pining

today I miss Italy and all its entailments

today I miss the simplicity
today I miss the lack of schedule and its replacement, the routine of personal disciplines like writing and time with Jesus and evening wine with my friends
today I miss the freedom of life

today I’m missing the things I actually can have and do here, which I’ve allowed to be swallowed by the rest of “necessary” stressors

Yes, I had more time there. Yes, I had less responsibility and fewer obligations. But how long will I keep using this place and stage of life as an excuse to pine for something I can cultivate now? I must write these days. I must spend time with Jesus. I must drink wine in the evenings with my friends. I must, because I know they are good things and I can’t keep them from my life anymore.

today, slow and steady
today I won’t hopelessly miss any longer

i know it’s not about italy, but this is today

Today is this: “All I do is try to get through the day without crying or losing my mind.” 

Last year, I was at my favorite bookstore. I went there because I was feeling sort of fragile and overwhelmed, and one of the things that usually makes me feel better is a bookstore. I was looking through the cards, the ones that have quotes on the front, and they’re all big, inspirational, “seize the day” – type quotes, from people like Eleanor Roosevelt and Albert Einstein. If you read them on a good day, you’re like, “I will, Eleanor Roosevelt, I will change this world one tiny moment at a time!” But on kind of a cranky, bad day, you read them and you think, “Well, that’s why you people are famous, because you do wonderful inspirational things, and all I do is try to get through the day without crying or losing my mind.” So I looked at this whole big wall of cards, and each one was making me feel more broken down and scraped away inside, so far from inspiration and hope. Then I saw one in the corner, in black and white, and it said, “You, too? I thought I was the only one.” 
– Shauna Niequist, Cold Tangerines

One of those hard weeks of lacking hope and joy. But at least my coffee was perfect and there were whole wheat dark chocolate chip oatmeal cookies to go with it. I’m worn out by life. Gotta connect with the Hope.

this is better than homework

The feeling just came back to me, that of sitting in Heathrow before my flight home. Headphones in my ears, eating a yogurt and scone and drinking my first non-Italian coffee… Italian though it claimed to be. The feeling of rawness, bitterness surging forward, nostalgia welling in my throat while people all around me spoke English and all I wanted to hear was the language I only partially understand. What had been known to me was suddenly unknown as I was propelled into the transition I’d been dreading for weeks. Leaving behind everything that had grown on me so quickly and beckoning the lifestyle I’d loved to accompany me home. It was just weird. Inexplicable, wanted but rejected all at the same time.

Now I sit here at my dining room table with the middle hours of the night all around me while task lists, chaos, half-finished papers, and looming readings demand my focus. But I can’t. I just can’t. My stomach is growling for the pesto half of Il Monastero pizza and my heart is pleading for the embrace of my friends.

In the past few weeks I’ve embraced something I knew all along, but never fully understood. This lifestyle, it isn’t healthy. The racing from one thing to the next, mind stretched in every direction possible, lists constantly added to but never finished. I can’t help but believe this isn’t the way it’s supposed to be. Where is the health in that? Where are the unfurrowed brows and the calm minds? I’m integrated but my heart doesn’t want to accommodate. Jesus tells me to rest. And if I won’t, He’ll make me- in green pastures, nonetheless. That’s His plan for goodness, His steps toward peace and away from anxiety. And I’m now believing that that’s maybe one of the greatest things He showed me in Italy. “Rest is good,” He says. Yeah yeah I know, maybe I’ll find some in the next couple of weeks. “No Ellyn. Rest. Rest is good.” I think good means something different than I’ve always assumed. Good, not in the beneficial sense or the on-its-way-to-best-but-not-even-close sense. Good as in necessary. A slice of perfection and a piece of real relationship. Life the way it was meant to be. Balanced. Whole. Full of oxygen and eyes looking all around, not just down. Good.

In Italy, I learned that my mind doesn’t always have to bounce off everything like a pinball scoring record points. One thing is enough. Slow down. Breathe. Stare at a wall if that’s what it takes (which I did). It is good. And it is enough. My life didn’t shatter, my friends still loved me, my humanity didn’t slosh down the drain.

How do I maintain this amidst our culture? How do I say no and embrace the risk of the opinions that follow, which race to consume my identity? I must do it. I must. It is good, like fresh pesto and red wine.

with my own eyes

One of my classes this semester is 19th century art history. I’ve studied a lot of these works before, under the same professor, so they’re not a huge surprise to me at this point. But now, it feels different.

For the past two weeks, we’ve been going through slides, studying works, and all of the sudden one will come up on the screen and it’s one I’ve seen before. But not just through a projector. In real life. And while we’re all sitting there listening to my professor, my mind and my heart are swirling with the reality that I HAVE SEEN THESE WITH MY OWN EYES and I don’t know what to do with all the emotions. So I sit there, I take notes, and meanwhile open my iPhoto to pull up the same picture that was taken through the lens in my own hands. And everything I’ve studied before and everything I’m learning  now of these pieces comes to life as I see the three-dimensions from my mind’s eye. The beauty is different. The meaning is different. It’s personal, experiential, the farthest thing from routine and the closest thing to awe. My heart beats passionately and my eyes are damp with memory. I feel the weight of this press on me, as we flip from one slide to the next and I realize that probably most of the people in the room are completely unaffected by magnitude of treasure we’ve just glanced at. And I was too, until I saw it with my own eyes. But now I know how large that canvas is, or how detailed those contours are, or how simply humbling it is to stand before that loveliness and just attempt to take it all in. I didn’t know this piece like I thought I did. I might store as many of its details as my brain can retain, but I didn’t know it until I actually planted myself in front of it, my intellect bulldozed by the actual mystery it presents. “Good try,” it says, ” but there is a whole lot more to me than you had any idea of.” And I’m speechless. I think it’s in the realization of unknowingness that we actually begin to know, connect, and form a depth that didn’t exist before.

My heart skips when I think of the flavor of olive oil. And it aches a deep burn when both my mouth and my soul crave cacio e pepe pasta, knowing that there is no such similar thing here. I can see the blue sky and orange buildings, taste the sweet Vesuvian tomato, smell the sizzling aromatic onions. I think I expected my senses of Italy to be duller upon return to the States, but now I’m realizing that it’s quite the opposite. They’re not dulled; they’re heightened. I feel it more than ever now, the connection and the grip on my heart.

And now, as I read over what I’ve just written, something is hitting me that I didn’t foresee. That experience with art, it’s almost perfectly parallel to my experience with the Lord. Last weekend I went on a prayer retreat with my campus ministry, and there we learned to simply sit in the presence of God, to stop talking, stop asking, and just sit, and then see how our prayers changed. I learned that when I do pause and take those actions of ceasing, my prayers are more meaningful. They’re more connected to God’s heart and they’re less demanding. And it’s because I’m sitting in awe before Him, rather than trying to buff myself up with all the things I seem to know and understand about Him. No, it’s like sitting before the piece of art. “Good try,” He says,” but there is a whole lot more to me than you had any idea of.” Intellect shot down. Humility revealed. Mystery spoken. Hope and craving for the actual knowing.

Italy won’t leave me alone

I’m sad today, guys.

Tomorrow I leave for Richmond, where I’ll spend the night and then head down to SC on Friday. I don’t think I’m ready for this, to be honest with you. I’m not ready for the hectic schedule, the demands, the rushing around. I’ve been exhausted during this break at home, and I’ve hardly done anything. Truthfully, I’m a bit scared. If I’m already tired now, how am I going to be able to manage this crazy semester? I’ve got so many emotions about Italy, and soon they’re going to collide with those of my last semester of college. I don’t know how that’s going to go, and I can’t predict. But I’m nervous.

It’s comforting in a way, though. Finally I’m feeling this pain of being home from Italy. Finally I’m starting to mourn and process. Finally it’s hitting. 

I’m sitting in City Dock Coffee. I met Krysia here and we talked for a while, which was helpful and comforting as always. While sitting in the window seat, her favorite, this couple sat down at the table outside. He was gray-haired, she had deep reddish black. Both olive-skinned, sitting out there and smoking a cigarette while sipping their espressos. His jeans. Her coat, shirt, shoe color combo. I’m convinced they were Italian. Even to the point where I tried to read their lips to see if their were speaking Italian. It’s like I’ve got this trigger now. Anything remotely resembling Italian life and I perk up and my heart reaches out. 

It seeps out through everything. Yesterday I was paying my lunch bill and saw that the number was higher than the menu price, and I thought, “Great! They already added the tip.” Then I realized it was the tax. And I’d still have to add the tip. Later that day, at coffee, we weren’t even halfway finished with our french press of coffee and the waiter set the bill on the table. There weren’t even any other customers in the room. “No! I’m not finished! I’m not even close.” Last night I dropped Krysia off at her house. We said goodbye and I started to drive away and said to myself “Ciao, ciao.” And today, as I now sit alone in City Dock, I think about how I’m probably going to leave soon and how I’ll then have to go pay for my tea. Oh wait, I already did that.

It’s engrained in me, all of it. I can’t let it go and I never want to. It might take bursting into tears in a coffee shop before I get used to this life again, but at least I’m finally used to understanding the language of people around me. 

Jesus Calling today- “Though I have all power in heaven and on earth, I am infinitely tender with you. The weaker you are, the more gentle I approach you.”

transitioning

“I’ve often wanted to see a bit of magic like what it tells of in old tales, but I’ve never heard of a better land than this. It’s like being at home and on a holiday at the same time, if you understand me. I don’t want to leave. All the same, I’m beginning to feel that if we’ve got to go on, then we’d best get it over.”
                          -The Fellowship of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkein

In the plane, riding the line of day changing to night.

So I’m home now?

I had three different flights on my return journey. First I flew to London and spent the night there, then a plane to Iceland, and a final plane to DC. I spent Sunday morning in Heathrow, waiting for the time when I could board my plane. I got an Americano and yogurt and scone from Caffè Nero, a common British coffee company (though they call themselves “The Italian Coffee Company”… right). As I sat there, thoughts of various kinds bombarded me, which I quickly typed out on my phone:

“I just ordered my first caffe Americano where I had to ask for less water, not more. This is so weird. And while I was sitting and eating and drinking, I saw my first whipped-cream-filled, caramel-drizzled ‘coffee’ in the hands of an older man, walking to his table. I got so disgusted. I’m not ready for this.”
“It feels weird to travel without Jensen and Janae. It doesn’t feel right that I’m experiencing things and being exhausted and drinking coffee without them. I’m not even home and I already miss Italy so much.”
“I am already realizing, after being in a more modern and commercially-driven country for only 15 hours, how much less obsessive I’ve become about my food habits! I don’t feel so guilty eating carbs. I’m freer. Thank you Lord.”

A racing smattering of realizations have been hitting me for the past seven days.

I guess as of today, Sunday, which is when I’m writing this, it’s been a week since I stepped onto American ground. The transition has been interesting, and not quite as I expected, to be honest. The strange thing is that aside from the first couple meltdowns, it’s mostly been a state of numbness, as if I was never actually there, or as if it was an entirely different life.

Maybe it’s because this week has been a whirlwind: living in my parents’ new house for the first time, awake at 5 AM the first few nights, socializing right away, Christmas Eve, Christmas day, the Annapolis mall, family weekend in Pennsylvania… Though there has been a lot of down time in the midst of all these, and also a lot of joy, it’s also been a lot of movement. Coming but going. New but normal. Joy but sadness. It’s a swirling mess. When our plane touched down in DC, I started crying. And unlike the vision I had in the middle of the semester of my arrival home, I was crying because I didn’t want to be there. I wanted to be in Italy still.

the last night on Via Bussi

For the past four months, Italy has been my home. The comfort of my bed. The familiarity of the quirks in my kitchen. My street. My keys. The weekly routine. The food. My friends, who were my family. It all has been my home. In four months, a completely strange culture transformed into comfort. Throughout the semester, Janae continually talked about how this whole experience was just our lives. Yes, we were in a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Yes, we were living in Italy. Yes, it was continually new and riveting and compelling. But the reality is that it was still our lives. We were living, we just happened to be in Italy. We had emotional swings and rough nights of sleep, we had tears but also laughter. I was on a budget. It was real life. And maybe that’s the reason it actually felt like home so much- because we went through the normalcies of life. We just had to handle them differently because we were with new people, constantly adjusting to a new culture. But eventually that constant adjustment turned into the normal, and the people became companions and family, and then all of the sudden we were going through things together, walking alongside each other in this newness. And it was normal, it was life. I think that if it was happy-go-lucky all the time, I probably wouldn’t miss it so much. It wasn’t paradise. It held rawness (sorry Jensen, I know you hate that word). And it was working through that reality that made it so treasured. The fact that there were people walking alongside me, that we were helping each other through it, that we were experiencing the joyfulness together… I know I’m talking in circles, I just can’t get it out clearly. You understand me.

Our last coffee… in Italy.

All that being said, home has been weird. I feel guilty for feeling this contrast of emotions- this gladness of being home and seeing loved ones again and putting my clothes in the dryer and drinking water from the tap versus not really wanting to be here at all, if I’m honest, and wanting to be with my Italy family and sink back into my red chair in my apartment with my morning coffee and my Bible and Janae right across from me. I got used to the pace of life, the appreciation of slowness, the lack of necessity to always be moving and accomplishing and checking things off the list.

Viterbo, my sweet Italian home.

So while I’m glad to be back in the States, it’s rough. My inclination is to shut down, close off, scrunch my eyebrows and shake my head and tell you that you don’t understand. But I love you and I care about you and I don’t want to lock you out. I want to embrace you and tell you how extremely happy I am to see you again; and if I haven’t gotten to do that yet, I will. Because it’s the truth. I just have to unbury it yet.

I haven’t processed a lot at this point. I’m afraid to think about it because I know it’ll lead to mourning, which is difficult and painful and I haven’t had the space for it yet. I’m nervous that it won’t happen, to be honest. But I know the processing will probably take the rest of my life, that Italy will hit me bit by bit. The beginning must start somewhere; I guess I’m in it now. I’m not going to force it, but if it knocks on the door I suppose I must open it.

Knowing me, I’ll overanalyze all this and tear it to bits, ignoring the basic emotions that rise on a daily level. But I think that honestly, the best thing to do is simply take each day and thought and feeling at a time. If I need to cry, I’ll cry. If I need to write, I’ll journal, even if it doesn’t make sense. If I need to laugh, I’ll call someone to laugh with me. If I need to look back at pictures, so be it. One thing at a time. Once again, all forward motion counts.

For the record, I love each of you. I want to hear about your lives, I desperately want to catch up with you and hear how YOU are doing. So call me, I’ll call you, let’s get coffee or lunch and gather around the table and share life.

This is it

Somehow, I’m leaving tomorrow.

I don’t know how this day got here; I feel like just a month ago I was frantically packing my suitcase to come here. And now it’s over.

This is one of the hardest things ever. My heart is breaking to leave these people and this place, and I don’t want to face it because I know how bad it’s going to hurt. It’s like a time bomb, waiting for the moment when you actually have to say goodbye and can’t push it off any longer.

Going out to dinner tonight with close friends, to a place we’ve never been, just to keep the adventure going. We’re going to have a full-course, real Italian style meal and relish our last dinner together.

… My roommate just walked in and gave me a Christmas present and a note 😭

This won’t be the last- still have stories to tell and pictures to show. But until then, buonasera 🙂

Tuscia Times Internship

Okay, so at the beginning of the semester I attended a meeting for anyone interested in volunteering and internships. I wasn’t sure if I’d actually do anything, but when they started explaining the Journalism Internship, I got excited. And I did it.

So all semester, I’ve had the privilege of writing for Tuscia Times, an online newspaper based on the Tuscia region of Italy, which includes Viterbo. I’ve been writing under the “Walking in Italian Shoes” column, and every week I submit an article that is related to American vs Italian culture, or my time here, or anything at all related to these four months. It is then translated into Italian, and both the English and Italian translations are posted onto the website.

And I have loved it. It has forced me to pay detailed attention to the things going on around me, the differences in culture, life in general. While it has been challenging at times, writing on a deadline and schedule and having to stay narrowed down, it has been such a fantastic experience. Over the past several months I’ve realized how much I enjoy writing, how relaxing it is and how beautiful it can be, especially when we’re out of the constrains of 5-paragraph high school English papers.

Two weeks ago I met with my internship director, Wanda, for the last time. What I thought was going to be just a final discussion of logistics turned out to be one of the most encouraging meetings ever. Wanda applauded me, said I was talented, and urged me to continue writing, even to pursue a career in it. 

Who knows what will happen, but I am so thankful for this Internship. It has seriously been a gift and a joy and a challenge, and I’ve loved having another avenue for words. Grazie, Tuscia Times!

If you want to have a look, click here for the website! (If that just takes you to the main website, scroll down and click on “Walking in Italian Shoes” on the right sidebar.)

Aaron, part 2.

Welcome back.

We pick up the story on Friday. Aaron and I rose very early to catch a train to Rome, beginning our mad day of travel that would end in Venice. We started in Viterbo, had coffee in Rome, and then got on a fast train to Florence, arriving at 11:15. Our train to Venice would leave at 2:55, so we had 3 and a half hours to conquer Florence. Impossible? Nope. We ought to write a travel book on those three hours. We strolled from the station to the Duomo, walked around that, through the leather markets, to the Accademia just to see, and across town to the river. Through the aisles of the Uffizi, across the Pontevecchio.

I had remembered that my friend Kaitlin, who studied in Florence, told me once that I HAD to go to Gusta Pizza, her favorite pizza place ever. I had seen it when I was in Florence before, but never went. So we went to a street I recognized, decided to turn down another that I happened to had been on before, and walked to the next street and BAM. There on the left. Talk about stoked. We grabbed pizza to go, margherita for both of us, and sat in a little piazza nearby, just as Kaitlin had said to do. The pizza was definitely fantastic. We ate and enjoyed and people watched, and then went to my favorite gelato place, a small, one-manned shop that has the almond milk gelato. But they were out! Sad. Regardless, I got one made with applesauce and raisins and all those things I love that other people hate, and also a hot chili chocolate one. Aaron had pistachio and orange chocolate. We walked to the Palazzo di Michelangelo while eating our gelato, and hiked up a massive hill to get the best look of Florence from across the river. It was awesome. We relaxed there and then left with plenty of time to make it on our train to Venice, all the way back across town. And all this with our packs on.

On the way to Venice, we watched Top Gear and relaxed in the warmth and time for rest. When  we arrived, just after sunset, we stepped out of the train station and it took my breath. There was the water, right in front of me, and the intricate buildings all beautiful and detailed resting alongside it. Little bridges everywhere. Narrow streets. I seriously couldn’t believe I was there, a place I’d dreamed of for years. We found our hostel, just a 10 minute walk away, and checked-in, dropping our stuff off and doing the usual routine. From there we set out to walk around and explore… St. Mark’s Square, Rialto Bridge, and all the hopelessly confusing streets of this water town. We had a recommendation for dinner, so we somehow found it and sat down inside the warmth of this wine-focused restaurant of All’Amarone. We ordered bruschetta to start, with a bottle of wine, which you get to leave there with a note for them to put it on the wall. Aaron had pasta for dinner and I had a salame meat dish with polenta. I’ll be honest: it was a rough dinner for me. We didn’t just want to get just a glass of wine each so we figured on a bottle; but with a price I didn’t like. The waitress did her job on making the sale, and we felt we had to say yes. The food was not bad, but not excellent. I know this isn’t supposed to be a restaurant review, but I want to explain how the dinner was pleasant and joyful, but not because of the food. I was so caught up on spending too much money that I couldn’t let it go. I was frustrated, I didn’t want Aaron to spend that much, and I didn’t think it all was worth the price. But he was calm and firm with me, saying that yes, maybe it was a little much, but it didn’t matter to him. We wanted to have a nice dinner at some point, and this was it. He was okay with it; this is what he came here to do, he said, and even more, that I was worth a more expensive bottle of wine. We talked through it all and sorted out the tangle, and then enjoyed our time together. So even though the experience was not the best, Aaron made it good and calm, and eventually pulled me out of my frustration enough for us to have a sweet time.

Afterwards we somehow found our way through the confusing streets, back to the hostel, where… can you guess? Crash hard. Travel is wearying.

Saturday we arose and had our pumpkin scones for breakfast, and then wandered around, thinking we were on one part of the island when in fact we were on the opposite. We found a place for coffee, thank the Lord, and afterwards grabbed a couple pears from a fruit stand across the street. Then we made our way to the place we wanted to be- everywhere we’d been the night before, so that we could see it in daytime. We took pictures and saw beautiful things and found a lookout of the water where no one was. And around 12, Aaron decided- what the heck, let’s go on a gondola ride. So we did. We found a guy we’d seen before, who seemed great and sweet and not at all scammish. And we were right. He was a great gondolier, and occasionally he would point things out to us in a voice that was smooth but full of age, and we felt like we could listen to him forever. Before a gondolier turns around a corner, he has to yell to assure that those who can’t see him know he’s coming. It was the greatest yell, like “ahoiy” but deeper and richer and friendlier. He took pictures for us, as we shivered and huddled together to escape the cold air. It was a great 40 minutes, I’m thankful for it.

For lunch, we visited Alfredo’s Pasta To Go, this little place full of joking workers and a simple menu, with pasta that’s so fresh that they don’t start making it until they open the doors to customers. We each got a curry-spiced sauce, with tomatoes and lots of cheese, which they smother over your noodle of choice. They pile the sauce on, so it’s almost soupy, which hardly any place does in Italy. It was steaming. It was comforting. It was some of the best pasta I’ve had in all of Italy.

And after that, we went back to our hostel to grab our stuff. We stopped for a coffee, shopped a little bit, and then headed to the train station to wait out the time until our train back to Florence, from where we’d hop another train to Assisi.

Venice as a whole was wonderful. There are so many little details to look at wherever you turn your head. Nowhere, in the world, have I ever been so infatuated with color. The water is the most intriguing bluish-green, and it nearly matches a cloudy sky, which is just slightly bluer. And then there’s the deep turquoise of the shutters and doors everywhere, and the water lines on the sides of the buildings. And a burnt red and orange on every structure- like terracotta but better- mingled with patches of gray and brown and yellow.  They’re entrancing and enticing. I’ve never seen colors like these, and I would go back just to visit them again.

Upon leaving, we took a fast train to Florence and then a slow one to Assisi, arriving around 9PM. We caught a bus up to the beautiful city filled with countless dots of lights and were dropped off by Saint Francis’s Basilica. We found our hotel and were greeted at the desk by an older, cheerful man who spoke hardly any English. We laughed as we tried to understand each other, and eventually he showed us to our two-twin-bedded room, which had a fabulous view of the valley below from a very little balcony. We dropped our stuff and ran out to find some food, hoping everything hadn’t closed yet. We found a wine bar that had some food, significantly casual as it was, ate quickly, and then grabbed some organic wine from a woman across the street and headed back to relax after a long day. We watched part of Skyfall (my favorite James Bond movie thus far) and hit the hay.

Sunday, we woke up, packed our things, and checked out of the hotel. We had coffee and pastries at a cafe just off the piazza of the city center, and then headed up to Rocca Maggiore, which took significantly less time than when I went up with Mom and Sara. When we got up to the top, the wind was blowing hard, making the grass dance and my hair fly. It was a wintry look, with the blue gray clouds pleasantly hovering over the deeply-hued mountains. As soon as I stood up on the green, knobby ground and looked out over the mountains and city, tears came to my eyes. Every time I would look, really look, I started to cry. I don’t know why this place has such an effect on me; somehow it is just one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been. Maybe it’s my family’s connection to place. Seeing Saint Francis and Assisi landmarks everywhere in my grandparents’ house as I grew up. The little stories I’ve heard Grandpa, the most wonderful story-teller in the world, spout out. The love planted in each of our hearts, which isn’t fully kindled until we’ve seen it with our own eyes. The place just gets me. It grips me, it holds me, it won’t let me look away. I love it.

After staying at the top of the mountain for a while, we headed back down to the city, taking the scenic route, to look inside the churches, shop a bit, and eat lunch. Aaron had a pizza and I had some honey-cheese-stuffed ravioli, and it was all a pleasant end to our trip. We both agreed that this was the perfect ending to our weekend of travel. It was calm and pleasant and beautiful, a quiet resolve to the busyness of it all. Around 2 o’clock we grabbed our packs from our hotel and walked to the train station to go home, getting the last beautiful sights of Assisi on one of my favorite, and now apparently traditional, walks.

We got back to Viterbo around 8 and then went out to dinner one last time, to La Spaghetteria, with Jensen and Janae. I repeated sauces for the first time- almost blasphemy. But too delicious. And then we went home to pack everything up, before relaxing a little bit and crashing for the last time. We rose very early on Monday and got on a train to Fiumicino Airport. I stayed for a little bit with Aaron, before saying goodbye to him in the baggage check line. It was hard, after such a great time, but comforting knowing that we have come three months and could do certainly do just three weeks more.

Everything was seriously wonderful, and I’m so thankful that Aaron came. It was a true blessing and breath of fresh air, a week full of adventure and joy. Thanks to every one of you who helped make it happen!

And less than two weeks from right now, I will have set foot on American ground again. I’m thrilled, I’m so excited. But the emotions are the most confusing thing ever, because I definitely don’t want to leave yet. I still feel like I’m waiting for everything to happen, and now it’s almost over (Elizabethtown, if you get me). I love Italy, like I said last time. Two pulling, straining, passionate emotions, hogging for attention. One day, one moment at a time. All forward motion counts.

Thankful for friends and the people God has put in my life.

Aaron, part one.

On November the 23rd, Aaron stepped onto Italian ground for the first time. And what a pleasant trek across the country it was.

On Saturday morning, Janae and I headed to Fiumicino Airport in Rome to each pick up our boys. Poor Jake’s flight got delayed by 8 hours, and Janae had to wait a while in the airport for a while. And then we got sent to the wrong terminal to find Aaron, so he had to wait a little while until we got it all cleared up… So a bit of a rough start, but it was a joyful and unreal reunion!

We decided to spend the first weekend in Rome, staying two nights in two different hostels, across the city from each other. So from the airport we trained and metroed to our first hostel, near the Roman ruins. We settled in and stopped the crazy moving for a bit before heading out for the sights. Unfortunately, almost as soon as we left, the rain started. And it didn’t stop until the next day. So evening was spent first at a cafe for coffee, then an attempt at seeing the Colosseum, followed by aperitivo of red wine at a great little place with delicious food, and finally dinner just around the corner- stuffed pasta for me and Rome’s classic cacio e pepe for Aaron. Sharing an umbrella, we sprinted back to our hostel in the rain and unashamedly got ready for bed at 9 o’clock, before sitting down to watch an episode of Top Gear. Aside from the weather letdown, the evening was great.

Sunday, we got up pretty early, grabbed a coffee and fresh squeezed OJ from a pasticceria across the street, and hit the long road to go check into our next hostel. On the way we walked around the Colosseum, by the Forum, and in front of Capitoline Hill. Finally we got to the Tiber, crossed it, and walked through the Vatican to see the Pope before arriving at our second, nicer hostel, tired from the trek with our packs. After relaxing for a little bit, we explored that side of the city. Honestly, it was one of my favorite areas of Rome- there are lots of shopping streets, but it’s quieter than the city center. People just doing their lives, selling their goods at a local market, experiencing the beauty of Rome daily… It was great to be a part of. Outside was chilly, but the sky was perfectly blue and the sun was sweetly providing warmth. For lunch, we happened upon a local restaurant, where Aaron experienced his first authentic Italian pizza. And it did not disappoint- this stuff was delicious. And they were so sweet to us. Then we grabbed a quick coffee and pastry from a cute place down the street, which had pancakes displayed in a cake stand.

Piazza del Popolo

We wandered across the river and saw Augustus’ Mausoleum and the Ara Pacis Museum, then went to Piazza del Popolo where we saw the Statue of Liberty trying to weed money out of confused observers. After popping in the hostel for a quick second, we headed over to the main attractions- Piazza Navona, Trevi Fountain, and the Pantheon, grabbing a delicious hazelnut and pistachio gelato in between. We sat on the steps of the Pantheon and looked at its beauty- without a doubt my favorite monument in Rome, makes me sigh in astonishment every time- and then slowly made our way to… THE STEELERS BAR. Yes. The Steelers bar. For the first time since last season, I got to watch a football game. And not just any game- the STEELERS game. We sat amongst friends and ate peanuts while Aaron drank a stout and I had an IPA. It warmed my heart so much to feel like I was at home again. When we scored, the owner of the bar (who sounds completely PA but is actually originally from Italy) beat a ridiculously loud bell and we all cheered like crazy. I met a woman from York, the city I was born in, and we talked and laughed and it felt so normal! At half time, Aaron and I left because there was no food served there, so we said goodbye and grabbed a quick pizza and salad near our hostel, before falling asleep just after our heads hit our pillows in our beds.

Monday we got up early to grab a 7:50 train back to Viterbo. We got back feeling exhausted and so relieved to have a firm home base. I showered and quickly pumped a much-needed coffee into my veins, and we settled in just perfectly. We had homemade tomato soup with mozzarella pesto grilled cheese for lunch, and afterwards Aaron came to school with me while I had class. We went to a cafe for a quick coffee and then went home for a while before grocery shopping at Emme Piu. He carried all my groceries and the heavy water, and I felt so blessed. We had our own aperitivo at home, of red wine and cheese and prosciutto with crackers. And then for dinner we went to Il Monastero with Jake and Janae! Aaron loved the experience, and the food was delicious as always. He and I each ordered a pizza of half pesto, half red sauce with sausage. It was fantastic. Then a hard crash again that night, after Dan in Real Life.

Il Monastero!

Tuesday we woke up early to go to Bomarzo for a Cuisine field trip to an olive mill! It was freezing outside that day, but luckily most of the tour was inside. We saw the orchards where the trees grow, and the whole process of sorting the olives and then transforming them into oil. The smell of the place was pungent and bitter, but enticing all the same. And the color of the freshly milled oil was lime green, an enticing and steady stream pouring into a barrel below. We got to buy a bottle if we wanted, and then we headed into Bomarzo to walk up through the old city and have class in the Palazzo (palace). There, with our gloves still on and scarves wrapped tightly because of the cold, we received some history of olive oil and then learned how to do an olive oil tasting. While you keep your hand on the top of the cup, you hold it in your hand to warm the oil, swirl it around, and then quickly remove your hand and stick your nose in the cup to get the rich scent, which passes in only a few seconds. Then you gather a couple of drops on the tip of your tongue and let the flavor permeate down your throat, where you most easily sense bitterness. On the second taste, after your tastebuds have understood the general flavor, you are more able to decipher the true taste of the oil, distinguishing it from those prior. We tasted 5 different oils of different years, therefore different levels of sweetness and bitterness; the last one was a lemon-infused olive oil, and I could only imagine how it would taste atop flaky white fish and garlicky rice. Simply amazing.

That afternoon we visited the Monster Garden in Bomarzo, a large and winding garden with massive stone statues of monsters and creatures scattered throughout. We all walked and laughed and chatted, taking funny pictures and admiring the craziness of it all. Around 3 we headed back to Viterbo and I went to class. Afterwards Aaron met me at school and we went to Blitz for aperitivo and fantastic conversation, then we dropped by the store to grab a couple things to make peppery pea and arugula risotto with prosciutto. We cooked and sipped wine and stirred and chatted, and then sat down to enjoy what was the best risotto I’ve made yet. It was buttery without having used any butter, and creamy without cream. I didn’t want the bowl to end. To finish it all, we made tiramisu and popped it in the fridge before hopping into bed.

full and happy

Wednesday was a free and productive day. After a much-needed slow morning that included baking pumpkin scones, Aaron and I went back to the store to shop for Thanksgiving goods (he carried the bags again), hitting Eden Fruits also, which he loved. Lunch was eaten at the best pizza place in Viterbo, which he agreed was the best pizza he’d ever had. And then it was an afternoon of baking pumpkin pie, drinking coffee, and starting Lord of the Rings. We shopped a bit in the evening, and for dinner we went to La Spaghetteria with Jake and Janae. Great, as usual. And then, on the eve of sweet Jensen’s birthday, we brought pumpkin pie over and watched Step Up, all snuggled under a big blanket, to celebrate her loveliness.

Mid-morning on Thursday, the smell of onion and celery wafted throughout the apartment, as I’m sure it did for many of you, beginning the culinary marathon that is Thanksgiving. We had it all down, after grabbing a few last minute things from a veggie stand. Stuffing was first, then pumpkin pie, while Janae made homemade rosemary rolls. There was a break for gelato (Aaron’s first taste of L’Antica Latteria), then the prep of the three chickens (turkey’s not so common here in Italy), and off to class for Janae and I while Aaron handled the poultry. After, it was a race to the finish. Chop and boil and mash and flavor the potatoes (all Aaron), cut the apples and roll the dough for apple pie, boil and mash the carrots and “red turnips” (definitely beets), cook the sauerkraut, stir and thicken the gravy, keep the stuffing warm, cut the chicken, heat the corn and green beans, and lastly, pour the wine and sit down to rest and devour. It was great. We ate like Italians, starting at 8:30. Everything turned out perfectly and we had a whole chicken leftover after a lovely dinner for six. We waited until there was an ounce of space in our stomachs to taste the apple and pumpkin pies and Janae’s pumpkin bread with cream cheese icing, but most of it was left for the next day. Cleanup. Pack for the weekend. Bed.

Sweet Anya!

For the sake of your eyes and the productivity of my computer, I’ll close the first chapter of this story here, for now. The second is not far behind, coming with great stories and even more photos. Until then, ciao!

By the way, I love Italy. I still love it, I love it even more than before, and it makes my heart skip whenever I think about it. Beautiful things.