I tried to replicate some aspects of the Italian life I'd led in CMR: I regularly stop at Amish roadside stands to buy locally grown fruit and vegetables; I prowl the aisles of Amish stores to find the best homemade bread and cheese; I cook with only extra virgin olive oil; I walk to the gym to savor the quaintness of our little town of Lititz. But it's time to confess: It ain't doin' the trick. Something huge is missing inside. I told Greg I feel like a sticky grey film has wrapped itself around my mind, my heart, my soul. And I just can't figure out why. I can't figure out what it is that is missing.
Yesterday I sat with Olga, my friend from Naples and Italian teacher. We were commiserating over our yearning for Italy as only those who have the same malaise can.
"What is it?" I said. "I have a good life. I love my work here. I have a great group of students this semester. I love having such easy access to my children. I'm so happy to be able to hug Greg every day. What's the deal?"
She gestured to the large picture window in her kitchen.
"Look outside", she said.
I did. I saw neat, green, similarly ordered, rectangular lawns. They encirlced pristine townhouses whose paint was uniformly lacking in scratches, peeling, or chipping. Flower pots sat perfectly coiffed in their blooms. Late make cars shone in what little light the late afternoon held. We stood and gazed for several seconds. In absolute silence. There was not a soul out and about to acessorize any of it.
"Where is the life?" Olga asked. "Where is the source of life? Where are the people connecting to each other and to life?"
Haggling at the Saturday Market
Singer at Montefino Music Festival
Me and Teresa of Cinotto fame!
Dog Guarding Sheep on the Way to
Campo Imperatore
My friend Vincenzo took a Sunday off so I could see the mountains up close.
Friend Camillo showing me Pontius Pilates' birthplace
Readying Myself for the Giro d'Italia!
the aggregation of human spirit. Expressed in daily, ongoing social interaction. It happens spontaneously, joyously, boistrously, chaotically. With this realization, the sensation of all I missed came surging into me: the sight of women filing past my window on their way to mass, the honey richness of their voices thickening the air; the mass of children chasing each other in the bellevedere, chins drippping with remnants of stracciatella, ciocolatta, fior di latte, or bacci gelatto, their parents standing, strolling, or strutting near them, gesturing, laughing and puncturing sentences with the ratta-tat-tat of Italian excamations, the smell of slightly burnt pizza dough floating up from the pizzeria behind the house, Pasquale ringing the doorbell to warn me "La macchina e' aperta! (my car windows are open), the bread man beeping as he bops through the narrow streets in his van on Monday, Wednesday, or Friday, the light drenching the Gran Sasso mountains with contour and shadows that make them seem oh, so very THERE! The unapolgetic cling of fabric to the male and female form. And the bells. Yes, even the bells of the Santuario di San Donato, that used to worry me to death because they'd ring every 15 minutes, 24 hours a day and make me think "Dear God, how will guests ever survive here!" They ring only for mass these days, first in a pattern that warns of the impending event, then in a torrent of random pealing that tumbles from the campanile and explodes out over the town. The bells. My morning wake-up call. To all that the new day in Castiglione holds. All its promise and surprises and frustrations and beauty. And all the life of its people spilling out around me to see, to share, to taste, to hold, to touch, to smell, to lose myself in until I tumble into bed lulled by the swoosh of breezes over the valley and the occaisional mewling cat. It is this river of life that feeds my soul that I so sorely miss. With each passing day, the level of life force it has given me dips a bit lower. My being droops a bit more.
I've just accepted the first guests' booking for summer, 2012. Return is imminent. Only about 230 days left to go. I'll keep you posted on how they go.
"Viccolo" or little alley in the town of Castiglione
Arrivederci!
