"courage, dear heart": Arrivederci

I've recently gone through a break-up.

I could barely talk about it.

So, I didn't.

But now, I must.

Here's the brief summary:

(cue dramatic music)

I moved to Italy.

Fell in love.

Then had to leave.

The army sent us to Italy about 2.5 years ago.

I was slightly reluctant.

Horrified -even- when I got there (read this)

So, falling in love didn't happen all at once.

But, then again, it rarely does.

At first, I resented the infernal roundabouts and endless riposos (nap-times) and comparative lack of industry.

Like, really resented it. (Think "angry, white girl.")

And for the love of PETE- "Could SOMEONE please speak English here?" Anyone?

Yes, yes, in hindsight, it was very ethnocentric of me.

So, I adapted.

I learned to LOVE roundabouts.

And anticipate riposos like a boss!

Oh and tres important:

Learn "Does this outfit make me look fat?" in perfect Italian.

(For dressing room emergencies, you know.)

There were other cultural nuances.

But, like any good love story, we'll just airbrush those.

Okay, well (if pressed).

Nuances like...

How every other day was an Italian holiday.

How my stink bug infestation never quit.

Or how my washer/dryer could fit like *two* hand towels at a time. TWO.

Airbrush it.

Fo' getta 'bout it.

Why? Because there was so much to love.

THE BREAK-UP.

Under the sunny glare of a July morning sky, we hobbled onto a greyhound, laden with 17 suitcases and enough Prosecco to buoy our spirits for about a month.

(I underestimated the weight of my sadness. That prosecco was gone in a hot second.)

My fabulous friend Amanda was there to witness the carnage and my streaming tears.

Of when you've loved and lost.

Since you've ~~not~~ asked, here's what we will miss:

What each tear shed reflected in it's trail.

And yes, I speak for my family since my kids are shadowy appendages these days.

First, Vicenza. Beautiful, antiquated, storied, Vicenza. Cobbled lanes drifting to ancient basilicas, flowering windowsills and picture-book piazzas.

From our favorite trattorias to the antique markets held along their hallowed stradas. Adore.

Of course, Italy 's charm is in its small village life. Where, like "Cheers" everybody knows your name.

But classier.

I will miss my sweet Italian florist, Janina, who was so patient with my floral ignorance and introduced me to my obsession, "Violaciocca."

(Americans call it "Stock"- which is such a pathetic misnomer.)

I will miss la famiglia Carmine that welcomed us so warmly when we first arrived, disgruntled and hangry. Their pizza and their kindness were beloved by my children. And. that. is. everything.

I will miss our local grocery store, PAM and my favorite pizzeria Tony's, who graciously allowed me to order in Italian even though he spoke perfect English. I will miss Donatella, who pumped our gas and gave us fresh pasta. Just. Because.

I will miss Davide and Rosanna at Fabrothers who were unfailingly patient (and flattering) towards all the heads of hair I brought them for trims. Which is no small feat.

And I will even miss the commissary, where they regularly offered customers expired hams and turkeys and cream. (p.s. I forgive you.)

It was always like a class reunion.

And I secretly loved it.

Second, I will miss the rustic splendor of Italy, seemingly untouched by time. From the snow-scaped Alps to the colorful cliffs of Cinque Terre to the verdant valleys, brimming with vines- simply breathtaking. Plumb her depths, the artistry is boundless.

Of course, Michelangelo was an artist! How is every Italian NOT an artist?!

I am from Philly. I have an excuse.

This beauty I will miss.

Third, our beloved villa on a vineyard. What a providential gift- this 17th century former convent that offered over ten acres for my kids' imaginations!

Plus our attentive landlords were like grandparents (who demanded a security deposit).