ben tornata...

I love this town.  Its size gives everyone the ability to know, if not the sordid details, enough to keep each other afloat and abreast.  Bonelli, the butcher, greeted my return with a wide grin and open arms. 

“Benvenuti, bellissima!  Ben tornata!” he cried, as I entered his tiny shop yesterday morning in search of sausages.  “Pippo sure did miss you!  How was America?”

The greetings have been thus these days, as I make the rounds from shop to café to the houses of friends.  FL was taken good care of in my absence, I have been assured.  Got his ya-yas out a bit, too, so I gather.

Airport pick-up was par for the course: far more traumatic and straining than necessary.  For some reason, every single time I return to this country I go through some sort of delayed second-thought-panic process, which originally had me hiding in airport bathroom stalls talking myself out of boarding the next flight straight back to wherever I came from.  These days, both in August and now, FL was there to work as a kind, understanding buffer to my hysteria.

“Just so you know,” I told him between gasping sobs, “one day I am going to live in America again, ok?  So just brace yourself.  I’ll come help you paint the walls and play house, but it’s not permanent.”

To his credit (isn’t everything always to his credit?) he did not spit on me, or kick me out of the car, or hand me a bill for the house he purchased for us because I just loveditloveditlovedit.  Instead he sat calmly with the most heartbreaking look of acceptance on his face and waited patiently for me to get my cry out.  I cried about Parker and Cooper, about missing more time with them; my heart ached so bad I hunched over like I had a bad case of heart burn.  I cried for my godson Jack, whose mere utterance of “boo boo” makes my entire life worthwhile.  I cried about Mimi, about not being able to pop in and give her a hug whenever the urge hit me.  I cried for my friends, all dancing and throwing confetti and growing up and having funfunfriend clubs that I have alienated myself from.  I cried for more trees being cut down in Marietta daily, trees that I am not there to chain myself to, to save.  I cried for sushi at Thaicoon and Tuesday night dance parties in Athens and running into Aunt Alice at Kroger and Kroger.  In short, I mourned; for a life I know and love and have purposely removed myself from.  It had nothing to do with FL (thank God he’s smart enough to know that), and nothing to do with my unbelievably blessed, romantic life in Italy.  It was just a home-body Georgia-girl’s mourning period before putting on her game face for life in a land that is void of fried chicken and hip hop.

After the tears dried it was like a switch flipped in my heart.  I sniffed a few times, blinked my eyes clear, shook the fears out of my head and saw FL for the first time.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey, piccola.”  He took my hand.

Relief and security flooded my chilled body, and we decided to stop immediately at an appliance store to get me a real “American” coffee maker.  From that point on, I was good to go.

The past few nights we’ve been cooking dinner over at Bosc di Sot.  Sleeping there is not currently possible because the bathroom is under severe construction and I, for one, at least in January, require an indoor toilet.  We go over there after he gets off work, however, and cook in our wonderful kitchen and light fires in our gorgeous fireplace and I practice Vinyasa yoga while he does scary-boy-work upstairs.  Poor angel is beat to hell by shards of ceramic shrapnel that whoosh-fizz onto his skin as he shatters tile from the walls.  Tiny cuts sting his body and I have taken to carrying a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, ever the worry-wart girlfriend.  A wall has been knocked out, making the space for the bathroom twice as large and offering two windows, one facing north, the other east.  He has an inkling that if we take down the ceiling we can leave the exposed wooden beams from the roof.  I am all for this, and have in fact decided that finally, for once in my life, I am in no rush.

My plan of attack for this new phase of life in Italy is to drop as much Americanism as I can without becoming entirely complacent (as in, i guess, dropping any "plan of attack").  I will not be in a rush.  Instead, I will feel the flow of life here, and understand that things will get done when they will.  In the meantime, there is plenty of wine to drink and writing to do and long lunches to take.  I will learn, therefore, to take real pleasure in afternoon wine breaks and writing and long lunches.  No more anxious pauses, no more feigning enjoyment while the back of my head spins.  I will let my thoughts and to-do lists slide and find peace and relaxation.  They say that for Italians days last weeks, and that is something I want to experience, that I am going to have to experience if I am going to make it here, if I am truly going to learn to live life, which is short enough already without docking the hours.  If I am tired, I will sleep.  If it is sunny, I will take a walk.  I will study viticulture and write my book and when it gets warm (…) I will go and sit in my garden and do just that.  Sit.  The American in me feels so guilty about such things.  If I am not producing, or encouraging, or making money, or moving then it is time wasted, it is time spent slovenly.  Not so, the Italians say, who have much longer life spans and lower cases of cancer.  The economy and state of things over here is certainly something to consider in the argument for forward momentum, but that is not something that I can change.  As an anthropologist, I am (har har) allowed and encouraged to do as the locals do.  It is my new goal to do just that and do it well.

So far so good.  Vinyasa yoga, new recipes, hours of happy wine work and blessed, dreamy naps have made these past few days wonderful for me.  But, oh, those wintry nights…FL came downstairs last night after three straight hours of knocking out tile and asked if we had any chilled pink champagne.  This is love.

A good bit of news is this: I have (I assume at the urging and string-pulling of Condor and FotoModelo, who adore me) been offered a tiny position at EventualMente, the communist bar.  How this offer came about was totally bizarre.  FL and I went in yesterday evening about 11pm.  My weird time-warp schedule has me in and out of sleepy/energy pockets, and last night I was wired.  We took the deck of Sicilian playing cards that mama got me in my x-mas stocking and walked around the corner to the bar.  Condor wasn’t there, but LucaBello wrapped me up in a giant hug as though he hadn’t seen me in a month.  Antonio, the proprietor, who is a good friend of all the boys but not one of my personal favorites, gave me a swift cheek-peck and a moderately warm “ciao”.  

It’s not that I don’t like Antonio, it’s just that I have had my suspicions for a long time now that he is, well, a misogynist.  He’s married to a beautiful Hungarian girl named Erica, who, at the age of 21, bore him two babies back to back and now spends her days drivers license-less and alone in their apartment in a neighboring town while Antonio not only works all day in Cormons but spends his evenings hanging with the bros at various bars.  It’s certainly not my business, and FL has pointed out rather aptly that Erica doesn’t seem to argue much (in fact, she is thrilled with her life: hot Italian husband, financial support, not in Hungary anymore, etc), but it just creeps me out.  I imagine her there, alone all day, wanting so badly to talk to her man, to sit on the couch with him and make him dinner and just have him there.  God knows, my heart races like drugs are being pumped into my veins when I hear FL arrive home for lunch, and this is my life of leisurely rose-pettled baths and mountains hikes- not two children under the age of 4 and no grocery store within walking distance.  On top of this, he never ever speaks to me unless I initiate conversation, and even then will hardly look me in the eye.  I’ve watched him with other women and have found it to be sort of the same; little to know recognition or regard. 

At a certain point last night both LucaBello and Antonio came over to our table.  Antonio started talking to FL in a serious, business-style voice, and initially I zoned out, until I actually considered what he was saying.  I looked up and FL had a confused expression as well. 

“Wait, you want me to work weekends?  For 12 euro an hour?”  FL balked amusedly.

“No, no.”  Antonio continued, addressing FL and explaining that they need someone to work days over the weekends and they thought that maybe I would like the position.

FL’s mouth dropped open. 

“Oh, so this is a question for me,” I said, rather bluntly.  “I’m right here.”

“Well, we just wanted to make sure it was ok with Pippo,” Antonio said, and FL let out a hoot.

“Whoo!  That’s her business, you can ask her directly”, he said.

“My God,” I laughed, “What year is this?  We aren’t in Sardegnia, Anti (Antonio’s from Sardegnia), I don’t need permission to work.”

Antonio shrugged, and instead of ranting and raving I said quickly, “I’d love to work here.  Thank you.”

I am constantly reminded and amazed at FL, how so not italian he is, how he has somehow taken all of the amazing qualities and left those archaic, unnecessary social and emotional hookups behind.  

So lalala, it’ll be a tad of soldi in my pocket, and I’ll get to hang with Condor and Luca.

I’ll take photos on the progress of the house, I promise.