This post has been a long time coming; much like alot of my writing lately. these are labors of love; carefully planned in my head, they gestate for weeks, sometimes months, before I commit words to paper. I admit, this is not the most efficient way to wrote but, just like Mr. Higgins and Eliza Doolittle, I’ve grown accustomed to their place…in my head.
This particular post has taken a while to come into being and not have had a life at all, if it hadn’t been for the insistent voice of my friend Serene, in the back of my head that keeps on pushing me to write. I admit, the voice could very well be my own, but I choose it to be Serene’s because it’s so much more fun that way. less pressure on my shoulders.
On to the task at hand.
I went to Italy.
After a nine year hiatus (nine years), I returned to the old country without too much fanfare. not too much. There was a mix of trepidation and excitement at the thought of my going back to the madre patria (mother country) after so long. Trepidation because I would be staying with family. Excitement because I would be staying with family. I must also admit that the thought of spending ten days with one of my mother’s sisters, the one she has had the most tumultuous relationship with, provided me with one of the most harrowing cases of nerves I have ever had. No need to get into the details of why and how come. For now. Suffice it to say, that on top of my already excited (terrified) state, I had to add a good dose of those aforementioned nerves.
There were so many things I wanted to do and yet knew that I wouldn’t have time to do them. Contrary to popular belief, though I am an American citizen and understand the American way, I am not, I repeat NOT, an American traveler; especially when traveling to Italy. Oh but how I wish I were! Americans get things done. Americans have the power to turn even a five day trip to the old country into a veritable
tour de force unknown to man. I have known Americans who have visited Italy who were able to see three cities, all their museums, most of their restaurants, allbyje historical sites, get mugged, felt up, fall in love as well as run into celebrities and have an audience with the pope on a budget of six days. It has been done.
But, I am not an American traveler. I get jet lag even before boarding the plane. I take things slow. Once I land in Milano, my birth city, I get into “home mode.” Granted, had the reason I went back to Italy been different, I might have been lured into traveling a bit more and probably go and visit childhood friends I haven’t seen in ages. But the reason and purpose were somber and I think, somewhere in
my heart of hearts, I was on a mission. A mission to heal the hurts; bridge the gaps that formed between my extended family in the last thirty years.
Tall order. I know.