Ciao Italia

On our last day in Ferrara, J and I decided to stop at a place called Piccolo Bar on a sidestreet on our way into town. The owners, an older couple, sat us right down and in sort of an uncharacteristally very friendly and talkative manner (most have politely taken our order, and remained quiet until we pay) attempted to figure out where we were from, why we were here, and forced us to eat brioches, along with our espresso. We did so, happily. What a lovely ending to such a unique vacation. It is gray today in Ferrara, the first cloudy day since arriving. The day has started well, and I have no doubt the rest of it will be just as good. Upon leaving the little bar and continuing down Giovecca, the main street into town, the couple called out Ciao! Then Au Revoir! We said Arrividerci! Goodbye! we said. Goodbye!

In Boco al Lupo

J and I have decided we will be charming old people. Like the people here in Ferrara, Italy. Everyone rides bikes, young and old. Everyone wears adorable, flat shoes. Many have dogs, many wear little dog sweaters.

It makes me miss Mina, who, Vinnie and I decided, must be Italian. She's not difficult, or anti-social. She is Italian. She would wait patiently for me while I drink my coffee not really paying attention to others on the street, just like these little Italian dogs.

The coffee is all espresso. As in that is what you get when you order coffee. And it's wonderful and quickly efficient. The stores feature ham, bottles of olive oil in windows. There are shops completely dedicated to selling fruit.

The people of Ferrara have been ever so gracious in letting J and I try our few Italian phrases. Two coffees, please. Minerale water, please. I don't speak Italian -etc.

The same things happen here as everywhere else. Teenagers gather at certain landmarks (here, the beautiful, historic cathedral), people eat a quick lunch (sandwiches with mozarella, or a slice of pizza), friends drink a beer - or sprizze con compari, my new favorite. But here, in Italy, it all somehow seems more interesting. Of course being on vacation in an unfamiliar location is part of that. But, also, it is an adorable city, easy to love. It will be hard to leave - luckily, we've got an entire week.

We're going to make some plans for the rest of our days, including perhaps a trip to the country, a wine tasting, and visiting some of the more well-known cities. For this moment, I am completely content. My jeans are a little tight from the washing I gave my clothes before packing them so tightly into a little suitcase. My hair is a little wild, as there was no hot water in Vinnie's apartment this morning. My father just informed me over the phone that the dogs have "shit half a dozen times" inside which I stressed about before owing some of that up to my exaggeration on his part. All in all, however, what better vacation could there be? None, I say. I want Italy to love me, too - become adopted by Ferrara, and ride my bike all over town.

A Good Week

I sat in the little chair at the family practice center this morning, with the windows overlooking the trees, creating the feeling we were surrounded by woods on all sides. It was raining. It rained all day. Sometimes in intense sheets, sometimes barely enough to warrant windshield wiper use.

There were bags to pack and dishes to wash and put away but I told myself - vacation mode. Perhaps that is why I've been so calm this week, as I explained to the doctor, a young resident who made me wish I had the desire to be a doctor, too. He was such a good listener. I'd returned to the doctor after having several more "panic attacks" or whatever they are in which my heart beats rapidly in the middle of the night. I cure it with ice on my head while lying on the bathroom floor. The bathroom floor is dirty, normally, but this week I've cleaned it with a Grab It cloth. Too bad this week I didn't need it - the floor.

Anyway, elation! when the doc told me I'd pretty much self-diagnosed the problem and if I felt ok dealing with it as I had been, that was fine, or I could be prescribed something. Later, Slavomir listened in disbelief on the phone as I explained to him that I'd talked my way out of getting meds in favor of dealing with the problem myself. Am I really so mature? Perhaps I'm just proud. Whatever it is, I'm no longer worried. As I told Slav, and the doctor, it's not that I'm anxious, generally, I'm just anxious about being anxious, the beginning of said anxiousness occuring after my father was in the hospital early this year, and then again with the onset of cohabitation and all my finely honed habits being put through the wringer. Now I don't worry about much, except worrying. And hell, if I can't get over that problem myself, what can I get over?

And so I forge onward! I've been listening to Dave Brubeck, almost constantly, in my car, and turning the heat up, up higher than maybe I should be this early in the winter season. Yes, the car is still messy, with paper coffee cups and whatnot, but it's cozy. It needs some Febreeze, maybe. But I like it in there. I even like it in the doctor's office. It's vacation mode, truly.

The break will hopefully yield a period of productivity upon returning. That or I'll want to stay in Italy. Whatever the case, this was a good week. A good week to spring off of into whatever comes next.

Just Go Out and Win

Despite the fact that water is flowing from some mysterious location under the toilet here in the office each time we flush, despite the fact that I haven't yet showered and am not looking artistically cute as I'd hoped, but instead just dirty, the happy buzz of our upcoming trip is consistently beating out any feelings of annoyance I might have on a normal day.

In fact, after realizing I might have to stay longer than the rest of the staff today - we've been granted leave at four this afternoon due to Veteran's Day, but I've got a potential interview with a metalsmith that I'll have to stick around for -I started to lament the hour of freedom I'll miss, but then remembered: two weeks. I'm leaving for two weeks. For two weeks I will not be doing this - and this is a job that I like! Hell, I'll probably be absolutely elated to get back to it. And so, with the long vacation, to Italy no less, and my general fortune, I decided that the complaining, even minor, was not valid not one bit.

In fact, the entire week has been somewhat unique in the relaxed atmosphere. Maybe it's just me, or at least more than the trip J and I are about to take. Sadly the one thing I can't completely shake - and most want to - is the nagging travel anxiety that haunts me each time I go anywhere from my parent's house to across the Atlantic. Screw it, I say, I'm a good traveler. Want to know the truth? I'm not.

It's not only the plane takeoff, I'm realizing, but the whole prospect of leaving home and the various responsibilities that go with it. Plus there's the philosophic angle. We get in a vehicle of transport, and we just go. We whisk off to another place, even another COUNTRY. It's so normal for friends to say "Have fun in Europe," as though getting to Europe was an easy and normal thing to do.

Therein lies the problem - it is normal and it is easy. And it's up to me with the help of some red wine to get on board with that idea. It's not major stress I feel, but more like a slight discomfort that I know, reasonably, should disperse. It's like jealousy or unwarranted anger that you know you should shake, but hold on to in the fear there is some reason for it.

But like any complaining. I just can't find reason to worry, and so I won't. Or I'll try. My friend Matt and I were on the high school track and cross country teams together. He used to tell me he was going to win the race. "It's easy," he'd say. "You just go out there and win it." Right on. Just win. I may have, in the past, thought that easier said than done, but lately, I like the thought. Just win. Just get over it.

Capisce?

J: Buon giorno.

Me: Buon giorno.

J: Mi chiamo Justin.

Me: Io non parlo italiano.
Parla inglese?

J: Do I speak English? Si.

Me: Great.

J: No - we're not done.

Me: We don't have to learn the language.

J: I want to learn the language.

We're going to Italy to visit my little brother, Vinnie, who is studying abroad in a town called Ferrara. It's near Venice, but nowhere near as popular a tourist stop. J's insisted we learn a couple phrases to get around, probably a good idea as the town won't have the comfort of Italians used to annoying Americans who don't know any language but their own. But I foresee shoe and scarf buying, lounging, and espresso drinking, and plan on relying on my natural instincts to whack out some Italian phrases when I need to. I've tried this before - this on the spot summoning knowledge of a foreign language. It doesn't work.

J's never been to Europe, and while we're both getting pretty excited, I think his excitement beats mine a little. Plus, he's been working harder, later, and more than me, and this will be a true vacation. "Italy?!" he keeps saying. Yes, Italy.

He's daydreaming about Italian food, he says. J told me he is just envisioning the food we are going to eat when over there, and the atmosphere in which we will eat it.

We'll be on a mountain, overlooking a valley, he tells me. We'll be outside, but under one of those wooden things? With the ivy growing all over it?

I remind him it is November, and slightly cold. He gives me a look and goes on.

So we'll be under that thing, eating big, hot bowls of pasta and bread, and everyone is talking and drinking wine.

I ask him who these people will be, and why we'll be on a mountain and whatnot, but reasoning isn't really part of this daydream. J's also excited about families inviting us in off the street to have dinner with them.

I have no doubt that the trip will, if not live up specifically to these imagined scenes, at least live up to how wonderful we are hoping it will be. Ten days in an Italian town. We'll be the loud Americans and they'll show us how it really is.

The Real World, Chapel Hill

Before I could even begin letting the satisfaction from my Bojangles chicken biscuit and spiced fries go to my head, they were talking about beer again. I found myself irresistibly drawn to do it, too, like peer pressure, only I believed in it and wasn't just doing it to fit in.

I was in already. We had about three thousand visitors for Halloween weekend. Alright, that's an exaggeration but considering I don't even want to take the time to figure out the highest number of people that were in our house at any given moment, it means there were a lot of them.

College friends, their friends from New York, my friends who knew them who live here, my friends from here, people from home, all blended in a haze of used towels and rock music. We had a party Saturday, and on Sunday I awoke to see Craig sleeping soundly on the porch, snuggled in a sleeping bag, cups and popped black balloons surrounding him. Max we found in Craig's car with all the windows creating an internal temperature of what felt like 600 degrees. There was a random guy in the upstairs bedroom on the floor, where four girls had also slept in one bed.

The Bojangles-more-beer incident happened shortly after we all woke up and realized we only had one night left (Sunday) to make it happen, "it" being a memorable throw-down of sorts. Even though we'd already made it through a Friday night on the town and a party on Saturday that lasted til 5 in the morning, they were only around for the weekend and we had priorities. After all, it was Halloween in Chapel Hill, and if we stopped drinking beer, even for a second, we might lose our speed and risk missing out on a strong third night.

I conjectured that I felt still slightly intoxicated from the night before (I made punch with Applejack and brandy, kept tasting it to ensure it was alright, and then there were all the orange Jello shots) and if that was true perhaps I could have more beer and, thus, risk hangover.

No, I was told. No, it always comes.

So we trekked to the Franklin Street bar with the huge beers and our tired, but willing, selves went at it again. More people arrived and the possibilities became more exhilerating. The individuals who'd felt too bad to drink starting drinking. A strong third night, we murmured, a strong third night.

We made it happen, at least until about 1:30 a.m. After my body ceased fighting off the idea that I was just going to do this again (not be sensible) I was able to start shouting and meeting random people for a little while, just like you're supposed to do when pushed to the limit.

After a late-night Wendy's stop we had to go to bed. You are done, my body finally said. The next morning was all quick showers and "Where's my keys? Where's my sunglasses?" because we had to go to work. Are you kidding me? Despite the confusion, I liked seeing all those people rush up and down the stairs. I liked the hugs before people drove off in cars.

When it was over, I took some badly needed time to let myself recover, with, I'll admit, a small tinge of sadness that the house, once again, belonged only to J and I. It often takes the encouragement of others to make you get up and go, no matter the goal.

Just So You Know

I am not going to write about The Thing That Happened on November 2 on this blog. It's not that I don't have anything to say, but I'll put it all on another site. You can read our thoughts and make comments at the
Politikitten blog.

Election Day Haiku

"I Voted" stickers
Leaves crunch happily, so nice
Happy November