My body is community property. The Italians have a very different concept of privacy, and while it's strange to me, it makes for a good story....
EXAMPLE #1:
At about 3pm on a Saturday in January, the telltale odor and strange feeling after going pee told me that I was about an hour away from a very nasty and painful experience of a UTI. I've had these since I hit puberty, and they usually come when I am upset or stressed out. I will point out now that this one eventually lasted for two weeks and would get better and ten worse...and on a Monday night I was brushing my teeth and I looked at myself in the mirror and I thought: I can quit my job. And the thought of not having to work for the crazy Frenchman lifted a huge weight off my shoulders. And, the next morning when I was supposed to go back to the doctor, I felt completely fine. And the UTI disappeared. Like my mother says: I was quite literally pissed off. Psychosomatic, hmph.
Anyways, on that Saturday afternoon, I went to my roommate Silvia's room to tell her that I needed to get to a doctor ASAP. She had several of her classmates with her, and once we got the translation worked out...in Italian it's Cistitis...all three of them sprang into action. They were delighted it seemed to have an excuse not to study anymore, and within ten minutes we were in the car on the way to the hospital. However, this is where I should point out the difference in the approach. While we were in the house, in the elevator, and the entire way in the car to the hospital, the three of them were calling virtually everybody they knew to explain that the Americana has cistitis, and to discuss my symptoms in graphic detail, and to remember the time when their sister's best-friend's boyfriend's niece's mom had a UTI...and maybe you should call her to ask, yadda yadda yadda.
So, by the time we reached the hospital, approximately 1/3 of Sicily had heard the Americana was sick with a UTI.
Then, when we actually got to the hospital, it was then announced it to everyone at the hospital (and those people explained their relatives sicknesses at length and lamented over when their great-nephew's best-friend's sister-in-law's daughter had a UTI this one time.....) So, by the time we left the hospital, and went to the pharmacy, another 1/3 of Sicily had heard about the Americana with the UTI.
Over the next couple of weeks as the weak medicine that they use (they don't use the powerful-like-clorox antibiotics we use) helped a little bit, (but basically I was on my own with my own immune system to fight the infection), the girls would check in, and then inform me they had a conversation with so-and-so they met at the espresso bar on Monday and THAT person knew about this woman who was a distant relative of....
You get the point. By the end of the ordeal, the entire Island knew, and it had been on the 10pm news. But, the upside is that I had a LOT of people checking in on me, and concerned and offering to help. I learned that the concept of shame about sickness and weakness that we Americans have doesn't exist here in the same way.
EXAMPLE #2:
Last week I got a massage, Italian style. When I got home I called Davide to tell him that I had a semi-erotic lesbian massage in Siracusa. I think he thought he wasn't translating what I was saying correctly, but I assured him that he was. I was as surprised as he was....
Ok, in the USA a massage consists of one person, a warm room, and a sheet to cover all your private areas (like butt, breast, and genital region). The masseuses are very careful not to touch any of these areas so as to not cause discomfort or embarrassment. It's a little different here....
First of all, you are TOTALLY naked, and NOT covered by the modesty sheet. So, there I was in all my glory. Originally, I was lying on my stomach, because I could deal with the masseuse seeing my butt. I was thinking that she had just forgotten the modesty sheet. Ummmm...no.
The first thing she did was make me turn over. So, now I am laying on the bed, bare side up, like a corpse on the autopsy sheet. She started on my feet and legs, but didn't stop at the midthigh like they do at home. Oh no, she aggressively went after my entire legs, inside and out...they masseuse doesn't tiptoe around your private areas. They may accidentally get touched in the process and it's not a big deal. Ok, so I am keeping my composure as best as I can. Then she goes for my stomach (which was also new, but rather nice). But the killer was when she got to my chest region....You can imaging my surprise when the masseuse started oiling up my nipples. I had to bite my lip from totally cracking up.
Ok, so I guess they don't call it a full-body massage for nothing. Oh, but wait, there's more...I forgot to mention that during the process THE ASSISTANT IS THERE WATCHING, and taking obvious mental notes. Ok, so I am trying not to squirm with one person who is a total stranger knowing every inch of my body...but now I have somebody else in the room doing the same thing. Oh, but wait...we're not done... because occasionally the chain-smoking-old Sicilian woman owner pops her head in and out as well to make comments. Again, community property.
OK, my first erotic massage. In traditional, conservative Sicily. Go figure.
EXAMPLE #3
And yesterday, I went to the hair salon to get myself dolled up, and I wrote this to my mother:
we are now a strawberry blonde with curls. oh so cute. and silvia's mom had a talk with the fabulous gay federico the hairdresser who said the palermo water was ruining my color and i needed better shampoo........ so she bought me really good shampoo and conditioner.S which is perfect because i just ran out. and i would like to point out that a weave here is 1/2 the cost. And again, it's community property. Basically the entire hen house at the salon comes and clucks and pecks and argues over what would be better. By the time i was done i had been in the hands of at least 7 people. one to initially inspect. one to consult with me. one to put the first color on. one to shampoo. one to do the cutting. two to blowdry. and one more to curl. And all 7 to argue constantly until a consensus was made (and offer me espresso).
But then Federico decided that i needed makeup (and I didn't have a choice or say in the matter since the other 7 had already agreed upon this next step). And so he took his stuff to me. Let me just put it this way....do you remember the movie To Wong Foo... with Patrick Swayze and crew as drag queens? I looked a lot like that. Federico has a Marilyn Monroe fetish and this was his drag queen ode to her. But, when he was done he clasped his hands together and exclaimed "fantastica! Sei una bambola (you're a dolly)". Can't argue with that, eh?
---
Community Property. Good grief.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
How To Quit Your Job....
I said I just might have an update...I think this pretty much sums it up:
Dear Liays,
There are many things that I want and need to say to you, but I will start with this: I quit.
I have received a much better offer and I am no longer willing to work for you. I have discussed this with my parents, and they agree: I should take my gap year and be a tourist… learn Italian, paint, travel to other parts in Europe, and enjoy my life. I have told them how terribly unhappy I am in my work situation, and they are happy to support my wishes.
So, I may be willing to finish out the contracts for the month with Claudio and the advanced conversation class (given fair compensation), but the rest I will not teach. I sincerely hope that the American woman from New York will be able to cover.
And since you have made it clear again and again that I am a poor teacher, a boring teacher, a lazy teacher, and a teacher who male students like but you doubt that female students do, then I think this probably won’t be such a loss. You have shown absolutely zero faith in my ability to teach. You have said almost nothing nice about me as a teacher. So, since I am so bad, you will be much better off without me.
Additionally, since you make it painfully obvious that it begrudges you to pay me—your hostility in paying me is as obvious as neon—then I must not be a good investment. In the same breath of saying (happily) “I have many new clients” you say (angrily) “I will pay you 500 euros per month.” You once asked me what it would take me to stay…I said 1000 euros at least. And while I understand that the business is getting started and you cannot pay me this much, an attitude that is, perhaps, more humble and says: I’m sorry I can’t pay you this much yet, I really want to, you have been very patient, thank you, I hope soon.
But, instead, you actually argued with me over 100 Euro. You basically made it clear that you don’t think you should have to pay me at all, really. I am not worth even 400 Euro. So, I am maybe worth 300. And since this month you have promised 500, and this is 200 more than you think I am worth, then I am liberating you from a bad investment. You have already lost two secretaries and now a teacher based on your philosophy of worth. I hope that you find people who ARE worth the money.
Lastly, I want to say this about work: people will work like slaves for three reasons. 1) because they are being paid extremely well. 2) because they are working for a cause they really believe in. 3) because they have a profound respect and admiration for their boss.
When I worked in sales, I didn’t care for the clients, I hated the actual sales, but I looooved the money. I made so much money that nothing else mattered. I worked 12-14 hours per day, 7-days a week, for 16 weeks during the summer because the money was so good.
When I worked for an organization that helped poor women start their own businesses, I worked an incredible schedule, on top of it being my last semester of university, when I was writing a thesis. I worked, FOR FREE, because I believed so much in what the organization did. But I was also regularly thanked by my bosses, and made to feel like I was an important part of the team, and that what I thought and did and said actually mattered and was valuable.
Lastly, when I worked for the Congresswoman, I worked the same insane schedule as sales (100 hours a week all summer) and WITHOUT being paid AT ALL because I was so inspired by her, and my direct boss above me. Both of them worked incredibly hard, but made it clear that they couldn’t do anything without the staff. When things went wrong, they blamed themselves. When things went right, they gave everyone under them credit. I, in turn, did the same with my interns. My job was to translate the Big Picture of getting the message out and fundraising with micro-management of interns. And when we hit goals, I gave my interns the full credit. And when we didn’t reach goals, I took the responsibility and apologized for letting people down. And, to this day, my interns email me, ask me how I am doing, and have promised to follow me anywhere I go, and to any campaign. I was loyal to my bosses because they treated me with a profound respect, and I treated my interns with a profound respect, and they are still loyal to me.
When I told you I am a work-aholic, I wasn’t lying. Based on my past experience, I LOVE to work. I like being too busy. But I learned something about this. I need motivation: from the pay, the cause, or my boss.
I don’t have any of that now, and so I am not willing to work.
But, there is still this issue of friendship. I have said again and again that because I am here as your friend, I am willing to overlook these other things and to help you. But, as I have learned lately, you have done almost nothing that would help a friendship.
In the last few days, some interesting things have come to light about your opinion of me. My roommates have told me what you said. My friends have told me what you said. It is now obvious to me that you have spread incredible rumors about me behind my back. You have told anybody who will listen that I am lazy, dirty, selfish, rude, ungrateful, and generally detestable. You told my roommates before I came these things. You attempted to sabotage my relationship with everybody around me. You couldn’t just talk to me, and let other people make up their own minds. People aren’t stupid, Liays, they can decide for themselves. And my roommates and my friends have made up their own minds. They have decided that you are wrong. Absolutely wrong.
You told me Carmello would probably hate me if I didn’t change. Well, I am the same person that I was at your house. But, in fact, the opposite had proven true. I see him everyday. And he has taken a great liking to me, because he actually pays attention. He sees that I try sooooo hard to be nice to everybody. That I try to be generous with my time, affection, food, and money. He actually notices that I DO clean. And that I don’t say bad things about people.
In fact, even though you were so cruel to me, even though you made me cry, and feel terrible about myself, and even though I hated you, I NEVER said anything bad about you. I didn’t talk about you to my roommates. I didn’t go to couchsurfing parties and talk about what a bastard you were. I kept my mouth shut, because I believe it is incredibly rude, immature, and immoral to talk about someone when they can’t be there to defend themselves. This is what teenagers do—adults should know better. I believe that if you have nothing nice to say, then don’t say anything at all.
And so, I have said NOTHING. And I will continue to extend this courtesy to you. I will not speak badly about you to my roommates, friends, students, or anyone else. I believe people should be free to decide how they feel about someone. And as much as I would hope you would learn to not say terrible things about people, I do not expect it. I don’t think you have the strength to resist the temptation to tell anybody who will listen all the bad things you think about me. But I don’t care. When people realize you are wrong, it makes YOU look bad, not me.
You have hurt me terribly. You have betrayed my trust. You have broken promises. You have acted treacherous. You have been unfair, biased, and sometimes cruel. You have seen only what you wanted to see. You have made it clear that everything you do is right, and everything I do is wrong. You have made it clear that you are the victim, and I am the perpetrator. You have said horrible things about me to other people. You have basically made it clear that I am a disappointment to you. You have made it clear that I represent everything that is not good enough.
I did not… turn down 5 very lucrative job offers and graduate school; give away 90% of my things (clothes, books, furniture, etc.); leave my cat, boyfriend, friends, and family; and move away from the safety and security of my home country….to be insulted, underpaid, and treated like an enemy instead of a friend.
And, so, I have to thank you for all of this. Because I have learned some very valuable lessons. I have learned that I am brave enough to leave everything I know to move half-way around the world to uncertainty, and then not fly home as soon as things go wrong. I have learned that I have enough self-respect to not tolerate someone who behaves arrogantly, chauvinistically, and mean-spirited who belittles me at every opportunity. I have learned that I have the ability to stand up for myself, speak my mind, and then be done. But, most of all, I have learned that I have the ability to forgive.
So I forgive you for all the hurt, the tears, the approximately $5,300 I have spent in coming and staying here to help you, the sleepless nights, and the time spent trying to make you happy for nothing. I forgive you for being you.
I hope you have the same generosity of spirit. Because being magnanimous is one of the best characteristics a person can have.
See you around,
Laurel
Dear Liays,
There are many things that I want and need to say to you, but I will start with this: I quit.
I have received a much better offer and I am no longer willing to work for you. I have discussed this with my parents, and they agree: I should take my gap year and be a tourist… learn Italian, paint, travel to other parts in Europe, and enjoy my life. I have told them how terribly unhappy I am in my work situation, and they are happy to support my wishes.
So, I may be willing to finish out the contracts for the month with Claudio and the advanced conversation class (given fair compensation), but the rest I will not teach. I sincerely hope that the American woman from New York will be able to cover.
And since you have made it clear again and again that I am a poor teacher, a boring teacher, a lazy teacher, and a teacher who male students like but you doubt that female students do, then I think this probably won’t be such a loss. You have shown absolutely zero faith in my ability to teach. You have said almost nothing nice about me as a teacher. So, since I am so bad, you will be much better off without me.
Additionally, since you make it painfully obvious that it begrudges you to pay me—your hostility in paying me is as obvious as neon—then I must not be a good investment. In the same breath of saying (happily) “I have many new clients” you say (angrily) “I will pay you 500 euros per month.” You once asked me what it would take me to stay…I said 1000 euros at least. And while I understand that the business is getting started and you cannot pay me this much, an attitude that is, perhaps, more humble and says: I’m sorry I can’t pay you this much yet, I really want to, you have been very patient, thank you, I hope soon.
But, instead, you actually argued with me over 100 Euro. You basically made it clear that you don’t think you should have to pay me at all, really. I am not worth even 400 Euro. So, I am maybe worth 300. And since this month you have promised 500, and this is 200 more than you think I am worth, then I am liberating you from a bad investment. You have already lost two secretaries and now a teacher based on your philosophy of worth. I hope that you find people who ARE worth the money.
Lastly, I want to say this about work: people will work like slaves for three reasons. 1) because they are being paid extremely well. 2) because they are working for a cause they really believe in. 3) because they have a profound respect and admiration for their boss.
When I worked in sales, I didn’t care for the clients, I hated the actual sales, but I looooved the money. I made so much money that nothing else mattered. I worked 12-14 hours per day, 7-days a week, for 16 weeks during the summer because the money was so good.
When I worked for an organization that helped poor women start their own businesses, I worked an incredible schedule, on top of it being my last semester of university, when I was writing a thesis. I worked, FOR FREE, because I believed so much in what the organization did. But I was also regularly thanked by my bosses, and made to feel like I was an important part of the team, and that what I thought and did and said actually mattered and was valuable.
Lastly, when I worked for the Congresswoman, I worked the same insane schedule as sales (100 hours a week all summer) and WITHOUT being paid AT ALL because I was so inspired by her, and my direct boss above me. Both of them worked incredibly hard, but made it clear that they couldn’t do anything without the staff. When things went wrong, they blamed themselves. When things went right, they gave everyone under them credit. I, in turn, did the same with my interns. My job was to translate the Big Picture of getting the message out and fundraising with micro-management of interns. And when we hit goals, I gave my interns the full credit. And when we didn’t reach goals, I took the responsibility and apologized for letting people down. And, to this day, my interns email me, ask me how I am doing, and have promised to follow me anywhere I go, and to any campaign. I was loyal to my bosses because they treated me with a profound respect, and I treated my interns with a profound respect, and they are still loyal to me.
When I told you I am a work-aholic, I wasn’t lying. Based on my past experience, I LOVE to work. I like being too busy. But I learned something about this. I need motivation: from the pay, the cause, or my boss.
I don’t have any of that now, and so I am not willing to work.
But, there is still this issue of friendship. I have said again and again that because I am here as your friend, I am willing to overlook these other things and to help you. But, as I have learned lately, you have done almost nothing that would help a friendship.
In the last few days, some interesting things have come to light about your opinion of me. My roommates have told me what you said. My friends have told me what you said. It is now obvious to me that you have spread incredible rumors about me behind my back. You have told anybody who will listen that I am lazy, dirty, selfish, rude, ungrateful, and generally detestable. You told my roommates before I came these things. You attempted to sabotage my relationship with everybody around me. You couldn’t just talk to me, and let other people make up their own minds. People aren’t stupid, Liays, they can decide for themselves. And my roommates and my friends have made up their own minds. They have decided that you are wrong. Absolutely wrong.
You told me Carmello would probably hate me if I didn’t change. Well, I am the same person that I was at your house. But, in fact, the opposite had proven true. I see him everyday. And he has taken a great liking to me, because he actually pays attention. He sees that I try sooooo hard to be nice to everybody. That I try to be generous with my time, affection, food, and money. He actually notices that I DO clean. And that I don’t say bad things about people.
In fact, even though you were so cruel to me, even though you made me cry, and feel terrible about myself, and even though I hated you, I NEVER said anything bad about you. I didn’t talk about you to my roommates. I didn’t go to couchsurfing parties and talk about what a bastard you were. I kept my mouth shut, because I believe it is incredibly rude, immature, and immoral to talk about someone when they can’t be there to defend themselves. This is what teenagers do—adults should know better. I believe that if you have nothing nice to say, then don’t say anything at all.
And so, I have said NOTHING. And I will continue to extend this courtesy to you. I will not speak badly about you to my roommates, friends, students, or anyone else. I believe people should be free to decide how they feel about someone. And as much as I would hope you would learn to not say terrible things about people, I do not expect it. I don’t think you have the strength to resist the temptation to tell anybody who will listen all the bad things you think about me. But I don’t care. When people realize you are wrong, it makes YOU look bad, not me.
You have hurt me terribly. You have betrayed my trust. You have broken promises. You have acted treacherous. You have been unfair, biased, and sometimes cruel. You have seen only what you wanted to see. You have made it clear that everything you do is right, and everything I do is wrong. You have made it clear that you are the victim, and I am the perpetrator. You have said horrible things about me to other people. You have basically made it clear that I am a disappointment to you. You have made it clear that I represent everything that is not good enough.
I did not… turn down 5 very lucrative job offers and graduate school; give away 90% of my things (clothes, books, furniture, etc.); leave my cat, boyfriend, friends, and family; and move away from the safety and security of my home country….to be insulted, underpaid, and treated like an enemy instead of a friend.
And, so, I have to thank you for all of this. Because I have learned some very valuable lessons. I have learned that I am brave enough to leave everything I know to move half-way around the world to uncertainty, and then not fly home as soon as things go wrong. I have learned that I have enough self-respect to not tolerate someone who behaves arrogantly, chauvinistically, and mean-spirited who belittles me at every opportunity. I have learned that I have the ability to stand up for myself, speak my mind, and then be done. But, most of all, I have learned that I have the ability to forgive.
So I forgive you for all the hurt, the tears, the approximately $5,300 I have spent in coming and staying here to help you, the sleepless nights, and the time spent trying to make you happy for nothing. I forgive you for being you.
I hope you have the same generosity of spirit. Because being magnanimous is one of the best characteristics a person can have.
See you around,
Laurel
Saturday, February 9, 2008
Time For Everything: Introduction
1 To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
2 a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
3 a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;
4 a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
5 a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
6 a time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
7 a time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
8 a time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.
Now for those of you who know me, you will understand that quoting the Bible is not something I do often. But I can't think of anything more appropriate to headline this blog than Ecclesiastes 3. Because, really, this wisdom is really about things in and outside of us. It is about the necessities of change...and I find that there is change going on within me...just as much as my exterior situation is in transition.
Now, I am sorry for being so delayed in keeping up with my blog. But the last couple months have been profound ones. My living place has changed, my body has changed, my work has changed, my vacation plans changed, and my love life has changed. I have changed.
2 a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
3 a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;
4 a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
5 a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
6 a time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
7 a time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
8 a time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.
Now for those of you who know me, you will understand that quoting the Bible is not something I do often. But I can't think of anything more appropriate to headline this blog than Ecclesiastes 3. Because, really, this wisdom is really about things in and outside of us. It is about the necessities of change...and I find that there is change going on within me...just as much as my exterior situation is in transition.
Now, I am sorry for being so delayed in keeping up with my blog. But the last couple months have been profound ones. My living place has changed, my body has changed, my work has changed, my vacation plans changed, and my love life has changed. I have changed.
Time For Everything: MY HOUSE (casa mia)
When last I left you, I was living in my small apartment and getting ready to move into the new apartment with 5 Italians. So, on December 12 I stood outside in the rain and flagged down my roommate Silvia (her parents own the house) and we gathered my belongings in her small Italian car and drove the five minutes to where the other roommates—Carmello, Angelo, Giovantonio, and Emmie were waiting for me with open arms. They helped me get moved in, and then made me a big Italian dinner. Emmie would move out a week later, and we have now replaced her with a guy named Martin from the Czech Repubic, .and a French student named Xavier.
I spent the first two weeks alternately baffled and overjoyed as I discovered the secrets and eccentricities of the house. It’s the entire top story of a large building on one of the main avenues, five minutes from the train station, with 5 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms, a huge hall, common room, 3 balconies, and an additional split-level apartment for Giovantonio. The ceilings are VERY high…maybe 20 feet. The floors are tile. The windows are huge, with dark green shutters. The clunky elevator scares me to death—and I was stuck in it once for ½ hour. There are exactly 100 steps from the bottom to our front door. My key to the outside door has a sky-blue cover (called Celeste in Italian)…and the key to the apartment door is Royal Purple for the Royal Residence. That color I think is called Viola. The water is always too hot or too cold, and sometimes stops working altogether. The washing machine sounds like the boogey man, and if you don’t overload it then during the spin cycle it shimmies off the wooden slates and slams into the shower. It takes 3 days for clothes to dry on the racks. The light switches are illogical. The walls are paper-thin. It’s glorious.
I cannot get enough of this house. It’s sporadically noisy, quiet, busy, placid, freezing, and too hot. But there remains a permeating feeling of love and happiness.
MY ROOM (la mia camera letto): I wake up smiling every morning as the sun pours in through my large French doors that lead out to a small balcony, 5 vertigo-inducing stories above a classic narrow cobblestone Sicilian street. From my balcony I can gaze out over the rooftops—past my favorite place in Palermo (the ancient, open-air church Lo Spasimo) and to the Mediterranean Sea. Since Jake (the other American in town) lived in it before me, and Silvia was broken-hearted when he left, I rearranged everything in it so it looks and feels like an entirely new room. My clothes are in a wardrobe that fell apart one night and my male roommates put back together while the girls and I sat on the bed and drank wine and giggled at their display of machismo. My desk is not level, and things routinely slide off it. I found out that my desk is crooked because Jake had a vendetta against a particularly pugnacious mosquito and slammed his hand down and broke the desk; the mosquito survived to bite him another day. My bed is tiny, and feels like the one from my dorm room. I have a nightstand that is always covered in miscellany. And the floors are SOOOO cold. When I have money, I will buy an area rug in green and pink. And in the corner is my easel, where a painting that I am working on greets me every time I walk in. I loooove my room, my space, my solace.
COMMON ROOM (il salone/la cucina): Everybody hangs out in the large common room with a couch fit for Animal House, a dining table big enough for 20 (and is regularly filled with friends), and the 12 foot semi-nude woman poster suggesting dirty things (in Sicilian) to a former roommate. There is a huge fruit basket that is a take-a-penny-leave-a-penny ordeal, and bags of pasta on every surface. The fridge looks like Germany after WW2. The guys argue over the stove about ingredients, and how long to cook the pasta. There is espresso made every three or four hours. There is a balcony with an incredible view of the large avenue below to the train station and mountains in one direction, and towards the very center of Palermo in the other. If we’re ever bored, we stand out there and see if we can hit pedestrians with cooked noodles. Doesn’t hurt them, but provides endless entertainment for us. Can you imagine walking along and then having a wet, sticky noodle land on your face? Hee hee hee…
MY ROOMMATES (i miei coinquilini): Silvia (20), Xavier (22—Mar ‘85) Martin (22— Apr ‘85), Me (25—Dec ‘82), Angelo (25—Nov ‘82), Carmello (31), Giovantonio (32).
Before I moved in, I had spent some time with Silvia and Angelo…but almost none with Carmello or Emmie (and Martin and Xavier hadn’t arrived yet). While Liays had warned me that Carmello probably wouldn’t like me because of several reasons…the exact opposite has proven to be true. While I didn’t have much time to spend with the strange but pleasant, small stoner-girl Emmie…because of my work schedule I see Carmello everyday.
CARMELLO looks like a ski-bum. He has a full beard and longer hair. He’s intense, passionate, self-deprecating, a fantastic cook, and hates when women use bad words. And he is now (other than Silvia) my closest friend in the house. A self-proclaimed and proud Communist…he enjoys taking shots at my true American capitalist foundation, but also never steps over the line. He’s getting a PhD in engineering and I find him to be extraordinarily generous, patient, good-humored, and brilliant. I admire his brain and his wit. And, in turn I think he is alternately amused and bewildered by me. I’m the first American he has taken a liking to…in fact in a semi-inebriated state he admitted: ti volgio bene (I really like you). So, I feel good about winning over the potentially most cantankerous person in the house.
ANGELO is small, wiry, and intellectual…with a beautiful face, a nervous disposition, and moves with precision. He frequently adjusts his glasses, and seems uneasy most of the time…but then will find something funny and laughs easily showing a gorgeous smile. He’s hard to get to know, and mostly keeps to himself, even while in the same space. But I like him.
GIOVANNIANTONIO lives by himself in the split-level apartment with his two cats…although his gf Ornella is here almost all the time. He works in politics, is right-wing, and will probably be the president of Italy someday. He’s the consummate politician. Good-looking, extremely disciplined, and has an island-full of charm and wit. He’s magnanimous, intriguing, hospitable, welcoming, and razor-sharp. He’s like Bill Clinton…and I think has the same effect on women.
SILVIA is gorgeous with long, thick, dark, curly hair; freckles on her olive skin; bright and sparkly eyes, and a friendly mouth. She’s a dancer with lovely curves, and is studying languages. She’s the kind of woman that men fall for easily because she is gentle, feminine, mature, calm, smart, fun, and modest. I absolutely adore her. She and I get along really well—which is very important considering we’re the only women in the house. We talk about boys, love, family, school, traveling, language, friends, and so on. She and Jake are staying together, and I help her understand the American male mindset as much as I can.
MARTIN just moved in a few days ago. He is an Erasmus student…and since Davide is the R/A of the Erasmus program here, his job is to help get the new students dialed in. Since we had the open room, and Davide really liked and trusted Martin, we got a new roommate. He’s tall and Aryan. He plays the guitar and sings, and is very laid-back. I look forward to getting to know him more.
XAVIER is Martin’s roommate. He’s also on the Erasmus program. He speaks Italian and French but no English. And since Martin speaks English, Czech, and Slavic (but no Italian!)…it’s still a bit of a mystery to me how they communicate. But they sure seam to like each other. Xavier is the small, blonde French equivalent to Angelo. He is the newest addition to our big, happy, international family. We figured out the languages spoken here are: Italian, Sicilian, English, Spanish, French, Czech, Slavic, and Arabic. Mamma mia!!!
I am elated here with these people.
I spent the first two weeks alternately baffled and overjoyed as I discovered the secrets and eccentricities of the house. It’s the entire top story of a large building on one of the main avenues, five minutes from the train station, with 5 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms, a huge hall, common room, 3 balconies, and an additional split-level apartment for Giovantonio. The ceilings are VERY high…maybe 20 feet. The floors are tile. The windows are huge, with dark green shutters. The clunky elevator scares me to death—and I was stuck in it once for ½ hour. There are exactly 100 steps from the bottom to our front door. My key to the outside door has a sky-blue cover (called Celeste in Italian)…and the key to the apartment door is Royal Purple for the Royal Residence. That color I think is called Viola. The water is always too hot or too cold, and sometimes stops working altogether. The washing machine sounds like the boogey man, and if you don’t overload it then during the spin cycle it shimmies off the wooden slates and slams into the shower. It takes 3 days for clothes to dry on the racks. The light switches are illogical. The walls are paper-thin. It’s glorious.
I cannot get enough of this house. It’s sporadically noisy, quiet, busy, placid, freezing, and too hot. But there remains a permeating feeling of love and happiness.
MY ROOM (la mia camera letto): I wake up smiling every morning as the sun pours in through my large French doors that lead out to a small balcony, 5 vertigo-inducing stories above a classic narrow cobblestone Sicilian street. From my balcony I can gaze out over the rooftops—past my favorite place in Palermo (the ancient, open-air church Lo Spasimo) and to the Mediterranean Sea. Since Jake (the other American in town) lived in it before me, and Silvia was broken-hearted when he left, I rearranged everything in it so it looks and feels like an entirely new room. My clothes are in a wardrobe that fell apart one night and my male roommates put back together while the girls and I sat on the bed and drank wine and giggled at their display of machismo. My desk is not level, and things routinely slide off it. I found out that my desk is crooked because Jake had a vendetta against a particularly pugnacious mosquito and slammed his hand down and broke the desk; the mosquito survived to bite him another day. My bed is tiny, and feels like the one from my dorm room. I have a nightstand that is always covered in miscellany. And the floors are SOOOO cold. When I have money, I will buy an area rug in green and pink. And in the corner is my easel, where a painting that I am working on greets me every time I walk in. I loooove my room, my space, my solace.
COMMON ROOM (il salone/la cucina): Everybody hangs out in the large common room with a couch fit for Animal House, a dining table big enough for 20 (and is regularly filled with friends), and the 12 foot semi-nude woman poster suggesting dirty things (in Sicilian) to a former roommate. There is a huge fruit basket that is a take-a-penny-leave-a-penny ordeal, and bags of pasta on every surface. The fridge looks like Germany after WW2. The guys argue over the stove about ingredients, and how long to cook the pasta. There is espresso made every three or four hours. There is a balcony with an incredible view of the large avenue below to the train station and mountains in one direction, and towards the very center of Palermo in the other. If we’re ever bored, we stand out there and see if we can hit pedestrians with cooked noodles. Doesn’t hurt them, but provides endless entertainment for us. Can you imagine walking along and then having a wet, sticky noodle land on your face? Hee hee hee…
MY ROOMMATES (i miei coinquilini): Silvia (20), Xavier (22—Mar ‘85) Martin (22— Apr ‘85), Me (25—Dec ‘82), Angelo (25—Nov ‘82), Carmello (31), Giovantonio (32).
Before I moved in, I had spent some time with Silvia and Angelo…but almost none with Carmello or Emmie (and Martin and Xavier hadn’t arrived yet). While Liays had warned me that Carmello probably wouldn’t like me because of several reasons…the exact opposite has proven to be true. While I didn’t have much time to spend with the strange but pleasant, small stoner-girl Emmie…because of my work schedule I see Carmello everyday.
CARMELLO looks like a ski-bum. He has a full beard and longer hair. He’s intense, passionate, self-deprecating, a fantastic cook, and hates when women use bad words. And he is now (other than Silvia) my closest friend in the house. A self-proclaimed and proud Communist…he enjoys taking shots at my true American capitalist foundation, but also never steps over the line. He’s getting a PhD in engineering and I find him to be extraordinarily generous, patient, good-humored, and brilliant. I admire his brain and his wit. And, in turn I think he is alternately amused and bewildered by me. I’m the first American he has taken a liking to…in fact in a semi-inebriated state he admitted: ti volgio bene (I really like you). So, I feel good about winning over the potentially most cantankerous person in the house.
ANGELO is small, wiry, and intellectual…with a beautiful face, a nervous disposition, and moves with precision. He frequently adjusts his glasses, and seems uneasy most of the time…but then will find something funny and laughs easily showing a gorgeous smile. He’s hard to get to know, and mostly keeps to himself, even while in the same space. But I like him.
GIOVANNIANTONIO lives by himself in the split-level apartment with his two cats…although his gf Ornella is here almost all the time. He works in politics, is right-wing, and will probably be the president of Italy someday. He’s the consummate politician. Good-looking, extremely disciplined, and has an island-full of charm and wit. He’s magnanimous, intriguing, hospitable, welcoming, and razor-sharp. He’s like Bill Clinton…and I think has the same effect on women.
SILVIA is gorgeous with long, thick, dark, curly hair; freckles on her olive skin; bright and sparkly eyes, and a friendly mouth. She’s a dancer with lovely curves, and is studying languages. She’s the kind of woman that men fall for easily because she is gentle, feminine, mature, calm, smart, fun, and modest. I absolutely adore her. She and I get along really well—which is very important considering we’re the only women in the house. We talk about boys, love, family, school, traveling, language, friends, and so on. She and Jake are staying together, and I help her understand the American male mindset as much as I can.
MARTIN just moved in a few days ago. He is an Erasmus student…and since Davide is the R/A of the Erasmus program here, his job is to help get the new students dialed in. Since we had the open room, and Davide really liked and trusted Martin, we got a new roommate. He’s tall and Aryan. He plays the guitar and sings, and is very laid-back. I look forward to getting to know him more.
XAVIER is Martin’s roommate. He’s also on the Erasmus program. He speaks Italian and French but no English. And since Martin speaks English, Czech, and Slavic (but no Italian!)…it’s still a bit of a mystery to me how they communicate. But they sure seam to like each other. Xavier is the small, blonde French equivalent to Angelo. He is the newest addition to our big, happy, international family. We figured out the languages spoken here are: Italian, Sicilian, English, Spanish, French, Czech, Slavic, and Arabic. Mamma mia!!!
I am elated here with these people.
Time For Everything: MY BODY (il mio corpo)
For years now I have battled with my weight. I went on my first diet at age 10 after I was teased at school in a particularly cruel episode that I still remember vividly. Since I hit puberty early, my hips and breasts arrived while I was still playing with dolls and climbing trees. In addition, because I was so tall (5’8” at age 12, 5’11” now) the entire package was psychologically traumatizing.
So, I remember in 6th grade starting to eat a bagel and tea for breakfast, skipping lunch, and then picking at dinner. As my weight dropped, people began to positively reinforce what I was doing. I remember going to Hawaii with my family and there was a buffet, and I barely touched anything. My grandmother looked at my plate, and approvingly commented: you eat like a bird. I remember being able to fit into a pair of small jeans and a bodysuit and looking in the school bathroom mirror as I realized that I was finally thin. I stayed this way for the next couple of years.
Then, I was accepted into the advanced honors program at a private high school, moved to live with my mother in a new city, surrounded by uber-rich pretty girls and preppy boys and within weeks I got a headache that didn’t go away. For the next two months I lay on the couch in pain, mentally and emotionally numb from watching TV and just eating. By the time the doctors had determined there was nothing physically wrong with me, and everybody had decided that perhaps it was stress (which it was), I had gained all the weight back and then some. I returned to my old school, feeling defeated, fat, and like a failure. I remember looking at my freshman year school photo and seeing how chubby my face was. And that was when I stopped eating all together. I remember the spring of my freshman year limiting myself to 400 calories per day, and working out at the gym for two or three hours everyday. My boyfriend at the time desperately tried to get me to eat, but I refused. By the beginning of my sophomore year of high school, I was down to 135lbs (60kg) on my broad, powerful frame, and stayed that way for the next two years. I remember walking late into my Spanish class my junior year and my teacher was talking about vocabulary to describe the body. She smiled at me and said: Laurel es alta e flaca (tall and thin). I remember thinking: Wow. It’s about time.
Shortly thereafter my best friend Shayna had a frank conversation with me and said: Laurel, you look TOO thin. You look sick, you’re arms are sooo skinny. So, I started to eat a little bit more, gained about 10lbs, and then decided to play basketball again. I put on about 15lbs of muscle weight that year as I played basketball, and as I look at photos of myself from that period, I looked fantastic. So, me at an athletic 160lbs (72kg) is best. I finished high school a little heavier than during basketball season, but still slender.
Well, needless to say…I gained all the weight back and then some during the college years. I wasn’t playing sports anymore, had my car, and didn’t have parents around to monitor my food. Additionally, being at women’s college means that there is an entirely supportive environment for looking anyway that you want…and an extremely negative environment towards doing anything damaging to your body to fit in with the skinny-model culture. At women’s college, it’s easy to be fat. You are judged on your character, and never your body.
After I graduated, as you know, I spent the summer in Italy. Walking everywhere and eating the Italian way (smaller portions, little sugar, etc.) resulted in an easy 20lb weight loss. I didn’t even notice that it had happened. And since I have been back here, I’ve probably lost another 20. I tried on a pair of jeans today, and I fit perfectly into a size 48…which is an American 10. At my heaviest, before I left for Italy, I was a size 18. At 5’11, being a size 10 is still curvy, but not overly-so. I look at photos of myself now, and think: Ok, this is more like it. I’d like to loose another 15-20 lbs, and then I’ll be at fighting weight. All in good time.
So, how am I doing it? It’s small, simple things. My roommates and I always eat dinner together…and we talk and take our time, so we aren’t shoveling food down before our body has time to react. And the foods are so simple but always delicious. A salad with Besaola (a type of lean prosciutto), some fresh ricotta from the outdoor market Ballaro, and a side of pasta. I eat a lot of soup that I make myself with meat and veggies. I drink a lot of espresso, water, and a glass of wine or two every few days. I DON’T drink diet soda, because I honestly believe it messes with your metabolism and your body’s proper reaction to caloric intake.
Contrary to our popular American thinking that carbohydrates make you fat—I eat pasta almost every day and I am dropping weight, and quickly. It’s not the pasta itself…it’s the heavy sauce and the sheer portion size that is the problem in the States. Here, you eat a light pasta with FRESH sauce, and you only eat enough to make you feel satiated. And oranges or fruit to finish. I eat a lot of fruit here…and the outdoor markets are great fun to buy that stuff there.
But, most of all, I walk EVERYWHERE. I probably walk an hour or more everyday just getting around. I find that my body is still really strong like when I went to the gym because in my daily life I am a lot more physical. And when I am teaching, I’m on my feet for hours at a time.
It’s, admittedly, very difficult for me not to fall back into the same pattern of starving myself. It’s difficult being around these lithe Italian women all the time, and knowing that my size 10 is the largest the clothes stores carry...and so the temptation to not eat so I can be thin quickly is powerful. I intellectually know this isn’t healthy. My friends have gotten on me about this a couple of times when they don’t think I’m eating enough. Silvia has promised to keep an eye on me—and if she sees me getting too thin, then she will tell me. Once a week, I make sure that I eat everything I want, and then some…so this week I had a heavy pasta for lunch, snacked throughout the day, then ate an entire pizza (real Italian-style) for dinner, and two pieces of chocolate cake. At the end of it, I felt icky, and that took care of my desire to over-indulge again for a while. But it also gave my metabolism a good shake-up. And I think that eating the Italian way is something that I can maintain for the rest of my life. I much, much prefer it. And THAT, my friends, is what is most important. I don’t want to fight with my body anymore. I want to declare peace, and be at it and with it.
So, I remember in 6th grade starting to eat a bagel and tea for breakfast, skipping lunch, and then picking at dinner. As my weight dropped, people began to positively reinforce what I was doing. I remember going to Hawaii with my family and there was a buffet, and I barely touched anything. My grandmother looked at my plate, and approvingly commented: you eat like a bird. I remember being able to fit into a pair of small jeans and a bodysuit and looking in the school bathroom mirror as I realized that I was finally thin. I stayed this way for the next couple of years.
Then, I was accepted into the advanced honors program at a private high school, moved to live with my mother in a new city, surrounded by uber-rich pretty girls and preppy boys and within weeks I got a headache that didn’t go away. For the next two months I lay on the couch in pain, mentally and emotionally numb from watching TV and just eating. By the time the doctors had determined there was nothing physically wrong with me, and everybody had decided that perhaps it was stress (which it was), I had gained all the weight back and then some. I returned to my old school, feeling defeated, fat, and like a failure. I remember looking at my freshman year school photo and seeing how chubby my face was. And that was when I stopped eating all together. I remember the spring of my freshman year limiting myself to 400 calories per day, and working out at the gym for two or three hours everyday. My boyfriend at the time desperately tried to get me to eat, but I refused. By the beginning of my sophomore year of high school, I was down to 135lbs (60kg) on my broad, powerful frame, and stayed that way for the next two years. I remember walking late into my Spanish class my junior year and my teacher was talking about vocabulary to describe the body. She smiled at me and said: Laurel es alta e flaca (tall and thin). I remember thinking: Wow. It’s about time.
Shortly thereafter my best friend Shayna had a frank conversation with me and said: Laurel, you look TOO thin. You look sick, you’re arms are sooo skinny. So, I started to eat a little bit more, gained about 10lbs, and then decided to play basketball again. I put on about 15lbs of muscle weight that year as I played basketball, and as I look at photos of myself from that period, I looked fantastic. So, me at an athletic 160lbs (72kg) is best. I finished high school a little heavier than during basketball season, but still slender.
Well, needless to say…I gained all the weight back and then some during the college years. I wasn’t playing sports anymore, had my car, and didn’t have parents around to monitor my food. Additionally, being at women’s college means that there is an entirely supportive environment for looking anyway that you want…and an extremely negative environment towards doing anything damaging to your body to fit in with the skinny-model culture. At women’s college, it’s easy to be fat. You are judged on your character, and never your body.
After I graduated, as you know, I spent the summer in Italy. Walking everywhere and eating the Italian way (smaller portions, little sugar, etc.) resulted in an easy 20lb weight loss. I didn’t even notice that it had happened. And since I have been back here, I’ve probably lost another 20. I tried on a pair of jeans today, and I fit perfectly into a size 48…which is an American 10. At my heaviest, before I left for Italy, I was a size 18. At 5’11, being a size 10 is still curvy, but not overly-so. I look at photos of myself now, and think: Ok, this is more like it. I’d like to loose another 15-20 lbs, and then I’ll be at fighting weight. All in good time.
So, how am I doing it? It’s small, simple things. My roommates and I always eat dinner together…and we talk and take our time, so we aren’t shoveling food down before our body has time to react. And the foods are so simple but always delicious. A salad with Besaola (a type of lean prosciutto), some fresh ricotta from the outdoor market Ballaro, and a side of pasta. I eat a lot of soup that I make myself with meat and veggies. I drink a lot of espresso, water, and a glass of wine or two every few days. I DON’T drink diet soda, because I honestly believe it messes with your metabolism and your body’s proper reaction to caloric intake.
Contrary to our popular American thinking that carbohydrates make you fat—I eat pasta almost every day and I am dropping weight, and quickly. It’s not the pasta itself…it’s the heavy sauce and the sheer portion size that is the problem in the States. Here, you eat a light pasta with FRESH sauce, and you only eat enough to make you feel satiated. And oranges or fruit to finish. I eat a lot of fruit here…and the outdoor markets are great fun to buy that stuff there.
But, most of all, I walk EVERYWHERE. I probably walk an hour or more everyday just getting around. I find that my body is still really strong like when I went to the gym because in my daily life I am a lot more physical. And when I am teaching, I’m on my feet for hours at a time.
It’s, admittedly, very difficult for me not to fall back into the same pattern of starving myself. It’s difficult being around these lithe Italian women all the time, and knowing that my size 10 is the largest the clothes stores carry...and so the temptation to not eat so I can be thin quickly is powerful. I intellectually know this isn’t healthy. My friends have gotten on me about this a couple of times when they don’t think I’m eating enough. Silvia has promised to keep an eye on me—and if she sees me getting too thin, then she will tell me. Once a week, I make sure that I eat everything I want, and then some…so this week I had a heavy pasta for lunch, snacked throughout the day, then ate an entire pizza (real Italian-style) for dinner, and two pieces of chocolate cake. At the end of it, I felt icky, and that took care of my desire to over-indulge again for a while. But it also gave my metabolism a good shake-up. And I think that eating the Italian way is something that I can maintain for the rest of my life. I much, much prefer it. And THAT, my friends, is what is most important. I don’t want to fight with my body anymore. I want to declare peace, and be at it and with it.
Time For Everything: MY WORK (il mio lavoro)
Not much to say here, other than the fact that things have picked up, I’m getting paid, and there are ups and downs of teaching. UPS –Last week, two of my favorite students (who couldn’t say ANYTHING in English when they began a month ago) had a conversation between THEMSELVES in perfect English using mixed tenses and balanced-arguments, without realizing it. I thought I was translating from Italian, and then realized that they were actually speaking English. Made my week. DOWNS—lesson planning sucks. Spending hours putting together power-points and dialogues and finding images is really a lot less fun than I thought it would be. No worries about wanting to be a teacher for the rest of my life.
Although I need to add that they just might be a new blog entry soon about some major changes in work soon. I’ll keep you posted……..
Although I need to add that they just might be a new blog entry soon about some major changes in work soon. I’ll keep you posted……..
Time For Everything: MY VACATION (la mia vacanza)
I had two options. Option number 1 was to stay in a freezing house for Christmas, my 25th birthday, and New Year’s ALONE because all of my roommates were home for the holidays. Option number 2 was to take off for a couple of weeks to London to visit a couple of my best friends and kill the visa-requirement-to-leave-Italy-every-90-days Bird with the same stone. Can you guess which option I chose?
If you guessed my happy self got on that plane and flew to London, you’d be correct.
I HAD SOOOOOOOOOO MUCH FUN!!!!!!!!
I arrived late on Saturday, December 22st in London at my friend Steven’s house. He lives with one British girl, a Kiwi (who is seriously one of my soul-mates), and two Australian guys—who were all REALLY lovely to me. I was terribly sad to leave them.
I met Steve last summer in Budapest, and we became fast friends. He’s originally from Chicago, now living in London (taking advantage of his British passport courtesy of mom). He had been traveling for about a year…and after Budapest, we met up in Vienna one day and ran around the city having a jolly good time (see Flickr for photos). Physically, he’s All-American…but his spirit is free and far more interesting. He’s bold, independent, chill, smart, mischievous, and the epitome of a cool dog. I really love him.
I arrived dead-tired but damn excited to see him again after a 6-month hiatus. A couple of hours later his gf, Milica from Serbia, showed up. She was sooooo not what I was expecting. She was WAY FRIGGIN BETTER/MORE INTERESTING/UNIQUE/SPECIAL. I was thinking she would be petite, cute, and probably bubbly…but I was not prepared for the POWER that walked through the door. Within 10 minutes I was crazy about her. The first thing you notice (other than her beautiful sharp-angled Slavic face) is her fantastic, baritone deep, raspy voice. It’s like it comes from somebody else. I was enamored. I’m actually at a loss to describe Mili, because her strength, integrity, wicked humor, ancient soul, intelligence, courtesy, and love just blew my mind. Good Steven!!! I also want to point out that the second week her little sister came to visit…and this little girl (19) is on her way to being just as astonishing as Mili. I’ve never met anyone like them, and I can’t anticipate to.
So, I hung out with them for a couple of days…and then on Christmas Eve I went to meet up with my darling friend James, from New Zealand. I met James in Bucharest, Romania. We stayed at the same hostel together, but got to know each other well on a long overnight train ride from Bucharest to Budapest. Even though he’s almost a year younger than me, I feel like he is my older, wiser brother. I always ask him for men-advice. I find him to be incredible wise, level-headed, and open-minded. He has a beautiful impish face and sparkly blue eyes, and an easy smile.
We went to St James’ Cathedral to listen to the Christmas Eve service. The service began at four and we got there at 3:15There was a line around the block (which is like 10 normal-sized ones)…so I thought I could take off and find some coffee. I left James with the bags, and went off to find coffee. Turns out that finding an open coffee shop on Christmas Eve is not so easy. So I retuned half-hour later to discover that the line had disappeared. Damn! Tried to use cell phone to find him. Cell phone wasn’t working. Went to front of Cathedral where Jame’s best friends were with him, waiting for me…letting other people in the line pass by them. Ugh. Bad way to make a first impression. I join them in line, we are almost to the entrance, and the guards stop the line. OMG OMG OMG…if we aren’t allowed in to watch the service because I was late, everybody is going to hate me!!! Ten minutes go by, and people are sneaking dirty glances at me. I’m wondering if I can somehow charm my way out of their hatred. Stupid Americana. And then the guards count people in line, and bring the last group of us in. We are taken inside, lead past all the other people in the main seating area…taken past the stage (oh, hell, we’re going to be sitting in the dressing rooms…oh, hell, I just thought “hell” in a church)…and then led around the back and ONTO the “stage” to sit right next to the choir. Wait, what? Me making us late means we GET THE BEST SEATS IN THE ENTIRE HOUSE? Ha ha! You people in the front row who got here at 12pm to wait in line for 4 hours. We get the special seats. Neener neener neener!!!! So, indeed, we sat across from the Arch-Bishop, in the seats reserved during Mass for the clergy, and right next to where the choir sang. HAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAAAAA!
It was beautiful, and nobody hated me after that. James joked that leave it to a woman being late that we would end up in the best place in the entire HUGE cathedral.
So, after the service we took off to Hannah and Leah’s house for the EPIC CO-ED SLUMBERPARTY, where we played games, drank merrily (me not so much), and just relaxed. On Christmas, we made food, lit a kitchen towel on fire, did a naughty secret Santa, watched the Queen give her first high-definition TV address to her loyal subjects, ate pounds of chocolate, then ate pounds of Christmas food, drank some more, played some more games, called friends/family to wish them Merry Christmas, and did night two of Epic Co-Ed Slumber party.
On Boxing Day, I kissed everyone goodbye, and headed back to Steve’s house. Spent the day totally useless.
On the 27th of December, it was my 25th BIRTHDAY! Hooray. My father called to tease me that I was now ½ way to fifty. Not funny, Dad. Thanks. What did Laurel Ann do? If you guessed took myself to Chelsea to go shopping, you’d be correct. After all, it was my birthday…and the Post-Christmas sales galore. I bought three things. I bought a beeeeaaauuuttiful pair of knee-high, simple, black-leather boots with a low heel. I wear these shoes basically everyday. I LOVE them. Then I went to the store that had the black long-sleeved-turtle-neck dress in the window. Turned out this store was an organic cotton fair-trade only store. So, I got the dress, which I probably wear once per week. And then I saw, in the corner of my eye the most beautiful smokey-french-blue sweater. Oh, divine. I live in this sweater.
I still hadn’t eaten any fish-and-chips, so I organized a little get-together for my London friends, and we went to a pub and ate the fish-and-chips. I was a happy, happy girl. Went out for a couple of drinks at a bar, where I was feeling rather saucy. Then called it a night…
Three hours later I had a fierce stomach-ache and spent all night fighting off food-poisoning. Stupid fish-and-chips. Never eating British food again.
Did the tourist thing for the next couple of days, nothing too exciting…except I went to James’s house to house-sit for the next week.
But New Year’s….omg New Year’s!!! Met up with people in Picadilly. There was a couch-surfing meeting of like 30-people at a nearby pub. I hung out with Steve, the Savy Serbian girls, Marta from Poland, Marianna from Slovakia, and Ara from Australia. See photo.
At about eleven we headed off to join the other 2 million people who had converged in the center of London to celebrate. I wasn’t totally sure where we were going until we rounded the corner and there was Westminster lit up like a Thomas Moore painting. We passed that and stood in front of Big Ben. Fifteen minutes later 2 million voices echoed out in synch 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!!!!! And the fireworks exploded over the Thames, The London Eye, and Big Ben. The champagne flowed and I just remember kissing people and thinking how incredible it was to be 25, and in London for New Years, watching the fireworks and just feeling like the year to come is going to be the best of my life. It was a moment that I hope I never forget.
For the next few days, I went back and forth between Steve’s house and James’s house, meeting up with other friends, and doing the tourist thing alone. I saw everything I wanted to see, cooked to my heart’s content for my friends, and left feeling like I had solidified some friendships that will last for the rest of my life. I have every intention to go back and visit before I leave for my next adventure. It was, quite possibly, the best little vacation I have ever taken. I was very sad to leave….
But, if you are going to leave from a vacation in London, it really isn’t so bad to get back on a plane and fly home to Italy. I mean, really.
If you guessed my happy self got on that plane and flew to London, you’d be correct.
I HAD SOOOOOOOOOO MUCH FUN!!!!!!!!
I arrived late on Saturday, December 22st in London at my friend Steven’s house. He lives with one British girl, a Kiwi (who is seriously one of my soul-mates), and two Australian guys—who were all REALLY lovely to me. I was terribly sad to leave them.
I met Steve last summer in Budapest, and we became fast friends. He’s originally from Chicago, now living in London (taking advantage of his British passport courtesy of mom). He had been traveling for about a year…and after Budapest, we met up in Vienna one day and ran around the city having a jolly good time (see Flickr for photos). Physically, he’s All-American…but his spirit is free and far more interesting. He’s bold, independent, chill, smart, mischievous, and the epitome of a cool dog. I really love him.
I arrived dead-tired but damn excited to see him again after a 6-month hiatus. A couple of hours later his gf, Milica from Serbia, showed up. She was sooooo not what I was expecting. She was WAY FRIGGIN BETTER/MORE INTERESTING/UNIQUE/SPECIAL. I was thinking she would be petite, cute, and probably bubbly…but I was not prepared for the POWER that walked through the door. Within 10 minutes I was crazy about her. The first thing you notice (other than her beautiful sharp-angled Slavic face) is her fantastic, baritone deep, raspy voice. It’s like it comes from somebody else. I was enamored. I’m actually at a loss to describe Mili, because her strength, integrity, wicked humor, ancient soul, intelligence, courtesy, and love just blew my mind. Good Steven!!! I also want to point out that the second week her little sister came to visit…and this little girl (19) is on her way to being just as astonishing as Mili. I’ve never met anyone like them, and I can’t anticipate to.
So, I hung out with them for a couple of days…and then on Christmas Eve I went to meet up with my darling friend James, from New Zealand. I met James in Bucharest, Romania. We stayed at the same hostel together, but got to know each other well on a long overnight train ride from Bucharest to Budapest. Even though he’s almost a year younger than me, I feel like he is my older, wiser brother. I always ask him for men-advice. I find him to be incredible wise, level-headed, and open-minded. He has a beautiful impish face and sparkly blue eyes, and an easy smile.
We went to St James’ Cathedral to listen to the Christmas Eve service. The service began at four and we got there at 3:15There was a line around the block (which is like 10 normal-sized ones)…so I thought I could take off and find some coffee. I left James with the bags, and went off to find coffee. Turns out that finding an open coffee shop on Christmas Eve is not so easy. So I retuned half-hour later to discover that the line had disappeared. Damn! Tried to use cell phone to find him. Cell phone wasn’t working. Went to front of Cathedral where Jame’s best friends were with him, waiting for me…letting other people in the line pass by them. Ugh. Bad way to make a first impression. I join them in line, we are almost to the entrance, and the guards stop the line. OMG OMG OMG…if we aren’t allowed in to watch the service because I was late, everybody is going to hate me!!! Ten minutes go by, and people are sneaking dirty glances at me. I’m wondering if I can somehow charm my way out of their hatred. Stupid Americana. And then the guards count people in line, and bring the last group of us in. We are taken inside, lead past all the other people in the main seating area…taken past the stage (oh, hell, we’re going to be sitting in the dressing rooms…oh, hell, I just thought “hell” in a church)…and then led around the back and ONTO the “stage” to sit right next to the choir. Wait, what? Me making us late means we GET THE BEST SEATS IN THE ENTIRE HOUSE? Ha ha! You people in the front row who got here at 12pm to wait in line for 4 hours. We get the special seats. Neener neener neener!!!! So, indeed, we sat across from the Arch-Bishop, in the seats reserved during Mass for the clergy, and right next to where the choir sang. HAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAAAAA!
It was beautiful, and nobody hated me after that. James joked that leave it to a woman being late that we would end up in the best place in the entire HUGE cathedral.
So, after the service we took off to Hannah and Leah’s house for the EPIC CO-ED SLUMBERPARTY, where we played games, drank merrily (me not so much), and just relaxed. On Christmas, we made food, lit a kitchen towel on fire, did a naughty secret Santa, watched the Queen give her first high-definition TV address to her loyal subjects, ate pounds of chocolate, then ate pounds of Christmas food, drank some more, played some more games, called friends/family to wish them Merry Christmas, and did night two of Epic Co-Ed Slumber party.
On Boxing Day, I kissed everyone goodbye, and headed back to Steve’s house. Spent the day totally useless.
On the 27th of December, it was my 25th BIRTHDAY! Hooray. My father called to tease me that I was now ½ way to fifty. Not funny, Dad. Thanks. What did Laurel Ann do? If you guessed took myself to Chelsea to go shopping, you’d be correct. After all, it was my birthday…and the Post-Christmas sales galore. I bought three things. I bought a beeeeaaauuuttiful pair of knee-high, simple, black-leather boots with a low heel. I wear these shoes basically everyday. I LOVE them. Then I went to the store that had the black long-sleeved-turtle-neck dress in the window. Turned out this store was an organic cotton fair-trade only store. So, I got the dress, which I probably wear once per week. And then I saw, in the corner of my eye the most beautiful smokey-french-blue sweater. Oh, divine. I live in this sweater.
I still hadn’t eaten any fish-and-chips, so I organized a little get-together for my London friends, and we went to a pub and ate the fish-and-chips. I was a happy, happy girl. Went out for a couple of drinks at a bar, where I was feeling rather saucy. Then called it a night…
Three hours later I had a fierce stomach-ache and spent all night fighting off food-poisoning. Stupid fish-and-chips. Never eating British food again.
Did the tourist thing for the next couple of days, nothing too exciting…except I went to James’s house to house-sit for the next week.
But New Year’s….omg New Year’s!!! Met up with people in Picadilly. There was a couch-surfing meeting of like 30-people at a nearby pub. I hung out with Steve, the Savy Serbian girls, Marta from Poland, Marianna from Slovakia, and Ara from Australia. See photo.
At about eleven we headed off to join the other 2 million people who had converged in the center of London to celebrate. I wasn’t totally sure where we were going until we rounded the corner and there was Westminster lit up like a Thomas Moore painting. We passed that and stood in front of Big Ben. Fifteen minutes later 2 million voices echoed out in synch 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!!!!! And the fireworks exploded over the Thames, The London Eye, and Big Ben. The champagne flowed and I just remember kissing people and thinking how incredible it was to be 25, and in London for New Years, watching the fireworks and just feeling like the year to come is going to be the best of my life. It was a moment that I hope I never forget.
For the next few days, I went back and forth between Steve’s house and James’s house, meeting up with other friends, and doing the tourist thing alone. I saw everything I wanted to see, cooked to my heart’s content for my friends, and left feeling like I had solidified some friendships that will last for the rest of my life. I have every intention to go back and visit before I leave for my next adventure. It was, quite possibly, the best little vacation I have ever taken. I was very sad to leave….
But, if you are going to leave from a vacation in London, it really isn’t so bad to get back on a plane and fly home to Italy. I mean, really.
Time For Everything: MY LOVE (amore mio)
As a fire warms a cold room so has Davide warmed my heart. There are visual, obvious clues to warmth before you FEEL. You wonder if your eyes deceive you. You don’t believe it will ever get warm…and then, suddenly and unexpectedly, you realize it is no longer bone cold. Now the fire has had more time to build, and the heat rages inside me.
I wrote about him when I first arrived. I wrote that I wasn’t interested, but he was. I think, in a way, I needed to say this as a way to be defiant towards my own feelings. Because I WANTED him to want me…and while he behaved interested, he was also completely aloof. He alternated between being white-chocolate sweet and a total bastard. He was a master of mixed-messages, and I was both contemptuous and deeply intrigued. And, yeah, there were many things about him that were attractive—physically he’s stunning (and becomes more so to me everyday), he’s EXTREMELY bright, adventurous, charming, creative, fun, etc., etc. But, so what? There are plenty of men in this world with such qualifications…And I sure as hell wasn’t going to tell him all these good things about him as long as he treated me with something slightly better than disdain.
Additionally, I thought he was just a classic Italian skirt chaser going from one woman to the next before he was finished with the previous. His words and his distance told me as much. He liked to verbally emphasize these kinds of things to me…maybe to impress me, maybe to intimidate me, maybe just because he thought it was what he should say. But, for me, it just forced me to put up a big wall around my heart because I REFUSED to get played by some 22-year-old Sicilian, who knew how pretty he was. And, so, I decided that I was going to show this baby what a real player looks like…and so I decided that the ball was in my court, and not his. And I started to toy with him. I sent him equally mixed messages—not available, but interested in him only for a serious relationship. I alternated between being needy and too busy with my so-called independence—sending both messages that made him feel like a rescuer and also not required at all. He has since confessed that it was a game for him as well—because he pulled similar stunts—acting attached and then turning around and saying he didn’t care. Essentially, we decided to play each other. And we ended up on the same team.
So, WHAT happened? I think at some point we may both have realized that we wouldn’t have bothered trying to play the other person unless there was something there, the proverbial elephant in the room so-to-speak. As to WHEN…I can’t actually pinpoint it, really. I remember starting to think about him more and more before I left for London. And we saw each other two nights in a row, and I think that was when it occurred to both of us that there was some real chemistry. But, I still wasn’t ready to put my heart on my sleeve, even if I couldn’t keep my hands off.
Of course, you know that my two weeks in London was fantastic and fun, but I should mention now that a few times throughout my trip I would get these sweet little text messages from him, which said he missed me and was thinking about me, etc. He remembered my birthday. And I will confess now that those texts made me (privately) rather giddy—although I would publicly pass them off as No Big Deal…. “Whatever, it’s another Italian guy who likes me. What’s new?”
But like a love zombie, I remember sitting in front of the phone with my calling card in one hand and his number in the other thinking, “Should one of the few phone calls I make on my Christmas vacation be to HIM???” And you better believe I was possessed by some supernatural force and I picked up that phone, dialed, and when I heard his voice (very happy to hear from me) I knew that I had crossed to the Dark Side.
And we arranged to meet when I got back on the 4th. We saw each other that night, and he told me he missed me and then invited me to go to Venice with him in March. A few days later he said that he didn’t have feelings for me, and that Venice was a mistake. While I tried to act like it didn’t bother me, I was crushed. And that was when I knew I had a choice to make.
And a couple days after he said he didn’t feel anything, something changed in him and his eyes. I don’t know how, and I don’t know why, but it came a couple days before I was ready to say I didn’t want to see him again…it was just too hard to keep a grip on my feelings while seeing him frequently. We had agreed to go to Venice together, but I was stalling on buying my ticket because I was still deciding whether to continue to see someone who couldn’t admit he cared.
But, over dinner one night, just the two of us, he looked at me and asked if I felt like anything had changed between us. And my response was: Yes. And then he admitted that I changed his heart. And so on…
I felt like he was finally letting go of whatever image he needed to maintain, whatever barriers he needed to have around his heart, and whatever pep-talk he was giving himself against falling for me. He let himself just BE.
And so I let go of whatever image I needed to maintain, whatever barriers I needed to have around my heart, and whatever pep-talk I was giving myself against falling for him. And I let myself just BE.
And, so, I bought my ticket to go to Venice, and it’s been rosy since. It’s been almost a month since I got back from London. We’ve seen each other practically every day since, and we’ve consistently communicated on the days we weren’t face-to-face. And while the more intimate things he says to me are said in confidence, and I am not going to post them here, what I can say is that this is not an unrequited love. And so, the two of us are players no more.
The other night really sealed it for me that this is actually happening. It’s not some strange epic dream, or a brief flirtation. We were sitting on a park bench in the middle of the city, enjoying a beautiful warmish Sicilian night (even in January!). We were facing each other, and just talking and flirting and probably making anyone single and bitter want to vomit. And he looked at me and said: I love when you look at me with those falling-in-love eyes. And I just blushed and turned away, but I remember having a rapid stream of thoughts like: Oh! Oh! Oh my Goddess, I AM falling in love with this man! Wow. How did this happen? And WHEN? Hmmm….So THIS is what it feels like. I guess I am. And it’s about time. OH MY GOD I AM FALLING IN LOVE. Holy [beeeeeep]!!!
LOL. Go figure. But it’s awesome.
And I can honestly say I’ve never felt this way before. I’ve never had something grow. It’s always started hot and gone cold, usually quickly. I’ve never been with someone younger. I’ve never been with someone I wasn’t interested in at first. I’ve never had someone who made me laugh so much. I’ve never had someone who made me want to throw my arms around them and never let go. I’ve never had someone who amazes and surprises me every day. I’ve never had someone who I want to say, and feel, and think such intense things before. I’ve never been with someone who made me forget the people who came before. I’ve never been with someone who completely takes away my roving eye, or interest in greener pastures. I’ve never had someone that I look at and clearly understand: yep…you’re my equal. You’re my match, and there’s no little nagging feeling inside knowing there’s something wrong or off about it. I’ve never had someone who I can REALLY look into their eyes and find a place of warmth and comfort and familiarity. I’ve never been with someone who just made me feel so beautiful, fun, and sexy—without being put on a pedestal but because he’s looking at me from an equal footing. I’ve never felt so CALM and secure in being emotional, open, and vulnerable.
And for those of you who know what a vice-grip I have on my heart and what a Ice Queen I can be…being comfortable in vulnerability should say more than anything else. I’m ok having my heart in someone else’s hands. I hope this lasts….
So, now you know how I FEEL…but WHO is this man? Well, I will finish by including the reference I wrote for him on his public profile. I meant every word, and I now there are even stronger things I could profess.
When I first met my sweet Davide, he asked me if his English was good. My reply was, "We'll see, I won't really know until I've spent some time around you."
And so I have. Not only has his dedication to learning my mother tongue continued to impress and delight me, so has his very eloquent soul.
There is something so intriguing about this young man. He is mature way beyond his years. He possesses a calmness, complexity, and confidence that many will never have the capacity to attain. I don’t imagine I will ever tire of watching and learning about him. He is always surprising me.
I could write about his sense of humor. I could write about his clear creativity and skill. I could write about his pure Italian sensuality, wit, semblance, and internal clock. I could write about a lot of things that are purely superficial, and you can find out just by asking him questions. But what I really want to convey about Davide is the way I think he embraces the universe. He does it with an open mind, and an open heart.
I leave you with 1 Corinthians 13:4-7:
"Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always preserves."
Davide is love. Pure and simple.
I look forward to watching him grow, but hopefully not change. I hope he holds that love for everything (except cheese hee hee) forever.
It's absolutely sublime...
I wrote about him when I first arrived. I wrote that I wasn’t interested, but he was. I think, in a way, I needed to say this as a way to be defiant towards my own feelings. Because I WANTED him to want me…and while he behaved interested, he was also completely aloof. He alternated between being white-chocolate sweet and a total bastard. He was a master of mixed-messages, and I was both contemptuous and deeply intrigued. And, yeah, there were many things about him that were attractive—physically he’s stunning (and becomes more so to me everyday), he’s EXTREMELY bright, adventurous, charming, creative, fun, etc., etc. But, so what? There are plenty of men in this world with such qualifications…And I sure as hell wasn’t going to tell him all these good things about him as long as he treated me with something slightly better than disdain.
Additionally, I thought he was just a classic Italian skirt chaser going from one woman to the next before he was finished with the previous. His words and his distance told me as much. He liked to verbally emphasize these kinds of things to me…maybe to impress me, maybe to intimidate me, maybe just because he thought it was what he should say. But, for me, it just forced me to put up a big wall around my heart because I REFUSED to get played by some 22-year-old Sicilian, who knew how pretty he was. And, so, I decided that I was going to show this baby what a real player looks like…and so I decided that the ball was in my court, and not his. And I started to toy with him. I sent him equally mixed messages—not available, but interested in him only for a serious relationship. I alternated between being needy and too busy with my so-called independence—sending both messages that made him feel like a rescuer and also not required at all. He has since confessed that it was a game for him as well—because he pulled similar stunts—acting attached and then turning around and saying he didn’t care. Essentially, we decided to play each other. And we ended up on the same team.
So, WHAT happened? I think at some point we may both have realized that we wouldn’t have bothered trying to play the other person unless there was something there, the proverbial elephant in the room so-to-speak. As to WHEN…I can’t actually pinpoint it, really. I remember starting to think about him more and more before I left for London. And we saw each other two nights in a row, and I think that was when it occurred to both of us that there was some real chemistry. But, I still wasn’t ready to put my heart on my sleeve, even if I couldn’t keep my hands off.
Of course, you know that my two weeks in London was fantastic and fun, but I should mention now that a few times throughout my trip I would get these sweet little text messages from him, which said he missed me and was thinking about me, etc. He remembered my birthday. And I will confess now that those texts made me (privately) rather giddy—although I would publicly pass them off as No Big Deal…. “Whatever, it’s another Italian guy who likes me. What’s new?”
But like a love zombie, I remember sitting in front of the phone with my calling card in one hand and his number in the other thinking, “Should one of the few phone calls I make on my Christmas vacation be to HIM???” And you better believe I was possessed by some supernatural force and I picked up that phone, dialed, and when I heard his voice (very happy to hear from me) I knew that I had crossed to the Dark Side.
And we arranged to meet when I got back on the 4th. We saw each other that night, and he told me he missed me and then invited me to go to Venice with him in March. A few days later he said that he didn’t have feelings for me, and that Venice was a mistake. While I tried to act like it didn’t bother me, I was crushed. And that was when I knew I had a choice to make.
And a couple days after he said he didn’t feel anything, something changed in him and his eyes. I don’t know how, and I don’t know why, but it came a couple days before I was ready to say I didn’t want to see him again…it was just too hard to keep a grip on my feelings while seeing him frequently. We had agreed to go to Venice together, but I was stalling on buying my ticket because I was still deciding whether to continue to see someone who couldn’t admit he cared.
But, over dinner one night, just the two of us, he looked at me and asked if I felt like anything had changed between us. And my response was: Yes. And then he admitted that I changed his heart. And so on…
I felt like he was finally letting go of whatever image he needed to maintain, whatever barriers he needed to have around his heart, and whatever pep-talk he was giving himself against falling for me. He let himself just BE.
And so I let go of whatever image I needed to maintain, whatever barriers I needed to have around my heart, and whatever pep-talk I was giving myself against falling for him. And I let myself just BE.
And, so, I bought my ticket to go to Venice, and it’s been rosy since. It’s been almost a month since I got back from London. We’ve seen each other practically every day since, and we’ve consistently communicated on the days we weren’t face-to-face. And while the more intimate things he says to me are said in confidence, and I am not going to post them here, what I can say is that this is not an unrequited love. And so, the two of us are players no more.
The other night really sealed it for me that this is actually happening. It’s not some strange epic dream, or a brief flirtation. We were sitting on a park bench in the middle of the city, enjoying a beautiful warmish Sicilian night (even in January!). We were facing each other, and just talking and flirting and probably making anyone single and bitter want to vomit. And he looked at me and said: I love when you look at me with those falling-in-love eyes. And I just blushed and turned away, but I remember having a rapid stream of thoughts like: Oh! Oh! Oh my Goddess, I AM falling in love with this man! Wow. How did this happen? And WHEN? Hmmm….So THIS is what it feels like. I guess I am. And it’s about time. OH MY GOD I AM FALLING IN LOVE. Holy [beeeeeep]!!!
LOL. Go figure. But it’s awesome.
And I can honestly say I’ve never felt this way before. I’ve never had something grow. It’s always started hot and gone cold, usually quickly. I’ve never been with someone younger. I’ve never been with someone I wasn’t interested in at first. I’ve never had someone who made me laugh so much. I’ve never had someone who made me want to throw my arms around them and never let go. I’ve never had someone who amazes and surprises me every day. I’ve never had someone who I want to say, and feel, and think such intense things before. I’ve never been with someone who made me forget the people who came before. I’ve never been with someone who completely takes away my roving eye, or interest in greener pastures. I’ve never had someone that I look at and clearly understand: yep…you’re my equal. You’re my match, and there’s no little nagging feeling inside knowing there’s something wrong or off about it. I’ve never had someone who I can REALLY look into their eyes and find a place of warmth and comfort and familiarity. I’ve never been with someone who just made me feel so beautiful, fun, and sexy—without being put on a pedestal but because he’s looking at me from an equal footing. I’ve never felt so CALM and secure in being emotional, open, and vulnerable.
And for those of you who know what a vice-grip I have on my heart and what a Ice Queen I can be…being comfortable in vulnerability should say more than anything else. I’m ok having my heart in someone else’s hands. I hope this lasts….
So, now you know how I FEEL…but WHO is this man? Well, I will finish by including the reference I wrote for him on his public profile. I meant every word, and I now there are even stronger things I could profess.
When I first met my sweet Davide, he asked me if his English was good. My reply was, "We'll see, I won't really know until I've spent some time around you."
And so I have. Not only has his dedication to learning my mother tongue continued to impress and delight me, so has his very eloquent soul.
There is something so intriguing about this young man. He is mature way beyond his years. He possesses a calmness, complexity, and confidence that many will never have the capacity to attain. I don’t imagine I will ever tire of watching and learning about him. He is always surprising me.
I could write about his sense of humor. I could write about his clear creativity and skill. I could write about his pure Italian sensuality, wit, semblance, and internal clock. I could write about a lot of things that are purely superficial, and you can find out just by asking him questions. But what I really want to convey about Davide is the way I think he embraces the universe. He does it with an open mind, and an open heart.
I leave you with 1 Corinthians 13:4-7:
"Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always preserves."
Davide is love. Pure and simple.
I look forward to watching him grow, but hopefully not change. I hope he holds that love for everything (except cheese hee hee) forever.
It's absolutely sublime...
Time For Everything: Conclusion
And so I leave you with the promises that this beautiful country, this beautiful life, this beautiful existence are all things I walk through every day full of wonder. I can’t believe this is MY LIFE! And it’s just getting started.
Thank you for going along the journey with me in whatever small way.
Ciao Ragazzi…
Quannu acchiani tu lu sule codda
Sicilian for “When you leave, the sun disappears.”
Thank you for going along the journey with me in whatever small way.
Ciao Ragazzi…
Quannu acchiani tu lu sule codda
Sicilian for “When you leave, the sun disappears.”
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