I have seven days left living in Italy. I feel, after almost 4 years, that I should be spending my time reflecting, reminiscing about our first days in Sicily, the fantastic friends we met along the way who continue to motivate and inspire me or even how Italy itself has changed me, altered me in some fundamental way. I feel that somehow I should have something meaningful and deep to share, some sort of meaning of life statement, something. But I don’t. Or as my son says, “I do, but I don’t."
(My first "new" car ever. We bought it right after arriving in Sicily. I logged some serious miles in my VW. I wonder how it will adjust to DC driving?)
There are brief bursts of introspection but those thoughts are quickly snuffed out. Right now I feel like we are hunkering down, entering into pure survival mode. For a military family like my own this cycle of uprooting is very normal if not natural. In six years we have lived in three very unique places: Okinawa (Japan), Sicily (Italy), and Naples (Italy). This return to the United States marks the fourth enormous shift in our lives in a very short time span. In each place we have made our home, conformed in small ways, and attempted to understand the strange new culture we found ourselves in.
Thus, one would think a return to the United States, a return to home, would be easy. But it is not. I am filled with anxiety. I have strange fears that grip me for no clear, discernible reason. I have, in my opinion, traveled the world (Japan, China, Vietnam, Cambodia, Thailand, Kuala Lumpur, Spain, Italy, Germany, France, Switzerland, Austria, Slovenia, Mexico, Panama, Guatemala, and I’m sure there are spots I’m forgetting.*Updating* While cleaning the bathrooms I remembered 5 more! Taiwan, Morocco, Gibraltar, Dominican Republic, and Greece!). So, why then, am I nervous about making some cultural faux pas in my own country? I actually feel as if all this travel has somehow blurred my thinking, mushed all these places into one, where I can no longer recall correct protocol when it comes to ordering coffee in any country.
(Inside the cup it reads, "il desiderio Espresso".)
Our return is also made more complicated by the difficult process of extracting ourselves. It is my firm belief that our bodies, our minds, work over time to trick ourselves into making it ok to leave. Defense mechanisms that have been built up quickly break down.
Take Italian driving for example. What I once thought of as a quirky cultural difference, I now regard with a level of agitation I have never before experienced. This, coupled with a household stripped to the bare bones and an increasingly cranky family, I believe is all a necessary part of the leaving process, a way for you to move on without feeling your heart break. Because, there have been moments, instances where I have considered throwing myself on the ground, gripping the land with my hands, and never letting go.
But I'd probably get run over by an old lady in a Fiat 500.
That's the funny name to my state's "floral emblem" or state flower. Growing up in Maryland the Black-eyed Susan was as much a symbol of summer as sweet Queen Anne's corn or those Chesapeake Bay Blue Crabs we like to consume by the bushel.
My mother has a pot of them sitting on her back deck. The other day just before dusk I caught sight of their golden rod petals glowing in the fading light. The pop of color was so startling I went straight for my camera. I guess I should be thankful my fascination with the prideful plant has stayed strong all these years. After all, it's image has been tattooed on my backside for over 16 of them!
