be certain.

He who is so busy planning for the future that he cannot enjoy today: this man is as handicapped as she who cannot see beyond today. The crystal ball is cloudy. I have only two feet with which to walk and multitudinous paths from which to choose. We are somehow destined to be forever switching paths, my gypsy soul and I. Is there a signpost when one path ends and the other begins? Do we create our own signposts, and how?

Doors open and are not walked through. Doors close and no amount of thrashing against them will pry them loose. "Open Sesame" ceases to work. The mainstream is claustrophobically crowded. And that path less traveled by - the one that poetically makes all the difference - it is, my friends, desperately lonely.

How do you miss something that did not exist?

15 March 2006

Sometimes I think I'm psychic

I posted that last message about 90 minutes before my purse was stolen.

Minutes before it happened, I had a strange vibe come over me. I did not heed it, because I was in the midst of a conversation and didn't want to appear rude. Hours before it happened (totally inexplicably), I had removed a few things from the purse that would normally ALWAYS be in there ... things that would have been very hard to replace without much stress.

Lesson learned. Trust your instincts. Be quiet and listen to your inner voice. Learn to be still and see what goes on around you. Do not be so self absorbed.

The reality of all my identification, credit cards, money ... being gone in an instant ... gives that last posting a whole new meaning as I reread it now. The last post was ACTUALLY about losing something that you really THOUGHT you wanted, only to have something EVEN BETTER come along (which had indeed just happened). Rereading it now, I admit that there are some pieces of the purse-theft that just may - in a roundabout sort of way - be "things that I didn't want, but actually needed" (to twist the Stones' lyrics a bit). There IS really a silver lining in most clouds.

Silver Linings:
I learned that The Blind Guy* is a good friend with good instincts. I had a feeling, but now I really know. Also that - though we have not all met in person - the community of Expat bloggers are also friends. We are all, somehow, in this strange adventure together... and I couldn't ask for better virtual companions on the journey.

My passport ... the one with myriad entry/exit stamps that was bound to create more scrutiny than a person (even a legitimate person!) would like at the borders ... is now fresh, shiny and new.

My old purse (I Ponti black leather and beautiful, bought in Siena on one of those picture perfect days) did have a really really annoying sticky zipper, which I will never again have to worry about.

That stack of business cards from this winter's travel that I was supposed to enter into my contacts files? Gone. At least an hour of time saved.

I am reminded that money (even the equivalent of $800 that this little irritation cost me) is only paper. Our ability to laugh in times of high drama, to be externally calm when your inner typhoon kicks in, the care and concern of strangers in times of struggle - that is the real currency.

* FOOTNOTE: (If you've read more than three days of entries, you know I nickname everyone - a quirky nod to anonymity, protecting the innocent, etc, etc. Just to clarify, The Blind Guy is not actually visually impaired. Just how totally insensitive and politically incorrect do you think I am?!!?!)

14 March 2006

Be careful what you wish for

"Protect me from what I want"
(... anonymous chalk artwork on the wall of the cafe in which I sit.)

"Some of God's greatest gifts are unanswered prayers" (Garth Brooks, among others).

"You can't always get what you want. But if you try sometimes, you just might find, you get what you need" (The Rolling Stones)

Wise words, all.

Salutations from your cryptic, pensive blogger -- too busy hoping just to have "needs" filled to worry about "wants" today.

12 March 2006

Language lessons

Italian is a brilliantly easy language to learn in one respect: there are clear rules of pronunciation, and they do not vary. Whereas English has all sorts of exceptions to our rules, I have not found many variations in my Italian studies-to-date. I have been horrified to discover a few things I have been pronouncing incorrectly for years. If you are a native English speaker who has never studied Italian, you're probably in the same boat.

Today, lesson number one: the K sound. (Much to my chagrin, the LETTER "k" does not exist in Italian - though the sound does.)

The letters c-h, when written together, create a "k" sound. So the word "che" (what) is actually pronounced "kay", or "keh" (a little softer), depending on the letters that follow it. "Chi" (who) is, similarly, "key".

So, as you order in Italian restaurants (or Italian items from the menu in an otherwise American restaurant, like the one I am sitting in as I type this...): the Bruschetta (that yummy bread, garlic, chopped tomatoes and olive oil goodness of an appetizer), is indeed pronounced broo-skeh-ta, not broo-shetta.

Una parola alla volta (one word at a time!)

07 March 2006

One more thing...

Papa John, Mr. Domino, The Hut of Pizza ... none of them have ever been to Italy. I'm convinced. If they had, they would have thin crust artichoke and sausage pizza on their menu.

Which prompts the point being made that Italian pizza differs from region to region, even from one city block to another. But I've NEVER had a pizza in America that even comes close. You'd think we could replicate ingredients and oven conditions, so it must be that the air is less polluted or something that makes my favorite Italian pizza so.... perfect. Maybe it's that I have to slice it myself (a point that actually annoys me), but it's something. A "je ne sai quois".

Although if I could get Italian pizza delivered to my 1650 stone farmhouse, now THAT would be progress - the best of two countries coming together.

Things I've learned

It's your wayward blogger here... aka, she-who-cannot-multitask-sufficiently-to-blog-from-the-road. Or, she-who-has-had-crappy-web-access in marginal hotels. That, plus the stories just aren't as interesting when I'm running from airport to airport. Really. You're not desperate enough to hear from me that you want to hear about cancelled flights, first class upgrades that did not come through, yet another bad meal in airport, getting stuck in the rain sans umbrella in the desert, and the whiny unfriendly airline counter girl. Are you?

I've missed you, missed writing, missed having this outlet for my thoughts. My head is foggy with them. I think about you all the time, blog-friends, and worry that you'll quit me for another more reliable blogger. One with predictable quantity over sporadic quality. I hope not.

Yes, blogland is a beast that needs feeding. And while it's not a nice juicy steak, here's a bone... Twelve things I've learned while on the road:

12) America is home to a lot of things, namely: the "kick-ass, top-shelf, perfectly shaken with ice chips floating in it, come in the water's fine, get-in-and-wiggle, who's your Daddy" Martini. Dirty. Extra Olives. yyyyyyyyyyyyyum.

11) Five weeks is STILL not enough time to get sick of eating all the foods I've missed: Red Robin cheeseburgers, Chipotle burritos, Sushi, Chopped Salad from CPK, buffalo wings, blackened salmon, REAL french fries, great Ribs, spicy chicken pad thai with no egg... (hey, is it time for dinner yet!?!)

10) There is an incredible magnetic force at work in the world, making people want to take me to Italian restaurants while in the US. I for the life of me cannot fathom this logic.

9) A cousin to that inexplicable force makes people believe that I can help them with their gardens.

8) It is presumed that I may have crossed paths with anyone's cousin, old boss or highschool sweetheart that lives now in Italy. And if I haven't, that perhaps I would want to drive hours upon hours to meet up with someone's 80 year old Aunt Carmella (or whomever).

7) It is similarly presumed that I don't have a fulltime job and am independently wealthy enough to be spending all my time in Italy sightseeing, traipsing up and down the coast and in and out of every private villa/castle/estate/garden in the country, because everyone, without fail, thinks I MUST have heard of the little place where they honeymooned...

6) Only very very occasionally, when the blind squirrel DOES get a nut and I have actually been to said spot... though the asker inevitably knows 1000 times more about it than I do or could ever hope to.

5) In general, Americans speak Italian reallllly realllllly badly. Witness Katie Couric's valiant yet painful attempts during the Torino coverage. I lost a little piece of my mind every time she opened her mouth.

4) At least one person a week has asked me the difference between Turin and Torino. I do not understand the passion our world has for changing the name of cities out of their native tongue.

3) Italian wine simply does not taste as good off its native soil. Something to do with preservatives, I think. (For the record, preservative is NOT "preservativo" in Italian. That's a condom. It's a mistake I've made only once.)

2) It's true that if you don't use it, you lose it: my hard-earned Italian skills are melting away now that I am speaking only English all the time: I can feel it in the slowness of my tongue, and it makes me desperately sad.

1) My friends are truly, truly, truly amazing people. The hospitality and warmth and love and welcome I have experienced in the last 5 weeks has been unparalleled, more than I ever could have imagined. Unassuming Princess and the SportsFan, Neighborhood Vigilante and the Old Soul, MaryAnn sans the Professor, Mr. Hospitality... you have all been amazing pads in which to perch while I've been on the road. Thank you for thinking, knowing, and doing... opening your home to a wayward traveler.

Love, She-who-will-try-to-be-better-in-March.