Reboot: A new life in Italy

Traveling to the Moon & Back

2009-07-20T23:57:00.000+02:00

“That’s one small step for (a) man, one giant leap for mankind.” -Neil Armstrong

There are only a few times in ones life when an event happens that captures the attention of the world. When something so big occurs the Earth seems to stop for a just a moment. Forty years ago today everyone across the globe gathered in front of their televisions to watch the impossible become reality. On this day in history man landed on the moon and eyes of the world were watching.

My husband was just a young boy growing up in a small Italian town back then. He was fascinated by the “race for space” and day-dreamed about space travel. In the house where he grew up you can still find a picture that he drew, as a child, in chalk on the garage wall. It is drawing of both an American flag and a Russian flag planted on the face of the moon. When I asked him why he didn’t draw the Italian flag, he explained simply that Italy wasn’t part of the race; even at a young age he understood that. But what he couldn’t understand was why America and Russia couldn’t simply share the moon?

It was early in the morning in Italy when the astronauts first walked on the moon. By then my future husband was fast asleep. But he was able to witness Apollo 11 landing on the moon, which had happened several hours earlier. An Italian journalist on television was on the phone with a second Italian journalist reporting live from Cape Canaveral. As Apollo 11 landed on the moon the reporters translated what was being said by NASA. My husband watched along with the rest of the world as history was being made.

By the time I was born man had been traveling into space for the greater part of the decade. As I grew up in the eighties it was no longer big news when spaceships rocketed off for a mission. It seemed to be a normal thing. I recall a school trip to a planetarium where we watched a slide about how life would be in the future. We were told that one day we would all travel into space as tourists and that there would even be space stations where everyday people could go to live and work. With all of the space travel my generation was exposed to, walking around on the moon didn’t seem to be that big of a deal. However, in these few weeks leading up to the 40Th anniversary of the moon landing there have been many shows about the subject on both Italian and American television. It gave me the opportunity to see the moon landing from a new perspective. To see what the technology was back then and what a remarkable accomplishment it was when man touched the surface of the moon for the first time.

As Neil Armstrong took his first steps, he took them not as an American but as a human. What he did was a great accomplishment for mankind. It surpassed cultural and religious differences. It didn’t matter who you were or where you came from, it was an exciting moment in the history of the human race. Everyone across the globe celebrated as mankind ventured out into new territory. It opened the minds of millions and made us all think about the possibilities of what we could accomplish as a people.

Forty years later and we are still waiting for that giant space station where we will all go to live and work. However, there have been a few lucky tourists who have paid to travel into space. Who knows? Maybe one day future generations will travel to the moon for summer vacations.

Found

2009-02-12T11:47:00.006+01:00

As we drove down the neighbour hood street, just a block from our home, I spotted it. A shadowy figure of a cat scampering across the street. My heart skipped a beat and a flicker of hope ignited which was quickly extinguished by my brain. In the four months that Baracca, a homeless cat who had been mooching off of my husband for years, had gone missing I had had many false sightings. Any time I spotted a cat sleeping in the sun or dashing across a courtyard, I thought I had spotted Baracca. Of course I was always wrong and left disappointed, but I couldn't stop myself from continuing to hope.

I watched the cat run behind a parked a car and squinted my eyes in an effort to make out the details.

"It isn't him," my husband said, knowing already what I was thinking.

But something inside of me told me to double check. I was sure it wasn't him either, but I also knew that if I didn't check I would spend the rest of day wondering if it had been our cat. By stopping, I could confirm that the latest Baracca sighting was false.

"Stop the car," I ordered as I unbuckled the seat belt.

"It isn't him, " the Italian repeated. "There is a cat that looks just like Baracca who lives right around the corner."

"I don't care. Stop the car anyway," I insisted.

My husband, an extremely patient man, pulled over with me opening the door before the car had come to a complete stop. The cat, still hiding behind the parked car, watched me with a cautious look, ready to run at a moment's notice.

From a distance it looked like our cat, but up close I was stunned to find that he had an uncanny resemblance to our cat: same color of fur, same tattered ears, same bent whisker. The cat kept his distance from me, not an ounce of recognition in his bright, yellow eyes.

"It's him!" I yelled to the Italian who was waiting in the car, the driver side window rolled down. "It's him! It's him!"

The Italian turned off the car, got out and walked over. Hope filled my heart as tears filled my eyes. After months of worrying and wondering, was it possible that our cat was safe and sound? And right in our own neighborhood?

"It's not him," the Italian said as he walked toward the cat. The cat, uneasy about all of the attention, walked to the back of the parked car in effort to keep a safe distance.

"It's him, " I argued. "I'd know that rotten cat anywhere."

The Italian held his hand down, calling to the cat who refused to move from his position which cause me to believe that I had been mistaken. Baracca had always come to us when we called him. For nine years he had been coming to our house for his daily free meals. In that time, he learned to trust us; even being brave enough to enter our home once in a while. This cat hiding behind the car looked as if he had never seen us before.

We stared at the cat, repeatedly calling him but he just sat, staring back. Always moving farther from us if we tried to approach. Then, when the attention had become too much, the cat ran away seeking the safety of a fenced-in yard. Rather then running away entirely, the cat turned around and walked back towards us before sitting down inside of the yard. It was as if he knew we couldn't get in.

We stared at him from the sidewalk, still unsure if it was him for certain. And then it happened. The cat spoke to us. He called out with the saddest excuse for a "meow" that we had ever heard and in that instant, we knew he was our cat. We used to joke that Baracca had never been taught to meow. Often the cat would open his mouth and not a single sound would come out. When he did manage to get out a sound, it was always a high pitched, sad little screech.

After being missing for four months, Baracca had been found. I wanted to scoop him up and give the old flea bag a big hug. I wanted to take him home and give him a proper meal. I wanted to scratch him behind his years and tell him how much we had missed. Instead, I was forced to watch him from a distance. Was it possible he had forgotten us after all of these years? Had he left on purpose or had something happened to him and he couldn't remember his way home?

When it became clear that Baracca wasn't going to let us get near him, the Italian climbed back into the car and turned it on. I stayed staring at my found cat, sad that he didn't seem to remember me.

"Let's go home," the Italian called from the car. I took one last look at the cat, blew him and kiss and turned to walk towards the car. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the cat get up and make a move toward me. I stopped walking and turned back suddenly. As if on cue, the cat sat back down quickly. I called him a few more times, but he just stared back at me blankly.

"Have you ever heard of kitty amnesia?" I asked the Italian as we drove back home. The Italian smiled. "After all these years he just doesn't come to our home any more? I don't get it."

"Cats have no loyalties," the Italian explained, in an attempt to make me feel better about being abandoned by our cat.

"That cat is a jerk!" I said with a giggle.

"Yes he is." the Italian agreed.

And though Baracca might be a jerk, he is alive; not just alive but well. It was quite clear that our old vagabond cat hadn't been missing any meals. I still watch outside, hoping that as the weather warms up he might just go for long walk and find his way back home.

Wishing You The Best in 2009

2008-12-31T17:06:00.004+01:00

It was Queen Elizabeth who said "1992 is not a year on which I shall look back with undiluted pleasure". I feel the same about 2008.

There were some great moments this past year, the best being the time spent with my parents when they visited us in Italy. We made some wonderful memories while traveling to Rome, Florence, and Venice.

Unfortunately, I will always remember 2008 for one thing and one thing only; it was the year we lost Roscoe. A beloved cat, a friend, a companion, a keeper of secrets, a heart mender, a smile maker, he was all of these and so much more. The hole in my heart, left in his absence, will never go away.

Aside from losing Roscoe, we also lost another friend. For more years then I have lived here a dirty, tattered feral cat has come to our home where my husband lovingly fed him. In fact, we have several stray cats who visit our home for daily meals. Just one month after Roscoe died one of our stray cats, named Baracca after the great Italian WWI pilot, came up missing. As a stray male, it wasn't unusual for him to disappear from time to time. But as the days turned into weeks, I started to worry. Several months later and there has been no sighting him. I wonder and worry about him still. Hoping he will return to us, but knowing in my heart that he will not.

Even though it has been a rough year, there is a part of me that isn't ready to see it come to close. In some strange way I feel that by moving ahead into the new year, we are leaving Roscoe and Baracca behind.

2008 is not a year on which I shall look back with undiluted pleasure and so I will look ahead in hopes that the new year will bring with it better times.

Wishing you all much love, happiness and good fortune in the new year.

Happy Thanksgiving

2008-11-27T19:59:00.001+01:00

The table is set. The candles are lit. Walter, our 15 pound Thanksgiving turkey, is resting quietly in the oven. The only things missing are my American family and our friends. My family is here with me, deep inside my heart and in my thoughts. Our friends will be arriving any minute now.

Where ever you are, how ever you celebrate..

wishing you a wonderful Thanksgiving filled with love and laughter.

Buona festa!

Searching for Turkey

2008-11-26T08:04:00.007+01:00

I walked into the local butcher shop feeling sightly nervous. Several years ago, at this same shop, I had asked for a seven pound turkey and walked away with a bird that has become the stuff of expatriate folklore . I was worried about history repeating itself, but I had no other choice.

"It is too late to order a small turkey for Thursday?" I asked almost certain that he would tell me it was too late, as the other butchers had.

"What size turkey do you need?," he asked.

"Six kilos. Seven at the absolute most," I said while experiencing deja vu. I had told him the same thing several years ago and ended up with a 42 pound bird.

The butcher picked up the phone and made a call. I was prepared to serve turkey breast at our Thanksgiving feast, but now it seemed that there might be hope for an entire bird.

After chatting in dialect for a few minutes, the butcher hung up the phone.

"At this time on Thursday, your bird will be ready," he told me with a smile.

I thanked him and left the shop, happy to have found a turkey at last. However I know too well, that just because I asked for a 13 pound turkey doesn't necessarily mean that I will get a 13 pound turkey.

All I can do is hope that Carlos doesn't have a son. I guess I will find out tomorrow if he does.

Carlos (18 kilos)

42 pounds of manly, Italian, Thanksgiving turkey

More about Carlos here and here

Window Peepers

2008-11-12T12:47:00.005+01:00

I have been a terrible blogger. When I first started my blog, I filled my days with writing posts and reading other blogs. But in this past year I have been failing miserably at my blogging ditties. Perhaps it is because my time has been filled with other things. Or Perhaps it it because I just haven't felt like writing.

I assure you that things are well and that my happy-ever-after is still happy. I am still traveling around Italy, meeting interesting people, experiencing wonderful things, and loving living here. The Italian is well. We are happy and healthy. And other than the loss of Roscoe, life has been kind to us.

While absent from the blog world it seems I have missed a lot. Just the other day I opened up Niki's blog, an expatriate living along the Amafli coast, to see what she has been up to. I was shocked when I saw that her blog "The Life I Chose" had been deleted. In it's place was the simple the title "Not the Life I Chose". I was shocked. What had happened to Niki? Was she okay? Did she return to the UK? Was her love affair with Italy over? Was her family alright?

It got me thinking about this whole blog thing and how much we really know, or don't know, about the people who write.

As a reader, I felt concerned and disappointed all in one. It was if the writer had closed the book before finishing the story. I wanted a conclusion, an explanation, or at least to know that Nicki and her family are okay.

As a writer I understood. Something had happened that was so big Nicki had closed the blog which she so enjoyed writing. A million reasons for what might have happened swirled around in my head, none of them would I have cared to write about had it happened to me. And this is what got me thinking...

By writing about what is going on in our lives gives readers the impression that they know us personally. But I can assure you that most of us do not reveal everything to our readers; I can tell you that I surely don't. No one wants to read about the terrible things that happen in our lives. They don't want to hear about illness, tragedy or death. No one is interested in the arguments that rise from time to time in a marriage, the boring hum drum of every day (like going to the grocery store, cleaning the house or shoveling cat poo) or the minute details that make up life.

When we write on our blogs, we reveal only what we wish our readers to see. For the reader it may be a bit like window peeping except that we, the writers, leave the curtains open and lights on in only in the rooms which we wish you see. The rest of our house is closed to the public. And though there are a few Bloggers out there who seem to share everything with the world, I would be willing to bet that there are always window of the house that are kept closed to readers.

Through a little Blogger research, I was able to find out that thankfully Nicki and her family are indeed well. I won't write about her reasons for leaving the blog world because I feel that when and if she wants the world to know, she will write about it.

And for you other bloggers out there, I am interested in hearing your thoughts. Do you leave all the lights on for your readers? Or do you keep some of the rooms of your life private?

*Niki, if you happen to read this send me an email. I would love to keep in touch with you!

Four Years On

2008-11-04T13:15:00.005+01:00

Two months ago the Italian and I headed to the Cinedream theater in the outskirts of Faenza to catch a movie. As we walked our usual path through the parking lot, I noticed something I had never seen before. Something so beautiful, something so amazing, that it stopped me dead in my tracks. It was a sign which read "Mc Donald's 2 minuti". Its brilliant white background and golden arches sparkled in the light of the moon.

"Mc Donald's? Two minutes ahead?" I said out loud, not believing what I was seeing. Never had I lived so close to Mc Donald's, not since moving to Italy. Could Christmas have come early this year?

But then a funny thing happened. We saw the movie and left Faenza without ever checking out the new Mc Donald's. A week later we drove by it on our way into town, only to see the brand new Mc Donald's complete with a packed parking lot and a line at the drive through longer than the Mississippi River. We didn't stop.

Weeks turned into months and still I hadn't dragged the Italian to Mc Donald's. At last one night a group of our friends, who were meeting us for a movie, suggested we meet at Mc Donald's for a quick meal before the show. Knowing they were "sacrificing" themselves for my happiness, I told them that I would be just as content with plate a pasta if they would prefer to go elsewhere. But their minds were set on taking me to Mc Donald's and so we went.

I giggled to myself as we sat on the new stools covered with fake leather. As I munched on my chicken sandwich and french fries I couldn't help but think how much I have changed in the years since my move to Italy. The old Cyndi would have jumped at the chance to eat greasy, American comfort food as she struggled to over come her culture shock. The old Cyndi would have pleaded for the Italian to take her to the new Mc Donald's until the Italian would have begged her "no more"! But in the years I have been here, I have found myself adapting well to my Italian life and needing the things from America less.

My kitchen is empty of marshmallows, peanut butter and Kraft Mac n' Cheese; things I imported (or begged my family to send) in those first few years in Italy. And though I still enjoy the occasional peanut butter cup, I no longer find myself pining away for them when I have none.

Toady marks the four year anniversary of when I touched down in Italy and started my new life here. Four years which have been filled with endless happiness and a touch of sorrow. I have been heartbroken since Roscoe's death, but today I miss him even more. I keep thinking about the journey that the three of us (Roscoe, Opus and I) made together. How we left our lives in America for a new one in Italy. I can still remember how much I worried about the boys as we traveled across an ocean to be with the man I love. And I still remember how happy and relived I was when I found them next to the luggage carousal after landing in Milan. Roscoe had some sort of goop on his nose that looked like harden toothpaste, though I am sure he didn't brush his teeth during the trip. I never did figure out what it was, not even when I lovingly washed off his little pink nose.

(Me, Opus and Roscoe leaving America
at Chicago's O'Hare International Airport)

Last week I met an American tourist who was amazed to learn that I live in Italy. "How can you stand living here?" she kept repeating over and over, referring to the bureaucratic red tape and slower Italian life style. For me now, the question will never be "how can I live here". The question for me now is "how can I not"?

I will always love and miss America, but Italy is home.

The Big Day

2008-11-03T18:00:00.003+01:00

After what feel like ten years of election coverage, the big election day is almost here. This blog has never been (nor will ever be) a political blog, so I won't share my thoughts with you on who I think is right for the job (or less wrong is more like it). What I can tell you is that the American election has been big news over here in Italy with many of my friends asking about the election process or wanting to know my views on the candidates. It has been fun seeing everyone so excited about what is going on in my home country.

Today happens to be the fourth anniversary of when I left America and moved to Italy. As if I weren't feeling homesick enough, watching the excitement over election day has made me wish even more that I could back in America to be a part of it.

No matter who wins or looses, this has been a historical election with either the first African American as the president or the first woman as the vice predident. I can't wait to see how it all turns out.

Now get out there and vote America! And remember, the world is watching....

All Souls Day

2008-11-02T18:10:00.002+01:00

"No heaven will not ever Heaven be;
Unless my cats are there to welcome me." ~ Anonymous

Italy in Indy

2008-10-04T17:10:00.006+02:00

Just this afternoon, as I spent a few mindless hours surfing the net, I managed to come across a website all about Indianapolis. Feeling a bit homesick I clicked through photo gallery, looking at photos of a city had I come to love. Memories began to flood my mind:the concerts I had attended on the lawn of White River, the nights spent club hopping with friends, dinners out at my favorite restaurants. How many times I had I watched the sun rise at "The Circle" after a long night shift on the ambulance? How many times had a driven to and from work on the highway that passes by the city center and how many times did I admire the beautiful skyline? More than I could count. I started feeling homesick and suddenly had the urge to book a flight to Indiana ASAP. Then I came across a photo that made smile. There on the canal, in downtown Indianapolis, was a gondola complete with a gondolier dressed in a striped shirt. I couldn't help but giggle.

Since my move to Italy, faux gondoliers had arrived in Indy ready to take giddy tourist out for a spin on the canals of the Cirlce City. I clicked on the website of the company offering the gondola rides and was shocked to see the price. A half hour ride cost no less than $150!

I pictured myself in Indianapolis watching the gondolas on the Not-so-grand Canal. For sure the sight would have made me feel homesick for Italy. That is the thing about being an expatriate, no matter where you are there is always some place you miss.

On the upside, in just 2 hours time I can be in Venice riding around in a REAL gondola. And for the same price a gondola ride in Indy, I will have the beauty and enchantment of Venice surrounding me.

Life is good!

A New Month

2008-10-02T09:59:00.013+02:00

A new month has arrived. I felt this might be a good time to get back to blogging. To say that our home isn't the same without Roscoe feels like the understatement of the year. He was such a happy, fun loving cat who constantly made me laugh. He was a wonderful companion and a true friend. At last I can look at his photos without bursting into tears. However, I have cried everyday since his passing. They say that time heels all wounds, but they also say absences makes the heart grow fonder. How can it be both? I miss Roscoe more every day. Time heals all wounds? It feels more like time has its finger stuck in my wound, ripping it open even wider.

I have friends and family who are going through terrible times right now. People who have problems much greater than a pet that has passed away. At times I feel guilty for feeling so awful because my cat died. I know I should count my blessing and be thankful for all that I have.
Other times I don't feel so guiltyy. After all, grief is grief isn't it? Whether you are grieving the loss of a loved one, the loss of a relationship, the loss of job or the loss of a pet. In that moment of crushing grief, is the pain not the same? We all grieve for the unwanted change in our lives. We grieve for what was, what would have been, and what will be no more. We grieve for the life that we knew and for the life that no longer exists.

Some may say that it is strange to grieve so deeply over a family pet, while others will read this and understand just how deep my pain runs. We open our homes to these sweet animals and in turn, we open up our hearts to them. We care for them, love them, play with them, cherish them and yes, we even talk to them. When they are no longer here, it leaves a gaping hole. A hole that I know will never be filled again.

Life marches on with or without me. The season is changing whether I want it to or not. Just this morning I awoke in a haze. The kind that comes with a restless night of strange, broken dreams. The sun peered into my bedroom, peaking from behind the gray clouds which covered the morning sky. The Italian had already left for work while Opus was curled up next to me, his paw stretched out across my shoulder. For a moment my mind was foggy, I wasn't even sure what day it was. Then I heard a familiar sound, muffled popping sounds carried by wind. From that sound I understood that it was Thursday; in the fall Thursday is the day the hunters are permitted to hunt in the morning. Instantly I thought of Roscoe and how much he hated the sounds of the hunters guns or any sudden, loud noise. He would always scamper under the bed until it was late morning when the hunters returned home.

The sounds of the hunters guns are a clear sign that fall is underway in Italy.

Outside the leaves are just starting to turn color. The kids have gone back to school. The velvet peaches of late summer have been replaced by golden apples and sweet pears at the farmer's roadside stand.

The season is changing.

Life marches on and so must we.

Our Roscoe Is Gone

2008-09-10T16:49:00.008+02:00

We are devastated. Our sweet little Roscoe went over the rainbow bridge early yesterday morning. He put up a good fight with his strong little heart, but in the end he his heart gave out and death came to gently take him away. We are heart broken beyond words. Having Opus and Roscoe with me is like having a living, breathing part of my old, American life here in Italy.

Roscoe, we will love you forever and keep you close in our hearts....

Goodbye Again

2008-08-17T12:59:00.009+02:00

It seemed like it would be enough time when I booked my parent's airplane tickets; almost a full seven weeks together. And yet the time passed by quicker than I could have ever imagined. We traveled like crazy, enjoyed festivals, great meals, time at the beach, and the occasional quiet day at home.

It was always in the back of mind, to enjoy every moment possible as I knew it would end to soon. The more I tried to slow the time down, the faster the days passed. As much as I tried to ignore the day of my parent's departure, August 14Th glared at me from the calender. I actually caught myself glaring back at it.

Knowing how much my mom loves the beach, I planned our last outing to be a day at the seaside. With beach towels tucked under our arms and a cooler packed with lunch and cold drinks, we set off for the beach of Casal Borsetti.

We enjoyed the day as we sprawled out on lounge chairs and sought refuge from the unforgiving Italian sun under a blue and white striped umbrella. Our lazy, dream-like state was only interrupted by the occasional dip in the cool, salty water. But as the hours passed and the day neared closer to an end, I found myself feeling unusually sad. This was it. The summer with my parents was coming to a close, the party was almost over.

When the Italian noticed my somber face, he quickly blurted out "Siamese kitty at the beach!", referring to a kitten we had seen that morning. At only six months old, her family had already gotten her use to spending time at the beach. The sweet, little Siamese rolled around in the sand and slept on a lounge chair as if cats had always been meant to be at the seaside. His efforts worked, if only for a while. The thought of the kitten, who had gone home with her family at lunch time, made me smile briefly.

As I laid on my lounge chair I listened to my M3P player. I watched the waves of the Adriatic lap up against the shore before retreating back to the sea. The sun warmed my body, turning my bronze skin pink. Mom and Dad, on lounge chairs next to me, were in their own worlds; Mom bathing in the heat of summer like a true sun worshiper while Dad was lost in a book. I felt my heart tighten and my stomach sink as I thought about their inevitable departure. Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath in an attempt to push my sadness deep inside. Just when I had succeeded at over coming a new round of tears, a song by Zero Assoulto started, "Prima di Partere". The English translation? Before to Leave. Instantly a stream of tears began to flow, stinging my sunburned cheeks as they made their way down my face. Pretending to sleep, I buried my face in my arms to keep my family from seeing me cry.

Good bye never gets easier.

No matter how many times I have to do it....

Rome, July 2008

Living in the Moment

2008-08-06T14:57:00.004+02:00

Time is winding down. Though my mind is telling me that there are still seven full days before my parents return to the States, my heart is screaming "there are ONLY seven more days before my parents return to the States!!!" Our summer vacation has taken us to Rome, Florence, Ferrara, Milan and Venice. We have enjoyed outdoor concerts, poetry readings, barbecues with friends, a town festival, a Medievil festival, a Celtic festival, fabulous dinners at fantastic restaurants, bottomless glasses of wine, and countless gelatos.

I have to admit that I have done a terrible job of writing about our adventures, but sometimes it better to experience life rather than spend all your time writing about it. I assure you (no, I PROMISE you) that once our house falls silent again, I shall tell you all about the summer.

In the meantime, I am going to enjoy what time we have left together and leave the writing for another day....

Buon Compleanno Cara!

2008-07-31T22:06:00.002+02:00

Two years ago today, my sweet little niece entered the world (and our hearts), changing our lives forever.

Wishing you a wonderful 2ND birthday Cara. We don't see each other as often as I would like, but know that we love you so very much! Keeping you close inside of hearts until we meet again.....

Buon compleanno e tanti, tanti auguri!

Lost in Translation (not)

2008-07-17T13:59:00.006+02:00

I crossed the Rialto bridge, parents in tow, searching for the neighborhood of San Polo. The Italian had gone off on his own to hit a few of his favorite shops while I stayed, with Mom and Dad, playing the tourist guide. We had an appointment to meet in a square where we had enjoyed a gelato the night before, while watching the local life from a brightly colored red bench. I knew we were close to the rendezvous point, but when we came across an outdoor fish market I realized I had zigged when I should have zagged. With only fifteen minutes before our scheduled meeting time, I decided I had better ask a local for directions rather than figuring the path out on my own.

I spotted a young man approaching me from the opposite direction of the side walk; pushing a dolly full of boxes I knew he had to be a Venetian.

"Excuse me," I said in my best Italian, "Could you please tell me where San Paolo is?"

The young man stopped dead in his tracks and rolled his eyes, I knew then that I had made a mistake.

"San POLO!" he said, being sure to stay the word Polo much louder than San.

"Sorry, San Polo", I said with a slight smile on face.

The young Venetian then proceeded to give me directions. Though I didn't know exactly where the San Polo neighborhood was, I knew that it was close. The moment I was told to go back over the Rialto bridge, I knew the stronzo (little turd) was lying to me.

"Turn around, go back over that big bridge and then keep going straight. You will reach San Polo in about thirty-five minutes on foot".

There was no time to call the guy out on his lie. I didn't feel like an argument and, if we didn't get moving, we were going to be late.

"Thanks," I said while scanning the crowd for the next local to ask. Just behind me an older gentlemen with snow white hair and wearing an apron of the same color, was closing up his shop for lunch.

Without wasting time, I asked him where I could find the neighborhood of San Polo.
"This," he said waving his hands around " IS San Polo". Apparently we were already standing in the middle of the very neighbored that I had been searching for.

I went on to get more specific directions, asking where I could find the Friar's church which I new was near our meeting point. The kind man informed me that we had missed a left hand turn by only one block.

I thanked the elderly gentlemen and, with my parents following, headed off in search of the square with the red benches, while secretly cursing the jerk who had tried to give bad directions to the unsuspecting tourists. Fortunately THIS unsuspecting tourist knew better.

Off Again

2008-07-14T08:14:00.004+02:00

Mom and Dad arrived safe and sound. We have had a wonderful week and a half that has been spent sightseeing, traveling, eating, and laying around the house. I have been too busy (lazy) to write about our adventures, but if you stop by Mom's blog
you get to see what we have been up to.

This morning we are off for another adventure. Can you guess where we are going now? I will give you one hint....

Airport Tears

2008-06-30T14:28:00.004+02:00

My love/hate relationship with the airport continues....

Since meeting the Italian seven years ago, I find myself crying at airports often. Saying good bye to him at the end of a visit was extremely hard since we never knew exactly when, or if, we would see each other again. You would have thought that things would be easier when I moved to Italy, but airports still make me cry.

Often the Italian stays behind, due to work, when I go back home to visit. I cry when saying good bye to him, even though I am thrilled to be going back to the States. And when I leave America, I am a river of tears, as saying good bye to my family gets harder, not easier, with each visit. Good byes in America have become even more difficult now that I have a beautiful little niece that I have to leave behind. The last time I said good bye to Cara at the Indianapolis airport, I cried the entire length of my concourse and continued to cry as I sat in my chair waiting for the plane to board. The more I tried to stop, the harder I cried. At last a flight attendant asked me if I was okay. I thought she was going to slap me when I responded through my tears, "Yeah. Its just that I have to go Italy." It is all I was able to get out before more tears came. "Whats wrong with Italy?" she asked not understanding the situation.

I am happy to say that I am preparing myself for another tearful airport moment, but this time the tears will be ones of happiness. This Wednesday, in just two short days, the Italian and I will travel to Bologna to pick my parents up at the airport. It is their first trip to Italy together in three years and they will be spending the summer with us.

There are so many wonderful things going on in Italy during the summer like outdoor concerts, town festivals, evening flea markets, beach life, and movies "sotto le stelle", under the stars; things I have always told them about and have wanted to share with them since my first summer in Italy. This summer they will be here to experience it all with us.

It fills my heart with happiness to think that Mom and Dad will be here and just the thought of hugging them at the airport makes me cry.

The last time we were all together;
Road trip,
summer 2008,
somewhere in America
heading east

See you soon Mom and Dad.....

Happy Birthday Day Dad!

2008-06-25T11:59:00.010+02:00

Sending birthday wishes across the miles! Just think Dad, in one week from today we will be arriving at the airport in Bologna! Can't wait to see you and to celebrate your many, many, many, many, many, many (uh, what was I saying? Oh yeah..) many, years on this planet! But really, where were you before you came to earth?

Work on your shark research and we will discuss our findings at the International Shark Research Conference 2008 held at the Island of Vague Foreign Accents.

(click on photo to enlarge)

Now go away or I shall taunt you a second time! And have a wonderful birthday!
Love,
Cyn
(anyone else reading this shall think we are strange. And they wouldn't be wrong)!

My Love Affair with Cats

2008-06-21T11:23:00.010+02:00

A few weeks ago I spotted a poster advertising the musical "Cats" at a theater in Forli. I assumed it was a local group doing the Italian version of the show, but that didn't matter. Cats is one of my favorite musicals of all time and I wasn't about to miss it. The Italian and I jumped on our motorbike and drove to Faenza where we bought two tickets from a tiny, record shop. As we entered, I spotted a twenty-something year-old behind the counter, dressed in all black and adorned with tattoos and piercings. The Italian first asked for tickets to a rock concert he was planing to see with his friends. When his turn was finished, I was up to bat. I half expected the "young punk" to laugh in my face when I asked for two tickets to Cats. You know that old saying "never judge a book by its cover"? Well it is absolutely true. The next thing I knew I was discussing the musical in Italian with the guy!

"I wonder if it is in English," I said.

"I hope so," he said "musicals are always better in their original language."

At the end of our conversation I left the record shop with my tickets in hand and pleasantly surprised that the tattooed man just as happy about seeing Cats as I was.

Even better, I found out that Cats will be performed by a professional group and in its original language. The tour is only stopping in four Italian cities:Venice, Milan, Forli, and Caserta. I am really excited to be seeing Cats tonight. I only wish that my Mom could be here to see it with me. We have a bit of a history with this musical and it would be fun to share the evening with her.

Way back when I was a kid, my Mom took me to see Cats in Chicago when the Broadway troupe went on a national tour. For reasons that are now lost to time, my father and brother could not go with us. Somehow, we ended up with one extra ticket and Mom told me I could bring a friend along for an over night trip to the Windy City. Frantically I began calling my friends in hopes of finding someone who could go at the last minute. The first person I called was my best friend Jill. I was crushed when she told me she could go. Down the list of friends I went, trying desperately to find someone who could go with us. One by one, they all said no.

The older I get the more I am finding that I can not remember the past clearly. Events stand out in my mind, the details are gone. I can not remember if I ever found a friend to join us in Chicago. I don't even remember much about the trip itself. What I do remember is going to see the show for the very first time with my Mom and loving it. I have loved Cats ever since.

(the original London Cast of 1981)

In high school, the Broadway troupe was on tour again and this time they stopped in the small city where I lived (Fort Wayne, Indiana). That night I saw Cats with my parents and a group of family friends. It was just as magical as I had remembered it to be as a child.

Later in life, I was reunited with the show again. I was living in Indianapolis at the time, working on an ambulance. As a part time job, I worked first aid at Clowes Hall at Butler University. It was a great job because I was paid to be at the theater while there was a performance. Needless to say, there were never many medical emergencies during the shows and so most of the time I chatted with the staff or watch the performance for free. One season Cats came to Clowes Hall as a part of their Broadway series. Each performance I worked, I watched the show. One night I even called my Mom during the song "Memories". She wasn't home, but the answering machine picked up. I held my cell phone up and the machine recorded a part of the song for my Mom to hear when she got home. Several nights later, she sat with me in box seats in the balcony, where we were so close to the cats that we could almost touch their whiskers.

Also while living in Indy, we found out that Beef and Board was going to have their own performance of Cats. We coughed up the $45 per ticket and booked our seats. What was fun about this performance was that it took place at a dinner theater. Before the show, we enjoyed an all-you-can-eat-buffet complete with mashed potatoes and roast beef. After dinner, we sat our table and enjoy the show. The theater was small and intimate. It was just perfect.

And so you see, the musical "Cats" holds a very special place in my heart. I have literally grown up with the show and have seen it during all the stages of my life. How fitting that Cats has followed me to Italy. I will go tonight with a smile on my face and thoughts of my Mom in my heart. I hope that in ten years, I can add the memory of tonight to my list. The night I saw Cats in Italy with my beautiful husband when I was a thirty-something girl....

"Let the memories live again"

Happy Father's Day

2008-06-15T11:59:00.000+02:00

My father is a psychology professor at a university in Indiana. Some of my earliest (and favorite) memories involve me hanging out with my Dad in his laboratory, while he tried to get a little work done.

From the very start of our lives my brother, Scott, and I were exposed to my Dad's passion for science and history. Back in the days before the History or Discover Channels, educational shows could only be seen on PBS (public broadcasting system). Many nights, we sat on the couch with our Dad, watching shows about evolution or the big bang theory. We learned about the stars, dinosaurs, ancient history, life, the universe, and everything.

It was at a young age when I first became interested in the sciences and for a while, shared my father's interest in dinosaurs. At some time during elementary school, I decided I would rather be a marine biologist than I paleontologist. My father was sweet enough to indulge me during in my Lochness Monster phase; encouraging me read any book I could find on the subject while knowing that Nessy was more legend than science. And I am sure he was disappointed when I gave up marine biology to become a Rocket at Radio City Hall in New York, though he never showed it.

During our middle school years, when we thought our parents didn't know a thing, my father proved to be far smarter than we gave him credit for. Instead of sending us to our rooms as a punishment when we were in trouble, we were forced to sit with him and watch PBS! It is something we laugh at to this day, but at the time it really ticked us off.

How fitting it is that both my brother and I now love watching the History and Discover channel. And when I am watching a particutalry interesting show, I just can't wait to get my Dad on the phone to tell him all about it.

Happy Father's Dad. Thank you for opening our eyes to world, when we tried dearly to keep them shut. I can not WAIT to see you in Italy! There are so many things in Rome that I have waited a long time to show you. I am sure that you and I will be able to bore the heck out of Mom! See you soon!

Love,
me

Buon Aniversario Amore Mio

2008-06-11T16:32:00.021+02:00

The first time I met the Italian, in person, was in July of 2001. I didn't know it then, or maybe I wasn't ready to admit it, but I was in love with him before we ever met face to face.

I was nervous that hot summer day as I watched him for him at the gate. What if we didn't recognize each other? What if he wasn't the wonderful person he had appeared to be in our long distant chats and emails? But the moment I saw him, my doubts dispeared. I recognized him instantly. I still remember how I felt as I saw him exit the plane; my stomach a ball of nerves. The airport was busy with summer travelers and I stood at the back of the crowd, partly hidden by giant pillar. His eyes lit up when they met mine, a giant smile spread across his face and, as if in a cheesy, romance novel, time stood still.

The first gift the Italian ever gave me was a CD he had bought in Italy. It was "Amore nel Pomeriggio" (Love in the Afternoon) by Francesco de Gregori and, to this day, it is still my favorite CD. There are so many wonderful songs on this CD and when I listen to the music, I am reminded of our first summer together as if it had just happened last month. One song in particular became my favorite. When I listen to it today, I can still picture us slow dancing in our pajamas in my apartment in Indianapolis, the room filled with candle light, and tears running down my face at the thought of saying good bye.

After the Italian returned home, I listened to this CD over and over. The quiet music was soothing and the sound of De Gregori singing in Italian made my Italian seem as if he weren't so far away.

The words of the song where also important to me during those years apart. Francesco, who writes poetic lyrics, simply says this: no matter where life takes you, all you have to do is look for me and you will find me on the same side. He could be talking about several different things, but I always took it mean "I'm always with you".

I could have never have guessed back then that our love would endure the miles and time apart. I could never haven known that our love would bring me to Italy, where we would marry and promise to spend a life time together. And when I listen to this CD now, I remember those months a part, those sad good byes at the airports, the late night phone calls, the heart ache of not being with the one you love. This CD reminds me of how lucky I am to be here, to have found the Italian, and to have followed my dreams and my heart by moving to Italy.

June 11, 2005

It wasn't hard to pick a song to dance to on our wedding day. We chose the last song on the Amore nel Pomerggio CD. The one when in which De Gregori sings about love.... As I danced with my new husband in front of our friends and family, wearing a gorgeous white, wedding gown of lace and beads, I closed my eyes. For a moment we were back in my tiny apartment in Indianapolis, dancing to "our song", in pajamas.

Always and Forever

Rain and sun change
the face to people,
They make a mess of the heart,
It comes and goes
but never stops.

Always and forever
you remember
wherever you are,
If you look for me
you will find me on the same side.

I watch the people go, get lost, and return,
and get lost again.
And they reach out with empty hands.
With the same shoes
they walk on different streets,
or with different shoes
they walk on the same street.

Do not believe
if someone tells you I have changed.
Rain and sun
bark and bite,
but they leave.
They leave time as it is (nothing changes).

And true love can
hide itself,
disappear in a crowd,
but it can never be lost.

Always and forever,
On the same side
you will find me.
Always and forever,
On the same side
you will find me.

Sempre per Sempre

Pioggia e sole
cambiano
la faccia alle persone
Fanno il diavolo a quattro nel cuore e passano
e tornano
e non la smettono mai
Sempre e per sempre tu
ricordati
dovunque sei,
se mi cercherai
Sempre e per sempre
dalla stessa parte mi troverai
Ho visto gente andare, perdersi e tornare
e perdersi ancora
e tendere la mano a mani vuote
E con le stesse scarpe camminare
per diverse strade
o con diverse scarpe
su una strada sola
Tu non credere
se qualcuno ti dirà
che non sono più lo stesso ormai
Pioggia e sole abbaiano e mordono
ma lasciano,
lasciano il tempo che trovano
E il vero amore può
nascondersi,
confondersi
ma non può perdersi mai
Sempre e per sempre
dalla stessa parte mi troverai
Sempre e per sempre
dalla stessa parte mi troverai

Happy Anniversary amore mio.
Non c'e due senza tre!

The Start of the Season

2008-06-09T10:01:00.005+02:00

At the first signs of warmer weather we headed straight for the garage where we found our motorcycle, slightly buried behind a lawn mower and Christmas boxes. We pulled it out of the garage and into our courtyard, and proceeded to dust off a winter's worth of dirt. The Italian put the key in, turned it, and gave the bike a few revs on the throttle. Just as we suspected, it choked and sputtered before shutting down entirely. Like every spring, our motorbike was going to need a little convincing to come out of hibernation.

After a dance with jumper cables and a stop at the gasoline station, we were on our way with the Italian driving and I sitting behind him, a sky blue helmet on my head and a Cheshire cat smile on my face. Within minutes we were zooming through the Italian countryside and I watched in sheer delight as we whizzed pass the vineyards and fruit orchards. I closed my eyes for a moment enjoying the wind on my face and the warm sun kissing my pale, winter cheeks.

We had only been driving for a few minutes when I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. For a brief moment, I couldn't understand what the blur of color was that had flashed by me. I turned, without letting go of the Italian, just in time to see my blue scarf fly away. It had been caught by the wind and ripped right off of my neck.

I watched in surprise, a powder blue snake dancing in mid air. It was if my scarf was rejoicing in its new found freedom. Then suddenly the wind died and I watched as it fell lifelessly to the ground, landing smack dab in the middle of the street.

Normally, this stretch of country road is empty, but on this particular day, at the very moment of my scarf's escape, a parade had appeared. Behind us was another motorcylce, followed by no less than four cars; all waiting to have their chance at driving over my beautiful scarf.

I tapped the Italian on the shoulder who immediately thought I was just saying hi. He tapped my leg back and continued driving. I taped again, this time more frantically, as I yelled "My scarf! My scarf!" But my screams were in vain for the moment they left my lips, they were immediately swallowed by the drones of the motorbike.

Thanks to my frantic tapping, the Italian slowed down to the point that I could be heard over the engine of the bike. "My scar!", I repeated like a broken record. For moment he understood that I wanted to go home and get a scarf, but he soon understood that his graceful, American wife has lost her scarf to the wind.

"Why are you wearing a scarf on a motorbike ride?" he growled in accented English.

"Because I thought it might be chilly with the wind. And who cares any way? We have to go back to get my scarf. It is in the road!"

Being married to someone who speaks English as a second language, I am never quiet sure if my husband always understands what I am saying. This was one of those moments. The Italian looked at me - his amber eyes burning with disdain- turned the bike around, and went back up the street from which we just traveled. It was quiet clear; he understood.

By losing my scarf to the wind, I had made a brutta figura, bad figure, but even worse I could have caused an accident. The Italian would have been happy to leave my scarf in the road. To pretend it wasn't ours, that we hadn't been the careless bike riders, but that scarf had been a gift from our friends Mirco and Francesca. It was a beautiful blue scarf that made my blue eyes appear even more blue (or so I had been told). I wasn't about to leave it the road for dead.

It seemed to take forever to find the spot in road where my scarf had flown away. I had seen that the motorcyclist behind us had missed running over it, but I wasn't sure about the cars behind him. I imagined each car running over it again and again and I pictured my beautiful scarf in the middle of the road, tattered and full of dirt.

Then, as if by magic, I spotted my scarf. It was in the hands of a motorcyclist who had been driving towards us. It wasn't just any motorcyclist, it was the one who had been behind us when my scarf took flight. He had driven back to my scarf, picked it up, and was trying to catch up with us to deliver it. The Italian pulled over and I jumped off the back of the bike. The good Samaritan had spotted us and had pulled over as well.

I never saw the face of the good Samaritan as it was hidden behind the darken face shield of his helmet. I never heard his voice either. He simply handed me my scarf and waved as I profussly thanked him.

I carefully tied my spotless scarf around my neck, stuffed it down in to my jacket, and secured it safely by zipping my jacket shut. "This," I said to the Italian "would have NEVER happened in America".

We drove away into the sunny afternoon, my scarf safely tucked into my jacket.

________________________________________________________

Motorcycle Driveby, Third Eye Blind

Robert F. Kennedy

2008-06-06T21:49:00.002+02:00

There are those that look at things the way they are, and ask why?
I dream of things that never were, and ask why not?
-RFK

November 11,1920 - June 6,1968

Spoiled American Cats

2008-06-05T12:19:00.003+02:00

We have all heard about the "spoiled American" stereotype. I would like to believe that it isn't true, but this morning my fuzzy babies proved it to be so. You see, Opus and Roscoe are a bit picky about their food. Since our move to Italy, I have had to import cat treast from America, as our fickle felines refused to eat ANY cat treats that are made in Europe. Thank goodness for the generous cat treat donations that we have received over the years from loving relatives and loyal friends.

The Italian and I have also been spending a small fortune on special diet cat food, as recommended by our vet. Roscoe has done well on his diet while Opus, who now out weights his brother by 2.2 pounds, is still on the "fluffy" side. You would think that being on a diet would force the boys to be less choosy, but these spoiled American cats have high standards that MUST be met. They don't like their dry food to have set in their bowl too long. If they even suspect that the food might be going stale, they will refuse to eat it. Now I know what you non-cat-owning-readers are thinking; if you don't feed them anything else, they will give up and eat the old food. Not true. These little ball breakers (as they say in Italy) will meow, beg, howl, and carry on until fresh food is placed in their bowl. I have to admit, Opus and Roscoe ALWAYS beat me at the game of wills.

Aside from being the owners of two big, clean, beautiful, indoor, American cats, we are also the proud owners of two, little, dirty, beautiful, outdoor, Italian cats. Just this morning, we ran out of the canned cat food that we normally feed to our outdoor cats. Then I had a thought. I wondered if our Italian cats would eat the older, dry food that Opus and Roscoe had been refusing to eat. I placed a bowl out for each cat. The food was devoured as quickly as if I had just served caviar.

And so you see, the spoiled American stereotype is alive and well in our house!