I wish I was there today to hold you, to hold you the way I hold my babies when they are sobbing so hard they can barely breathe, the way I hold my babies when they are stone-faced and lashing out, not as angry at the world as they appear to be, but angry at themselves for having done something for which they are ashamed.
I want to hold you America the way I hold my babies and smooth their hair and kiss their downy heads to say “I love you. No matter what, I always love you.”’
Because America, I do love you. I am angry, I am grieving, but I’ll never give up on you.
I read somewhere once that the most important thing a white person can do to fight racism is to call it out, all the time, in every instance—no matter how uncomfortable it might feel or how uncomfortable it might make someone around us feel. Because as uncomfortable as us white people might feeling calling out racism in our community, that discomfort is nothing compared to what a black mother feels having to explain to her young sons how to stay safe if approached by the police. That discomfort is nothing compared to what that a young man feels when white people cross the street when they see him walking towards them at night. That discomfort is nothing compared to knowing that everything from landing a job to getting approved for a mortgage is harder for no other reason than the “blackness” of one’s name, the darkness of one’s skin tone.
It is better to be uncomfortable, to be the “angry white person” than it is to say nothing. It is better to have well-meaning friends say “but don’t you care about police officers? Don’t you care about my husband who is a policeman and a good person and who has never shot anyone in his life?” than it is to say nothing.
I do care about policemen. My grandfather was a cop in New York City. He’s the one who taught my father to never judge a man by the color of his skin. I am in awe of anyone who gives their life to public service, and I am in awe of their families, loaning their loved ones to our communities every day and every night always with the understanding of the risk that they might never get to come home.
I don’t believe policemen are bad people, I believe most of them do the best they can. But I do believe that policemen — like all of us — are raised in a culture, trained in a system and set forth to police in communities that are inherently biased against people of color in ways that we can’t even see without the privilege of great distance and careful study and even then. None of us white people can say we wouldn’t have done what these police officers did. We don’t know. None of us know exactly how deeply or where racism lies within us without careful and difficult introspection — or until we are in a situation in which adrenaline ignites the most base of our assumptions about the world.
True equality and freedom for everyone in America is not a feel-good endeavor. It requires hard work, it might even be painful. It will require the dismantling and rebuilding of systems upon which most white people have come to rely so instinctively, for so many decades, that we may not even realize they exist.
It will require all of us white people to take an unflinching view at our own behavior, who we instinctively sit down next to on the subway, who we seek out as friends, how we react, what we feel, when we hear someone speaking with an American accent that sounds different from our own. Do we lean in towards our fellow Americans of color or do we shy away?
Those of us who are white have to imagine what its like to spend an entire life time in which every white person around you instinctively leans away, however subtly, wherever you go. What does that do to a person? It’s not an exclusive or proprietary experience for the black community of course — the disabled might understand, so does anyone who wears a turban or a hijab in American these days. But it’s that heavy weight of exclusion and discrimination that our brothers and sisters of color have borne since before the birth of our country.
To my brothers and sisters of color, I am sorry. I am sorry for the suffering of the recent days, for all of the days. I ache to think of what my fellow mothers of color have to anguish over in a world seemingly set up against their own beautiful, innocent children. I am sorry for every way I have wronged you. I have spent my life, up to this point, doing nothing to end the destructive forces of racism in our country. I am ashamed and I am guilty. And I cannot live with myself like that anymore. Not if I want a better world for my babies and for the beautiful babies of my friends whom come in all sorts of shades of brown and tan and peach.
I am in mourning for all of the young black people who’ve lost their lives to extreme violence, for all of the mothers for whom the odds are stacked against their kids. I am saddened for the good police officers of our country for whom their must seem to be no easy way forward. I cry for all of us that we have, up to this point, chosen violence and division over empathy and acceptance.
But I believe, I have to believe, that our grief is not in vain, that the tears that fall, the anguished cries, the rage, none of it is vain. The messages of solidarity and sorrow and rage spreading like wildfire across my computer screen are not in vain. The eloquent essays and opinion pieces I read every day, penned by people of color, are not in vain. the marches are not in vain, the discussions being had around dinner tables and at bars are not in vain.
Because I feel it in my bones that it is these marches, these essays, this unquenchable and hardened desire for a better way forward, these are the reasons why I am still proud to be an American.
Someone from England recently told me that the thing he found most unique about America is the enduring belief amongst Americans that, for every single challenge, there exists a solution. For everything — from dials on a washing machine to school curriculums, to the rights of transgender individuals, to fighting racism — there exists a better way to serve people.
This person told me that while the rest of the world has mostly given up and given in to the idea that some things will never change, that some things are beyond improvement, America keeps charging foolhardily onwards in its belief that impossibility is only temporary and that every tomorrow holds an opportunity to find a better way forward.
I have to believe my friend to be right. I have to believe that my America knows that what we are doing can’t be, won’t be, will never be enough. That we will always have to work harder, dig deeper and care more. That we will never take this day and the fact that “well at least we are having this conversation finally” as good enough.
We are burning right now at the center of a hot fire of our own making and it is breaking us down, melting us, forging us, I have to believe, into something stronger.
We will not let our failures become excuses for giving up. We will keep grieving, keep honoring our dead, keep holding the temptation towards numbness and apathy at bay.
We will rise up, we will keep burning the midnight oil, we will keep marching, we will keep fighting.
And in the end, because we are Americans, because we are a nation born out of impossibility, strengthened by failure, buoyed by the lights burning in the hearts of millions of people who’ve given everything to this country, because of all of this, we will, everyday, get a little closer to making things right.
Today, I am mourning and grieving and crying but, America, I love you, I wish I could hold you all in my arms. I have not given up on you yet. I will never give up on you.
I am the only person in my family who did not spend early childhood living overseas. It’s not something I think about very often unless reminded but I’ve been reminded quite a bit lately.
A few months ago, when we told Will we were moving to a new apartment, he cried “No! But I don’t want to go on another journey!”
When we explained that we were moving across the city park rather than across the world, he stopped crying instantly. Compared to a move across the world, moving across town barely registers apparently.
The other day, inspired by an episode of the Dinosaur Train, he asked me why my husband and I never take him and his sister on a “world tour” vacations. I had to laugh. He’s four years old and has either visited or lived in nine different countries already.
And when I asked Will if he wanted to dye Easter Eggs this year, he looked at me quizzically.
“You mean, make them so they are no longer living?” he asked worriedly.
We cleared up that mix-up but he still looked at me confused.
“But they aren’t real eggs right?” “You can’t eat them right?”
After a few more back and forth exchanges it became clear that this would not be the year to take on the all-American tradition of drowning hard-boiled eggs in a cocktail of oversaturated food-coloring and distilled vinegar. And then I remembered that our local grocery store doesn’t carry white-shell eggs. And brown eggs–while infinitely more delicious–don’t take dye. So really, why bother?
I don’t remember the first time I ever dyed Easter eggs–maybe I had similar questions–but I also don’t remember ever not knowing that such a tradition existed. Just like I don’t remember ever learning what the American flag looks like or why kids dress-up on October 31st and go door-to-door begging for candy. It was impossible not to know those things in the culture I was born into.
But growing up, I also thought castles were the stuff of fairy tales and that perfectly clear green-blue seas and waves as tall as houses existed only in story books. I found it inconceivable that whole countries could exist in the same amount of space on the globe as one state in the American union.
My kids don’t really know about dying Easter eggs or handing out Valentine’s–they read about those things in books but they’ve never seen them in real life. Just like they’ve never seen a neighborhood full of trick-or-treaters or a 4th of July parade. Will sometimes thinks he’s a citizen of United Airlines, not the United States.
But they know that castles and aquamarine seas and ancient towers of gleaming white marble and snow-covered mountains are real, not the stuff of fairy tales. They’ve seen them, up close–and our oldest isn’t even five years old.
I wonder sometimes whether all of the sweeping vistas, the hide-and-seek games played in the patchy grasses around ancient ruins, whether it’s wasted on them in a way. When you are a kid, every single little thing in the world–from rocks to bugs to fake plastic flowers in curbside flowerpots–everything is so new and different and interesting. What makes that sweeping vista that makes Mommy feel so small–why is that so special? After all, as a kid, you feel small all the time. From that perspective, plastic flowers that never die and never need water are infinitely more unexpected and thus intriguing.
I wonder but I don’t regret because I’m selfish and the joy my husband and I get out of taking our kids to these places, the scrapes we get into, the crazy roads we drive, the songs we all sing, the jokes the kids make–that joy is some of the greatest I’ve ever known.
Inevitably there are tears and plenty of whining. Our oldest pukes every time we drive on windy roads for too long at a stretch. Our youngest screams to stop and nurse when what we’d really like to do is press on to our destination. I tell the same made-up stories about toy dragons over and over. We play the same three songs over and over and over again. I keep bars of chocolate in my bag at all times to force-feed my family when everyone gets a little too hangry to accept my offers of whole-wheat zucchini muffins or apple slices with peanut butter–so essentially 99% of the time.
For all of the whining and crying and hair-pulling though, our kids are also usually game for the many times Mommy and Daddy pull the car over into the gravel and leap out for photos, for a quick walk down a little trail, for a short hike to a waterfall or down a not-quite-public-path to a giant primordial-looking lake. They love “hiking” even if we end up carrying them most of the way. They love seeing new rocks, new trees, new animals, new puddles and lakes and oceans. They might not appreciate sweeping vistas or the five hundred year old ruins the way we do, but they make us look at leaves and rocks and tree bark we would otherwise miss all together. They give us reasons to laugh, to be silly, to stop and think about things like how giant boulders end up where they do and why sheep poop so much. Doing these hikes, these road trips with the kids makes the very air we breathe feel rich and velvety and alive with meaning. It’s not just a walk in the woods when we get to do it with the kids. It always feels like something more.
Our first few years out of the US, right after Will’s birth, I clung to my cultural touchstones–Halloween costumes, Christmas trees, Easter decorations–as if they were lifebuoys intended to keep me from drowning in a sea of strange, unknowable, unfathomably exotic depths.
I think I thought that if I couldn’t provide for my children those little bits of culture and tradition that made me feel safe and secure as a child that there would be nothing else to fill the gap. I feared for them to feel as unmoored as I have at different times overseas–flailing around in search of a sense of security and familiarity that they might never find.
But the older the kids get, the more I realize that–for as much as I insist on hosting giant Thanksgiving dinners and carting boxes of Christmas decorations and holiday-themed cookie cutters around the world–these traditions may not make the memories that will shine most brightly for our children as they grow older. It might be all of these road trips and day hikes we get to do together instead.
Holidays on the calendar will not be the keepers of our family’s bonds. We cement those things elsewhere and in ways I couldn’t have dreamed possible when I was growing up as a kid in the middle of America. And that’s amazing. Different yes, but amazing.
I’ve gotten out of the habit of updating this space with travel photos and “life in Italy” posts. Offline, I make an annual “yearbook” for the kids filled with photos and anecdotes and stories. I fill my free quota on Evernote with different journals for everything from story ideas to travel ideas to a running diary of all the entertaining we do, the people we invite and the meals we serve.
But I feel less inclined as of late to post all of our trips and kids’ photos online and after a few months of occasional reflection on the subject, I’ve realized that the reason for my relative reticence is probably not so much any kind of growing maturity– it might simply be Italy.
Whereas in India I felt the compulsion of a zealot to share everything I found so beautiful about that country, Italy does not suffer from any sort of PR crises among Americans. If anything, this country is romanticized in outsized proportions to it’s merits. Don’t get me wrong, I could write for days about how much I love the wine, the coffee and what constitutes a so-so restaurant meal in this country, but that’s a given. You would know that even if I never wrote home to tell you about it. And of course, the wine, the coffee, the countryside are only part of the whole story.
In the course of research for a contract job I have, I come across dozens of blogs written by American women married to Italian men and the theme which seems to run through them all is “if everyone back home keeps telling me my life is something out of a Diane Lane rom-com, then why am I so miserable?”
I’m acquaintances with a fair number of non-Italian women married to Italian men so I can skim through these blogs with very real and knowing sympathy. I can imagine these bloggers are miserable for very valid reasons, but I can also imagine that they must make their readers back in the States want to throw up in their mouths a little.
And I don’t want to be in their company–obviously for several reasons.
Blogging while living in Italy feels less like travel writing and more like putting out a coatrack for everyone to hang their fantasies on. A picture from a weekend hike in the mountains feels like bragging and yet belies all of the not-so-magazine-spread-worthy details of our lives here. Alluding too regularly to those details or to the darker underbelly of the “bella figura” here feels like petty complaining.
You could say the same thing to a lesser degree about nearly any travel experience, really any lifestyle that is shared on the internet, but in Italy the tension between real and aspirational, good and ugly, feels particularly acute. For people around the world from Chengdu, China to Green Bay, Wisconsin, even the very word “Italy” embodies a wine and olive oil-soaked fantasy of “the good life.”
I’m not entirely sure what the takeaway here should be. I still post photos, I still share our travel experiences, just a little more judiciously than I would if I lived elsewhere maybe. The duality of the beauty and the “learning experiences” we’ve had here may be something I don’t really unpack for myself until I’m literally unpacking again, a year and a half from now, in a place that might feel more or less like home but probably won’t come with wine so good nor mountains so picturesque.
And speaking of unpacking, we’ve actually just finished another round of that after our landlord cancelled our lease at our old apartment. This is the eighth apartment we’ve moved to in the past six years. My 16th apartment in the past 12 years. The great news is that we like our new place even better than the old one. The bad news is that we like it so much we might be very sad to leave it in 18 months’ time. Again, does this admission count as bragging or complaining? I can’t tell anymore.
At least I know what the takeaway on this one should be: there are a number of lovely people who take time to comment here with the best words and kindest encouragement and if you were here in Milan, I’d mention the new apartment only by way of inviting you all round here for tea.
We are somewhere on a stretch of parenting between the adrenaline-stoked days of babyhood and the beginning of grade school.
Our children have never been nappers. Silence in our house is not yet golden– it is only ever the space between a thunked head and a loud wail or a tell-tale clue that we should rush off to find the baby lest she be climbing the kitchen counter or finishing yet another a marker sketch on our unforgiving plaster walls.
Our babies are no longer portable little bundles in a baby carrier. If not for the park or the mountains outside of town, it takes an amount of strategy and artful manipulation to get them out the door that I would find hilarious if only I weren’t in charge of the negotiations.
I was both calculating and naive when I told my husband that I thought we should start our family when I was just 25 years old. The math was in my favor: 5-7 years overseas would afford me the ability to stay home with our children until they started school–by which point we’d rotate back to the States where I’d theoretically be able to re-enter the workforce at the same time my peers would be leaving in maternal droves.
I was naive in every other way possible.
At 25, I told myself that there was a way to both work and nurture very young children at the same time. I told myself that, with all the money we’d be saving on childcare, we could afford for me to hire a babysitter once in awhile for me to get away for a few hours a few times a week.
But it didn’t turn out like that. Our firstborn defied expectations–as most firstborns do. He needed more from me than I ever presumed I could give. There was no question of anyone else caring for him. For the first six months of his life, he stayed in my arms both day and night, while I ate, while I brushed my teeth and while I slept at night in the short hours between our marathon soothing sessions in which I would pace our dark bedroom, swaying and singing to him for hours in the middle of the night. I lived on peanut butter toast and adrenaline until he was 18 months old, by which point I couldn’t imagine any other way to live.
When Shiloh came along, a sweet bundle of blessed tranquility, I found I could not leave her either. It felt vital that I should someday be able to tell her that everything I ever did for her brother, I did in equal measure and devotion for her as well.
So, we’ve never had a nanny or regular babysitters. Not once has either child ever fallen asleep without me in bed next to them. I’ve been breastfeeding continuously, every single day, and–still now–for the last four and a half years.
My husband is an incredibly capable, enthusiastic and diligent father but as is true for a lot of stay-at-home moms, it’s only recently that we’ve gotten to a place in which I can sneak out a few mornings a week for a pre-dawn run or leave the house with my laptop for a few hours on a Sunday afternoon without one of the kids protesting. very. loudly.
I trade sleep for a very meager paycheck and write for myself in the margins of our days. I cook and throw dinner parties so that I can talk to other adults without having to pay a babysitter.
My friends and acquaintances have done some amazing things back home. A guy I used to work with just finished writing, filming and directing a film. Another friend co-founded an organization that’s spread like wildfire across America, garnering press in mainstream magazines, NPR, academic journals and even CNN. Everyone’s gone to grad school, traveled the world, become the youngest/brightest at something.
But I am 30 and I have accomplished not one of the modest goals I once thought I might have achieved by this age.
Sometimes I feel like I am a cautionary tale of what not to do with one’s 20’s. Would I be a better parent had I taken a decade to pursue my own dreams and ambitions before becoming a mother? Would I have more and better parenting tricks up my sleeve? More patience? Would I have done more good for the world by now? Have I been selfish as I’ve basked in the glow of my kids babyhoods instead of doing time on some humanitarian frontline somewhere?
I was practically a child myself when I became a mother, still conditioned to respond obligingly to requirements and chores over which I exerted little decision-making power. Parenthood is not terribly unlike childhood in this way–except the obligations are weightier and self-inflicted, the chores more unforgiving. Having had so few years between the obligations of childhood and the obligations of motherhood may have made the transition less jarring. There was no peak of adult freedom from which to feel I had fallen. No heights of professional success to gaze up at in despair from within those long, dark nights spent bouncing babies on my forearms.
Motherhood is a trip all on it’s own and the emotional fallout for our eldest as we moved him across the world three times in the first three years of his life has humbled me above all else.
But for how much our son–and later our daughter–needed me in those early months, my life seemed to hold no other meaning. Such singularity of purpose felt almost like a relief in contrast to the soul-searching I watched my peers engage in from afar.
Now though, I am the one who soul searches. There are some woman for whom motherhood is a vocation in and of itself and I am often envious of those women because I am not one of them. Motherhood is not that which gives me purpose, that which makes me relevant. It is the inverse that is true. It is motherhood, above all else, that infuses everything I do with purpose and with relevance. It is motherhood that makes me wonder how much of my duty as a mother is tied up in making sure my children see me in roles that do not, on the face of it, involve them.
For all of the childrearing philosophies to follow, the “sensory-activities” to copy off Pinterest, the preschool curriculums that I used to fret over when our kids were really tiny, our children learn the most from observing us, where we go, what we do, how we act, what we appear to value.
My children watch when I am kind and when I am not, when I am patient and impatient, when I follow through on my words and when I don’t. They watch when I try new things, when I face challenges. They watch when I sit at our dining room table pouring over news stories and poems in paper magazines and look up recipes to try in my cookbooks. In fact, it was when I realized how closely they watched me that I started reading and writing the old-fashioned way again so that they can see exactly what I’m doing instead of having to guess at the contents of my iphone screen.
They will hopefully learn from the mud puddles we stomp in, the water color pans we empty, the parties we host, the friendships we nurture, that the most beautiful moments in life are always messy in their own way. Creativity is messy and vulnerability is messy.
And they learn from the nights my husband and I stay up until 2am cleaning up after a dinner party, from the hundreds of times I make them grab a clean cloth to clean up their spills, from all the times we, and later the world, will hand down consequences for their actions that, while messiness is nothing to shy away from, neither should they shirk from the duty of cleaning up, reevaluating or starting over because there is beauty and balance on that side of the equation too.
But the older they get, the bigger their world gets and the more keenly I feel the need to make sure they see me in service of that bigger world too. I don’t think every child needs to view their parents in this light, I just have this unshakeable sense that mine, in particular, do. It’s the how and the what and how many hours and how to keep giving my entire heart to the loves of my lives while still carving out time for work that matters to me and that might matter, however abstractly, for my children.
Sometimes I wonder what I might accomplish if on all those mornings when I get up early to write if I ever actually had time to write something instead of opening my eyes and shortly thereafter my laptop–just in time to hear the pitter patter of little feet coming to find out why mommy tried to get out of bed without them.
I don’t know though that without those blissful work-derailing morning snuggles that I’d actually be much further along than I am now. People and ideas bloom when they’re ready–and usually more spectacularly for not being rushed through the process. The ideas that will move me most profoundly in the next few years are still babies themselves, not solid enough yet to bear weight and put to work. They want for education and shepherding and patience.
And maybe like my kids too they will eventually grow up, seemingly overnight and I will feel a pang of nostalgia for the night before when I rocked them to sleep and they were still my tiny babies, in need of nothing more and nothing less than all of my love.
Months before our plane touched down in Milan, Italy in the summer of 2014, I was already obsessed with the idea of finding “real” Italy. I dreamt of standing over the shoulders of sweet old grandmothers in rural villages to learn their secret bolognese recipes and going truffle-hunting with their wizened old husbands.
I’ve had unrealistic goals for every country we’ve lived in but Italy–with it’s paved highways and European amenities–made me want to set the bar for our travel experiences a little higher. Whereas our road trips in Northern India sometimes felt like an accidental foray into poverty tourism and our excursions in China most often ended in frustration, Italy seemed infinitely more doable–if also infinitely done before. The goal would be to find the lost few corners of Italy that hadn’t made it into a gorgeous magazine feature spread yet.
But there is an Italian saying that goes something like “Non far sapere al contadino quanto é buona la pera col pecorino.” Or “Don’t let the peasant know how good the pear is with the pecorino.”
It might be uncharitable to read too deeply into this old saying, but there’s something revealing about the Italian mindset embedded in there (besides the obvious: pears and pecorino are really good together and Italy has some pretty long-standing class warefare issues). Northern Italians are not like me and my millennial cohorts. When the people of Northern Italy have something really great, they don’t tend to shout about it from the rooftops.
Which is why the best places in Northern Italy–and there do seem to be an infinite number of them–are the ones no Northern Italian in his right mind would ever tell a random foreign tourist about.
It took me awhile to figure this out about Northern Italy. And a little longer than that to get our toddler feeling settled enough to become a willing participant in any journey further than the gelato shop three blocks from our apartment. And a little longer than that before I wore down a few of the people I’ve met here into becoming my friends.
And I guess somewhere around that time–probably a full 9 months into our tour here, was when we figured out that the best of Northern Italy is no where in a guidebook, no where to be found on Trip Advisor and sometimes not even on a map.
I won’t sugarcoat the truth, a car is crucial to finding these places–as is the ability to reverse down a mountain switchback in order to find a space on the road wide enough for to cars to pass one another without going over a guardrail.
But they are everywhere and nowhere at the same time. The best strategy we’ve found is simply to consult Google Maps and head for a small patch of green on the map, denoting regional or national forest.
Forests and state park land are different in Italy than in America. Back-country camping is forbidden everywhere in Italy (and in most of Europe) and there are few places you can reach either by car or by foot that haven’t been touched or altered in some way by farmers and shepherds either present or past. Ancient small towns filled with stone-roofed barns stand at the top of some of the most isolated mountains in Northern Italy, in the middle of national forests. There are bed and breakfasts and telephone lines strung up over even the most intimidating cliff faces.
In short, there is nowhere in Italy that can matched the breath-taking wildness and the rugged solitude of America’s greatest national parks.
But there is probably also no national park in America where you can pause on a mountain trail for a plate of house-cured salami and homemade goat cheese while sitting under a portico of grape-vines with a backdrop of ancient stone barns behind you and nothing but miles and miles of mountain views to the front.
And in America there are also not too many 15th century churches standing just a short walk in a direction I am not at liberty to disclose from a particular bountiful stand of old-growth, wild chestnut trees.
A few weeks ago, some friends here offered to take us chestnut foraging on public park land that had been a close-held family secret for at least two generations–on the condition that we told no one where we went.
They were deadly serious about this, despite the numbers of families we encountered on the trail that day all rushing back to their cars carryings sacks of chestnuts. And I’m sure all of the other families on the trail would have told their friends the same thing–if they’d even been willing to bring them along.
On the way back to our cars, my husband asked my friend’s husband–the native Milanese of the couple–why such a beautiful place with such interesting old ruins wasn’t more widely publicized online in either English or Italian?
My friend’s husband looked slightly taken aback by the question, “Why in the world would we want anyone else to know about this place?” he asked.
After our chestnut hunt, we went hunting for lunch. The nearest town was covered in blue and white ribbons for a wedding party and all of the restaurants seemed to be either closed or catering the event. So we backtracked to an ancient looking monastery just off the highway that promised a cucina (kitchen) within.
It turned out to be a UNESCO heritage site of sorts and we had to wait for a small Italian tour group to clear out before we could sit down. But the “little bit of antipasti” my friend’s husband requested turned out to be hysterically bountiful–paté and grilled bread, salumi and cheese, a sausage and sauerkraut dish–the main dishes were rustic and local and gorgeously flavorful. And at the end of it, after all that food, plus pasta for the four kids, a bottle of wine and espresso all around, the bill was easily half what it would have been in downtown Milan.
I’m sure the place is easily findable online, but I’m also sure we would have never found it, much less sought it out had we not been in the area with four starving kids between our two families. I still have yet to look it up because I don’t want to color our memory of it with other travelers’ opinions.
And maybe that’s the most useful way to consider the secretiveness we’ve come to expect from Northern Italians. If you tell everyone how to get to your most beloved of places, you invite not only them but their opinions as well. And you run the risk that, possibly, if your place doesn’t rank as the absolute best in the world for someone else, it may lose some of its sacredness for you as well. Comparison is the thief of joy and all of that.
Now I’ve lived other–far less beautiful, far less safe–places than this and I know I’d be a total a-hole to say “everywhere in the world is beautiful if only you venture off the beaten track!” In many parts of the world, that’s not even an option.
But objective standards of beauty/fun/feasibility aside, what I mean to say is that it’s the places that we find for ourselves, the places we don’t even know we will find when we start out, that are the best places we’ll ever go here. Because those places are the only ones in which I think we are ever fully present for the whole experience, seeing, smelling, tasting, touching without any 2-star review or wikipedia entry to subconsciously reference back to. And maybe part of the thrill in these places is that it reminds us a little of what life was like in the old days, before we had so much data at our fingertips to reference our every move against a framework of everyone else’s opinions.
I hope you don’t take this post as one big long humble-brag because that’s the opposite of what I’d hoped to convey. Instead, I think the takeaway is this: going anywhere can be special when you don’t know and don’t care what anyone else thinks about the place you are going. A good map is worth more than a good guidebook.* Italy isn’t always the easiest place to live (surprise!) but it’s unquestionably the most gorgeous place I can imagine in which to relearn how to travel.
*obviously assuming you are in a relatively safe place with plenty of food/water/fuel/etc. And yes, guidebooks and trip advisor reviews can be incredibly useful when trying to find a place to stay or a restaurant to try in a new city but I find that I can go a little overboard with too much information. I start getting a little too concerned with finding the absolute most “authentic” place for a given value of money, cleanliness and convenience and get totally overwhelmed. I’m slowly learning not to let those decisions make or break our trip. Sometimes picking at random from a sea of roughly equal options (and then putting every single thing you’ve read on the subject out of your mind) is the way to go.
We arrived in Rome on Saturday morning and I’ve been obnoxious ever since.
“The coffee in Rome is better.”
“The bread is better.”
“The buildings are prettier.”
“The light is more gorgeous.”
“This park is just stunning, so amazing–so much better…”
And finally, moaning as I twirled my fork around a plate of homemade pasta–a plate that was less expensive than a glass of fresh orange juice on a Sunday morning at the cafe near our house– “Even the mediocre tourist food here is better!”
I’m sure Rome is not all bread and roses. The tourists are omnipresent. Things don’t “work” quite the same way they do up here in Milan. Ummmm the tourists. I’m sure there many other things. Please tell me about them. I think it’s better for everyone around me that I find out all of the unpleasantness of living in Rome as soon as possible.
Doing Rome with two little kids who boycott baby carriers and strollers to the point that we don’t even bother packing them means that our site-seeing is never thorough nor leisurely. I’ve long since given up on either high or low expectations for our trips–no expectations is the key to family travel happiness. Also the ability to share just one plastic knife and one plastic spoon equitably among a group of 6 people trying to inhale a take-out dinner in a hotel room.
In short, I wasn’t expecting to do much in Rome and so I still can’t believe just how much we did manage to see.
I don’t remember much from the Vatican Museum except that Shiloh desperately wanted to nurse and there was nowhere in that museum to exit prematurely or even just get away from the slow-moving crush of shuffling tour groups. The place is laid out like an Ikea–if Ikea sold ancient Egyptian artifacts instead of furniture made out of cardboard.
But the claustrophobia was worth it. I think it’s for the best that photography in the Sistine Chapel is forbidden. No picture could capture that ceiling. The perfection of the perspective, the way the images twisted and turned in perfect dimensions as we moved across the room. To stare upwards at that cavernous space and imagine the sheer amount of mathematics that must have gone into every single tiny image overwhelmed me. How was such a thing possible 500 years ago?
We inadvertently left the Sistine Chapel through the “group tours” exit which turned out to be especially lucky: group tours proceed directly to the steps of St. Peter’s Basilica. Individuals exiting from the proper exit are dumped at the end of a very, very, very long line to get into the Basilica.
The kids were fried and clamoring for gelato but the glimpse I got of the Pietà was unexpectedly moving. I saw it from a distance, through the glare of glass and smartphone camera flashes but there’s a reason for all of that. It is a beautiful portrait of motherhood–so raw that it shines.
We finished our first day of tourism running around the fountain in front of St. Peter’s. By the time we got back to the hotel, the kids were done. We let them eat french fries for dinner at the edge of the bed and called it a day. On our second day in Rome, and for possibly only the second time since both kids were born, I snuck out early while they slept to go take a few photos near the Spanish Steps.
Then, it was off to the Colosseum on foot. My husband has told me stories of the marathon marches his mother used to treat he and his sister to when they were kids on vacation. Before they were even teenagers, they’d been made to walk the entire length of Manhattan island in a single day. Our kids are now apparently continuing in the tradition.
Which is a wonderful thing. You see a lot more of a city when you walk everywhere. Will loved looking out for the SPQR acronym that’s visible somewhere on nearly every public man-made structure in Rome and practically ran the whole way to the Colosseum. Shiloh was a little less clear on the letters SPQR and so made a game of stopping to show us every single manhole cover in all of Rome instead.
The only downside to walking everywhere, especially when little kids are involved, is that you may just see a little less of wherever you’re trying to get to. That’s not usually a bad thing. Museums don’t always live up to expectations, but Rome might be the rare place where the destination is almost always as interesting as the journey.
Entry into the Colosseum and the Roman Forum is free every first Sunday of the month. We skipped the lines at the Colosseum and headed instead for the Forum, hoping to linger long enough to get a sense for the immensity of the space as well as the antiquity.
We tried, but the kids were tired from the long walk and so we sped-walked through 1/10th of the grounds to the exit. Next trip! We stopped at a touristy restaurant for lunch, the sort of place where the wizened old waiters in accented but flawless English chant. “Come to our restaurant, beautiful meat, beautiful pastas, beautiful wine, only the service…ehhh…the service? The service is not so good.”
Predictably, the food was just ok, but the service was great with waiters stopping by our table every few minutes to tell our kids a joke or show them a magic trick. Will and Shiloh loved it.
Buoyed by food and a particularly caffeinated and boozy tiramisu we headed to the Villa Borghese to write some postcards to some of Will’s friends.
While Chris and I took dictation (“Dear R___, I love you. We are in Rome. We saw buses, puddles, and trains. And also the Sistine Chapel. love, Will”) Chris’ parents disappeared around the corner…
and came back with this:
We couldn’t get over the trees in the park, they are stunning, otherworldly almost. We couldn’t get over the vistas. The depth and breadth, the ruins the dotting the land, the old fountains, the multiple playground–and the fact that we all survived an hour on that group bicycle without crashing.
I took mostly film shots in the park and I’m still waiting to get those developed, but it was the perfect place to end our quick trip to Rome. Early the next morning we took the kids back to the park to let them run around for a few hours. We saw more beautiful statues, more beautiful trees and even ran into one of Chris’ colleagues from Rome at the playground–go figure. After a quick lunch, it was time to trek back down to the train station.
We’ve been back in Milan for over a week now and while I’m glad to be home and grateful for all of the wonderful things about living in Milan (it really is a far easier place to live day-to-day) it surely won’t be long before we head back south for another round of Rome.
There were cool mornings spent picking ripe red tomatoes in my mother’s garden, afternoons spent walking trails and seeking out homemade ice cream in Door County Wisconsin. The ice cream was ok, the ice cream slide was fantastic, the watching the kids run across the play area against a backdrop of Door County farmland–and just beyond that–Lake Michigan was amazing. Mostly though, we just relaxed. We filled our days with sunshine and garden hose negotiations and very few plans. We went to bed a little earlier and got up a little later. In Charlottesville, we snuck in our diner breakfast, visited a fresh water beach, and played at suburban life, taking the kids to a children’s museum, a very cool public pool and-need it be said? Costco.
We took a Will-mandated “flower walk.” We watched him pull a little wagon full of wild flowers behind him on the river trail in Charlottesville, stopping here and there to point out new specimens we hadn’t yet collected. We celebrated his 4th birthday 4 times this summer, but I don’t think anything drove home the point that he’s 4(!!!!!!!) now than watching him search so carefully for flowers, exclaim “Look how beautiful!” every other step, and then wait patiently for us to tell him whether we were allowed to pick his newest find or not. He’s a little kid now, full of energy and questions and with the vocabulary and comedic timing of someone a few decades his senior.
And Shiloh. Our sweet baby girl, she is as fierce as she is sweet and she is so sweet. She’s talking a bit and understands nearly every word around her. Watching her imitate every single thing her brother does–from the way he holds his spoon, to wanting to wear all his clothes–is something to behold. She “discovered” baby dolls in Charlottesville and then again at the airbnb we stayed at in Brooklyn. It was only a matter of days before I was on Amazon finding her one of her very own. She’s been carrying it around everywhere since the day it arrived.
Before we left the States, we took a train up to New York with Chris’ mother, met my parents at the train station and all drove (in a suburban-ridiculous) through rush-hour Manhattan traffic into Brooklyn where the 7 of us camped out in a Greenpoint airbnb rental. The goal? A celebration of my sister’s elopement and a reunion with Chris’ relatives–all in under 24 hours. At 7pm on Saturday night we picnicked in Bushwik Inlet Park with my father’s family to celebrate my sister’s wedding. At 11am on Sunday morning we brunched with Chris’ extended family. At 6pm SUnday night we got on a plane back to Europe.
It wouldn’t be worth it for anyone or anything except exactly the people who we did for and did it with. I felt such a happy rush of a adrenaline as we got on the plane in Europe as I thought about all of the relatives we got to see–many of them for the first time since before we moved to China over 5 years ago! It was a whirlwind–but of the best sort.
Summer isn’t quite over but sunset comes earlier every evening, the air feels just whisper-bit cooler in the mornings. As noted (and noted and noted again) on this blog, fall is my favorite and it’s even better when it comes in on the coattails of a wonderful summer, spent in the outdoors, with all the people we love best.
Not that Abbey Road, my Abbey Road. Zebra stripes no, but beetles, yes.
The Abbey Road is a private road belonging to the Norbertine Abbey not far from my parents’ house. The Abbey buildings stand near the top of the road along one of the main thoroughfares through town. At the bottom of Abbey road is the second main thoroughfare through town. At the top of the road there is a grocery store and a Little Caesar’s across the street. At the bottom you’ll find a gas station and a Dairy Queen.
But in between, the in between, is too good. It’s acres of cornfields and thickets of wild brush and a small pond near where the St. Norbert’s College football stadium used to stand just below one of the cornfields–across the road from the gas station and the Dairy Queen.
Between the cornfields and the pavement of Abbey Road, gravel gives way to soft lawns of mowed grass. Pines, willows and oak trees grow here, so old they may predate the abbey, so tall they actually change the way the corn grows in their shadows.
Even in a small town like this, maybe especially in a small town like this, every kid needs an oasis, a place to escape to. The Abbey road was mine.
On those days when I felt especially misunderstood, I’d ride my bike up and down the road, listening to the wind moving though the willows, watching the sandpipers playing in the gravel along the road.
When I needed to think, I’d take a well-worn foot-path to the small pond that stood just beyond the glimpse of the main thoroughfare at the bottom of Abby Road. Some days I’d find fathers and sons fishing on the deck or other kids like myself, escaping adult supervision; but often enough it was empty enough to feel like mine.
In the land between the road and the cornfields, I built forts in the woods and ran cross country workouts in the summer time. I once got terrifyingly lost in the cornfields trying to take a shortcut home with a friend. I once hopped the fence around the football stadium late at night to make out with a high school boyfriend on the 10-yard line.
But mostly, I went to the Abbey Road alone, to lay in the tall grasses in the summer and shiver under the pine trees in winter. To ride my bike a thousand miles in the space of less than one.
Along the abbey road, my senses heighten. I notice the sounds of the waving corn and the whispering willow limbs. I crush pine cones under foot and the crunch feels childishly satisfying. I notice when the breeze changes direction and the way the telephone poles running through the Northern cornfield perfectly frame the sun as it rises in the sky.
I can’t go to Abbey Road without coming home to write something. Just being in that space makes whole paragraphs of prose come to mind, fully formed. The Norbertine’s would likely call it divine inspiration. Maybe, but I’m inclined to thank the trees too.
I still go back to the Abbey Road whenever we make the long trip back to Wisconsin.
I married an amazing man who happens to come from elsewhere. He has no hometown. He has a place he was born and a list of countries in which he lived while growing up.
As one of the few kids in my elementary school classes who’d ever lived in another state, whose grandparents didn’t live just up the road, whose family name didn’t go back for generations in the area, I used to sometimes feel like I was from elsewhere too.
Home never felt like home until I ran far enough, for long enough, to turn around and finally feel adrift enough in where I was to see more clearly from where I came.
We’re back for a quick visit to Wisconsin right now and I tried to reach the small pond along the abbey road a few days ago. I looked for the narrow foot path in the brush behind the willow tree, along the edge of one of the corn fields, but I couldn’t find it. Everything is overgrown and waist-high. There’s no path there anymore. There’s no way back to my spot on the water–unless I want to visit the bird feed and garden shop that stands in front of the pond on the main-thorough fare now.
I came home after my walk to my mom and my kids playing in the yard.
“The path to the Abbey pond is gone now” I tell my mom as casually as I can manage, “there’s no sign it ever existed at all.”
“Oh yea,” she says, “I guess when they tore the old stadium down, people stopped going through there.”
“They tore down the stadium? When did that happen?” I ask.
“Oh gosh, years ago” she says.
An old colleague of mine performed a poem recently (you can watch it here) that sums up how I feel about home better than I ever could.
It’s all true.
My husband and I won’t be throwing up our hands and moving to small town Wisconsin anytime soon, no matter how thrilling it may be to my kids that fire trucks here sometimes drive around and pass out fire hats and stickers to little children working hard in the front yard.
But I am perhaps predictably craving a little patch of grass and dirt of our own, somewhere our kids can say they are from, maybe with a pond near enough to visit when they finally grow into angsty teenagers themselves. A place where they can go to feel alone in a place so familiar that loneliness is delicious and home is always only a bike ride away.
There are many, many days when I question my own judgement for choosing–and continuing to choose–to live overseas, raising our children as global nomads.
I’m no one’s best friend anymore–I always leave before the relationship can get that good. I used to work for a non-profit before we moved overseas and, while I love being home all day with my kids, I wonder if the untold energy I put towards packing, unpacking, learning new languages and customs and metro routes every few years might be better spent back at some organization stateside working towards solutions to the social and environmental challenges we face there.
I struggle seeing the turmoil my sensitive son goes through adjusting to new places. Some days all he wants is just another kid to speak English to at the playground.
But I say all this knowing that there’s no way anymore to compare staying overseas with having never left in the first place. I’d be nothing were it not for all I’ve learned since we left 5 and a half years ago.
If I’d never left the States I wouldn’t know, deeply, instinctively, that there is more than one right way to do everything-everything from selling groceries to staying healthy to raising a child. I still remember the long drive from the airport into the city on my first trip to India and how I marveled at the way even the painted black and white stripes on the sides of the highway looked foreign to me. In China I laughed at first at the “split pants” babies wear instead of diapers–until I found out they all potty-train, seemingly trauma-free, by 12 months old.
And in Italy I think I’ve actually suffered more culture shock than in either India or China combined.
I don’t have a good answer to whether it’s better to live and learn overseas or whether I’d be a better person if we moved back home tomorrow to try to do some good in the homeland. But the fact that, so often, I still feel like I’m drinking from a firehose makes me think I’ve still have plenty to learn from this crazy nomadic lifestyle. And I have a hunch that when it’s really time to go back for good, it won’t be a question mark in my head so much as an exclamation point in my heart that won’t take no for an answer.
We’ve been in Milan just short of a year now and I’ve been thinking a little bit about what I’ve learned over the course of the last 12 months, not necessarily the big “meaning of life” lessons but the little things, the silly little things. The small details of daily life that don’t mean much in the grand scheme of things, but when they add up, make a big difference in how comfortable I feel here going about my day.
So in that spirit, here’s a short list of the trivial-but-life-changing-nonetheless little lessons I’ve been learning here in Milan,
When it comes to anyone outside my immediate family, I am not a hugger. I am not a kisser. I don’t snuggle with my girlfriends. I like handshakes. A lot.
I panicked a little when I found out we were moving to the land of air-kissing. I actually made my Aussie friends in Delhi give me a tutorial on the topic since they seemed better at the art of coming at a new friend like you want to make out with her ear and then pulling away at the last second without more than a whisper of physical contact at all (because lipstick. Guys, people wear it here all. the. damn. time.)
And then we moved to Milan and the only people I met for the first few months were all European. To this day, it’s possible for me to go weeks without seeing another American who isn’t my husband.
So I’ve learned to kiss. Not well, but adequately enough that I don’t freak out now when I meet someone and they lean in for the baci. Sometimes I’m even the one to initiate, wonders of wonders.
2) I eat pizza with a fork and knife. Because yes, if it’s good pizza, that’s really how it should be done.
3) For the first time in my adult life, I finally know exactly how much pasta to cook for however many people I’m cooking for. Here’s the rule: if the pasta is only a “primi” course to be followed by a heavier dish, every person should get 100 grams of pasta. If pasta IS your main dish, up the portion to approximately 150-175 grams. Voila. Now I know.
4) The Aperol spritz, the Negroni Sbagliato. Aside from a few hazy months in college, I’ve never been a big drinker. Luckily, drunkenness does not carry the same social currency here that it does in the States. People don’t humblebrag about hangovers in Italy. If you’re going to drink, it’s for enjoyment of the drink itself. Which might be why the cocktails are so darn good. I only get out for a drink maybe once every few months here but when I do, I never order my usual gin and tonic anymore. I’ll take a spritz or a negroni sbagliato while I can get it.
5) Looking “put-together” isn’t about the clothes you wear, but the way you…wait for it…put them together.
Let’s pretend for a minute that physical appearances matter everywhere in the world as much as they do here in Milan. For our first 6 months here I could not understand how every woman around me could be wearing the same basic things I was (jeans, knit shirts, tunics, maxi skirts, sneakers) and still look so much…better? More elegant? And yet, still casual?
I haven’t entirely cracked the code to looking fashionable but I think I’m slowly getting better. I’m learning both balance and commitment. Wide-leg pants are fashionable only when you pair them with clean architectural lines on top. The only thing that keeps a drapey maxi-dress from looking like a mumu is an eye-catching pair of shoes or some great accessories. Flowy, feminine skirts often look childish unless there is something unexpected about the look–an edgy shirt or a pair of high-tops. If you’re going to wear jeans and a t-shirt it better be the right jeans with the right t-shirt and you should probably be wearing some really cool sneakers that scream (tomboy chic).
When in doubt, wear a comically baggy white or black top with comically-baggy white or black pair of pants or skirt. Add your your most hipster glasses or lots of eyeliner. People will assume your either an artist or a fashion designer.
I don’t own anything designer, I don’t wear heels, but I think I’m finally finding my own way of feeling comfortable here. Or maybe it’s just because Converses and Birkenstocks are all the rage in my neighborhood right now.
6) Also, apparently it’s true, we should all wear our hair down more often. I still refuse to blow-dry my hair more than once every few months but I’ve realized that wearing my hair in a messy-bun everyday doesn’t make it look better–it just makes everyone else here assume that it’s really, really dirty. (which, yea, it usually is). It’s approximately 98 degrees in Milan here right now and the closest I’ve seen anyone to wearing their hair up is a loosely gathered low ponytail.
7) I know how to order my coffee (and more importantly: pay for it correctly). When Italy did away with tipping a few years back, bars and restaurants started instituting cover charges instead. Which is all well and good in a sit-down restaurant but what about in a coffee bar? What do you do if your toddler runs to sit down at a table after you’ve already paid for a drink at the bar? And if you sit at a table, do you go up to get your own brioche or wait 10 minutes for a waiter to come buy and ask if you’d like to order (always with a slight tone of surprise) Do you wait for a bill or pay at the register and how do they know you’re telling the truth about what you ordered anyway?
I’ve toyed with the idea of making a flow chart to help my fellow non-Italians with this conundrum because, really, it’s a thing. Until I do though, I’ll give you the quick calculus I use when I enter a new coffee bar.
Do you want to sit at a table? Do you see a “self service” or “no cover charge sign?” If not, wait as long as it takes for someone to come ask you if you’d like to order. To try and go to the bar and order will only cause horribly embarrassing confusion (Unless it’s the barista himself who asks you for your order).
When in doubt, stand at the bar to order your coffee and stay there. It’s easier.
Unless someone hands you a bill or asks you to prepay for your coffee, always go up to the bar to pay your bill right before you leave. Tell them where you were sitting so they can charge you the cover charge if necessary but know that most of the time, they will have zero record of your actual order. It’s all the honor system.
Really, the best thing to do is to find your neighborhood spot and just go there for every single coffee. In the United States this would possibly get a little awkward at some point. In Italy it’s what you are supposed to do. And it’s helpful. At our neighborhood place we don’t order our drinks anymore. The baristas always throw in two espresso cups full of steamed milk and caocao powder for the kids, the waiters run into the back to bring us industrial strength paper towel when the kids finish their gelato and no one says a word when I come camp out for a couple of hours to work and write (even though loitering in front of a laptop in an Italian cafe is pretty much the ultimate in cultural inappropriateness). They know it’s weird but they also know they are my only hope for getting any work done while the kids are awake!
8. I know how to have whole conversations that have nothing to do with either R&R, bidding, home leave, American current events or children. I am not a conversational genius but seeing as I know only a few Americans here in Milan, I’ve had to get better. I have a long way to go but I’m more comfortable than I used to be. I even chatted with a famous rugby player a few weeks ago and didn’t feel totally awkward the entire time.
9. I’m more American than I ever knew. My friends are from a lot of different places and we all tend to approach socializing and parenting in slightly different ways that can’t be put down to personality alone. There are things I’ve observed among them that I know I’ve internalized because I think they’re worth internalizing and there are other things for which I am proud to be a little different. I love the looks of horror on the faces of Italian moms at the park when they see my kids splashing in puddles or playing in the mud. I think there is something disarming about the frankness with which many Americans will discuss almost anything, with anyone.
I am in love with the fact that Americans are both born and naturalized. We are a deeply messed up country in many ways, systemically racist, hypocritical, unequal–but I think most Americans, from the right to the left, know that “American” is not any one skin color, any one ethnicity, any one family lineage. I think many–hopefully most–Americans truly believe that American is the great country it is because of our diversity, not in spite of it. I never realized until I moved overseas how unique this belief might be in the world.
10. “Ciao” is not for everyone.Due to timing conflicts, we didn’t receive any language training before we got to Italy. We did some self-study but it wasn’t until I’d been here for about three weeks that I finally, embarrassingly, learned that the word “ciao,” as a greeting, is not tossed around by Italians as casually as I had once thought.
Ciao is for children, family members and friends and acquaintances with whom you are roughly equal to in terms of age and/or social standing. For every other situation (read: nearly every single situation when you are new in town) it’s “Buongiorno,” “Salve,” “Arrivederci” or possibly “Ciao Buongiorno” if it’s a casual business transaction with someone roughly the same age or younger. Basically, for all but the people you either hang out with socially or greet multiple times in a day, anything less than “buongiorno” can be taken as a little rude and possibly insulting.
After a really, really embarrassing first couple of weeks in our neighborhood, I’ve only recently begun to overcome my paranoia of offending people and relax a little. You’ll hear me say “Ciao Buongiorno” to almost everyone on our block now, (except our landlord) but still, to this day, you’ll almost never hear me say “Ciao.”
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I am so, so behind on this blog. I have several hikes worth of photos to share, I think I’ve finally found the best pizza in all of Milan. I took Shiloh on a very long, hot 3 mile walk a few weeks ago to go eat bread-and-marmalade flavored gelato (it was worth it). We’ve been to Expo, we taught the kids how to wash the car. I’ve written the first 30 shitty pages towards the novel I’ve been kicking around for the last five years. I got a (small) job writing the newsletter for the Consulate. The kids have been sick. I don’t know if I’ve slept more than 5 hours in a night in weeks (divided of course, into 2-3 hour chuncks by baby coughing fits and cries for snuggles). I think I might finally know how to cook fish.
My amazing sister-in-law came to town last week. So far on her visit we’ve hiked the equivalent of 50 stories along the Ligurian coastline with the kids on our backs and picnic’d on a rocky spit of land whose name I learned after the fact, translates roughly to “Point Butt” in Italian. Chris swam in the bluest water I’ve ever seen. The kids ate a lot of gelato.
Last Friday, Chris’ sister watched the kids for me for a few hours while I got to meet and photograph and interview a famous chef. To repay the favor I took her to dinner at the fancy restaurant he was cooking at that night and took her photo with an apparently super famous rugby player. At that point, I think we were even.
But then owing to a stupendous train-ticket mix-up yesterday, she and I spent 6 hours on two trains with two tired kids. The ticket mix-up left us with just 1 hour in the city we’d been hoping to explore (Venice). We had just enough time to walk across the bridge and duck into the first restaurant we found with an empty table. As soon as we finished, it was time to get back to the station. The air-con broke on the trip home. The train was packed to bursting. It was 95 degrees. The train got delayed when we were 5 minutes away from Centrale Station. My kids cried. We’re no longer even and yet she spent half of today drawing all sorts of amazing doodles for my kids.
I owe her a crazy good bottle of wine.
With Chris working late nights and weekends too, I don’t know quite what I’d do without his sister here. I mean, I’d be fine, but I doubt I’d be having quite as much fun. Most people seem to think we are both nannies who happen to be friends and that my kids actually belong to someone else. Why else would we be playing so enthusiastically? Why else would all four of us have such wildly different skin tones, eye colors, hair colors? We laugh because there’s no other option really. When we tell the people inquiring after our services that Will and Shiloh are my children and that Chris’ sister is their aunt, they don’t ever really seem to believe us.
Somehow, without my realizing it, we’re well into summer. I find myself longing for our annual trip back to the homeland the trivial comforts of America: the green grass in my parents’ backyard, paying less than $7 for a week’s worth of laundry detergent, and being able to go to the grocery store without having to dress-up. But what I’m looking forward to most I think is being able to walk down the street with my family–with my parents, my kids, my in-laws without a single passerby stopping to ask who among us might the nanny be.