American know-how

    I met a young, attractive American woman at our hotel yesterday who definitely got me thinking.

    She's a wedding planner based in San Francisco who plans weddings for Americans all over Italy. She was here, lying by the pool, waiting to meet her bride later. 

    She said she doesn't usually come to the weddings, but in this case, she wanted to be sure this bride had the "magic day she deserves", as she put it. She had found a 24-person villa for the wedding party -- plus two other apartments -- but the whole party had to travel down the winding Amalfi road to the next town, and it's been really hot, so she just wanted to be sure it all went off without a hitch.

     She told me about her business, where she helps high-end clients plan any kind of event in Italy. I looked at her website later.

     American business sense just never ceases to amaze me. 

     This woman spoke virtually no Italian, had no real ties to Italy, and lives at least 15 hours away by non-stop flight. Yet, she had a thriving business (you could tell) helping luxury clients spend tons of money here in Italy. And she was making heaps of money doing it.

     And here I am, also American, but with fluent Italian, my own house, and a deep knowledge of almost everywhere in this country, scrounging around trying to get another job working for The Man. In London. Where I'm not sure I even want to be.

     There is something wrong with this picture, folks.

     This 55-year-old brain has just got to rid itself of all old notions of work. Forget about the media. And The Man. The Man never loves you back. 

      Concentrate on Italy. But use that American know-how I must've acquired too growing up in the States.

                               

The Amalfi Road

      I've been thinking a lot about my Italian mother these days here on the Amalfi coast. So much has been reminding me of her.

      Yesterday evening, we took a sunset drive along the Amalfi road.

      For those of you who don't know this road (are there any foreigners left who don't?), it may just be the most picturesque road in the world, a tiny two-laned street full of hair-pin curves that hugs a coastline of dramatic, craggy cliffs and pastel-colored towns that cascade down into the Mediterranean.  

     If there is a more beautiful road on this planet, I don't know it. 

     One of my most treasured possessions is a watercolor my mother painted of the Amalfi road. It now hangs in our living room in London. It used to be in our bedroom in the States.

    I love that watercolor. It's very simple -- just the blue sea and the winding road and the cliffs. I love it because it's sunny and fresh and always reminds me of southern Italy. I love it also because my mother painted it.

    As we were driving, I tried to pinpoint the exact spot my mother depicted in that watercolor. And I thought about my mother's life then -- and later what it became in the States.

    It must've been so hard for my Italian parents to leave this magnificent area, this majestic country, to make a new life in America. They only left because my father went broke. It hurts to even think of their sacrifice.  

    We passed an ad that used a phrase that also reminded me of my mother -- "gonfie vele," or full sails. It basically means to go full steam ahead, under full sails, confident and with plenty of wind behind you.   

    My mother gave me a gold pin of a sailboat on a birthday once, a pin she said my father had given her when she was pregnant with me. She explained the "gonfie vele" saying to me then, and said my father had given the pin to her for good luck with her pregnancy. 

    On the day I was born at a clinic overlooking the sea in Naples, not that far from here, my parents had planned to take the ferry to Capri for the day with my grandparents. I wasn't due for a couple of weeks yet, and it was a beautiful July day, my mother explained.

    They never made it, because my mother went into labor in the morning.

    So I was born overlooking this sea on a sunny July day when I was supposed to be going to Capri instead.

    Is it any wonder this place makes me weak in the knees?        

Real Italy

     I can relax now. The boys arrived at the house. It took them almost 20 hours from the east coast of the U.S. to get to our Italian side of the hill, but they're there, safe and sound.

     "You have not walked up that hill until you've walked up it carrying a big backpack after a 20-hour journey," our son told us last night.

     Uh, okay. Yeah, I can imagine. Your choice, though, I seem to recall.

     Anyway, they're there. And we're here -- on the Amalfi coast.

     How bad can that be, right?

     Not bad at all. Gorgeous actually. 

     The water is clear and beautiful, the sun never stops shining, the landscape is majestic, and the chilled limoncello (made from some of those monster lemons I was telling you about) is exquisite.

     It's not real Italy, though, I hate to say it. It's overrun with foreigners. Last night, as we walked around town and then had dinner, we heard more American and British accents than Italian. 

     One of the waiters at our hotel confirmed what I had noticed. "Hardly any Italians come here anymore," he said. "It's all foreigners."

     There's probably one Italian guest for every 10 foreign guests at this hotel at the moment. And the center of town is one souvenir, ceramics and limoncello shop after another. (although the Duomo, or main church, is magnificent). 

     That's what I love about our side of the hill. It's Italy.

     Not that foreigners don't like the area. They do. It's gorgeous there, too, on that big, beautiful lake. Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes even got married nearby.

     We were concerned that could change it. But it hasn't. 

     It's still unmistakeably, undeniably Italy in every way.

     Grazie tanto for small favors! 

                            

     

Lemons on Steroids

     We all have foods we love that remind us of our childhoods. One of my favorite childhood foods -- a love I carried with me into adulthood -- are lemons. I squeeze lemon onto everything. There's never less than half a dozen lemons in my fridge. When I buy them in bulk, my husband warns they'll go bad. They never do. They get used long before that.   

     I dress all my vegetables and salads the Italian way -- with olive oil and lemon. I squish fresh lemon on a steak, chicken, fish, fruit, fries, pasta, pretty much anything edible. Not to mention anything drinkable. 

    And when you see the lemons here in the south of Italy, where I was born, you can easily see why.    

    Southern Italian lemons are lemons on steroids. Big as melons. Huge, juicy, thick-skinned lemons everywhere. And all kinds of things made with lemons for sale.

     I remember the summer I first discovered the lemons of southern Italy. It was in Naples, and I was about 8 years old. My mother took me to an outdoor cafe down by the sea in the center of the city for an afternoon ice cream.

    We sat on a swing at the cafe looking out at the sea, swinging back and forth, holding hands, listening to all the honking horns and the Vespas, when I saw a waiter hurrying past with one of those huge lemons on his tray. Halved and filled with lemon gelato.  

    I told my mother I wanted to try whatever that was. And that was it pretty much.

    I thought about that lemon gelato in that big old halved lemon for months, maybe years, after I went back to the States. I dreamt of opening a neighborhood stand where I could serve ice cream in scooped-out lemons. I wanted to dedicate myself to halving big lemons and filling them with ice cream. I thought maybe it could become my life's vocation. 

    My mother listened patiently to all my lemon dreams, but the conversation would often end with, but, cara, they don't have lemons like that here. If you want to do that, it has to be in southern Italy. 

    I knew what she meant. I had certainly never seen them anywhere else, not even in Rome.

    But why, I would want to know. Why don't they have lemons like that here?

    Because lemons like that only come from southern Italy, she would tell me. Like really good mozzarella. 

    Only in southern Italy. Where I was born. Where I am now. Where the lemons are as big as melons.

          

    

              

         

             

Clearing Out for a Few Days

     My husband and I are leaving our side of the hill in Italy today for a few days. Because our elder son is coming with three of his college buddies. Sounds counter-intuitive, doesn't it?

     Anyway, we'd stay if we could. But we promised him awhile ago (before we started missing him so bad it hurts, I suspect) that he and his buddies could have the house to themselves this August. He wants to show them around without us around. Pretty simple. Pretty devastating.

     They were initially going to come to the house for a few days three times during their month-long European backpacking extravaganza. Now, they've decided twice because one of the times, it was just plain hard for me to leave. 

     He might be relenting on the last time they're here at the end of August. Relenting in the sense that his mother might be able to at least be in the vicinity during their stay. That could be because at the end of their trip, they'll probably be exhausted, broke and hauling around a bunch of dirty laundry. Which is never a bad time to have your mother around. That's not decided yet. 

       Our house is not that easy to get to on public transport. That's one of the reasons it's still so unspoilt here, despite the incredible beauty of this area, which hugs a massive, clean volcanic lake. There's no train station in our town. 

     To get here from the nearest international airport, if you don't rent a car, you have to take a train to Rome, then another train out to this lake, and then a bus from the train station to our town. None of those are coordinated to connect with each other. And at the end of that journey, you have to hoof it up the hill with your backpack.

     So, that's how they're getting here tomorrow. Even though we offered to pick them up and then leave or get a car service to pick them up at the airport and bring them here after their overnight flight from the States. Or almost anything pretty much.  

      Nope. The fun of backpacking, my son says, is figuring out how to get there despite the odds. And if it's a real hassle, or if it doesn't work, then it's even more fun. And if they miss the last bus to our town (a distinct possibility with their timetable), they'll find a hostel (there is no hostel there) or failing that, just sleep in the park on their sleeping bags until morning.

      Oh God.

      Yesterday, I spent the day clearing up and putting things away (my son doesn't like the idea the house is now crammed with our stuff from the States -- he liked it empty). Put sheets on all the beds where they'll be staying. Fresh towels. Soap. Put the games out, so they could find them all.    

      Last night on the phone, I told my son that I was worried about them getting here after their flight (he knows that already).

      "It's going to be a long summer if you're worried about that, Mom," he replied, laughing. "What about how we're going to get to Barcelona for the weekend from there? We haven't even thought about that yet."

     Oh God.            

     This morning, I woke up with a start. Immediately thinking about the boys and how I wished I could be here to help them get ready for their adventure. 

     My husband woke up a bit later, not worried about a thing. 

     "We're going to the beach today," he said, happily.

     "I'm worried about the boys," I said.

     "Whaaaaat?",  he asked incredulously.

            

      

        

Dividing Your Time

    

      Have you ever noticed when you read about authors on book jacket covers, for example, you often find they divide their time between some beautiful hot place and some normal everyday place? Like, she divides her time between Bermuda and the Boston suburbs. Or, he divides his time between Malaga and Manchester. Like that. 

       I've always wanted that. I've always dreamed of getting to the point in my life where I could divide my time between Italy (the dream) and fill-in-the-blank (the unknown).

      It sounds fabulous, doesn't it? But is it that easy to achieve? 

      I've got a girlfriend who is presently dividing her time between London and Paris, mostly Paris (unfortunately for me). She and her husband own a place in London, which they've kept, but they've moved to Paris to a rented flat for a few years for his work. And they go back and forth. Besides the fact she gets frantic trying to keep up two households, and sometimes can't remember where anything is, it seems to be working pretty well for her.

      They go back and forth together pretty much all the time. And they've kept their primary home intact. 

      Maybe therein lies the difference: They've kept their primary home, where their daughter mostly grew up, comes home to, and where they've lived for years, intact. And they go back and forth together.

      Last night, after a couple glasses of wine and an ensuing shot of confidence, I said to my husband, I can make this divide-your-time thing work. Why not? What am I stressing about?

      Then, this morning at dawn (what is it about dawn and middle-aged women?), I looked over at him sleeping and thought, wait a minute, he's got to leave at the end of next week and go back to work. 

       And unlike my friend, I'm not going with him. And we're not sure when he can come back.

       So, in our case, it's kind of a single divide-your-time thing at the moment, him in London, me here.

       Can that work? 

       I thought I had almost lost my husband to a serious illness six years ago. And now, I've given up almost everything in my life except him. 

       Does solo dividing your time just lead to estrangement? Will it mean that he'll plow ahead with creating a new London life while I nest here? 

      That wasn't the goal, was it? 

       

            

        

     

                    

                         

Progress?

    My husband and I have made enormous progress in the last two days with the boxes. It's a lot easier than it was in London. Here, everything fits.  

    We found places for all the furniture we brought down. And since we brought a couple of big chests, and a couple smaller ones, everything we're unpacking has a place to go too.

    Although we've had this house for 10 years now, it didn't have a lot of furniture in it because furnishing it was all part of the two-weeks-a-year vacation time from the States. With our boys. And often guests. 

    The more I tell you about this house, the more ridiculous the whole venture seems. (And my father didn't even approve?) 

    Anyway, thank god IKEA opened near here the year we finished it. I remember my editor in the States calling me into her office to give me the news. (She was an Italian afficionado and an online retail nut). I jumped for joy in her office.  

    Shopping can be a pain in the butt here (more about that later). Especially when you need absolutely everything, which we did then. And my husband, like many I suspect, literally despises shopping, which is not his idea of a vacation. Not that it's mine either.

    Anyhoo, that was then, and this is now. 

    It's going to look nice here when we're done. I can see that even amidst the boxes and wrapping paper.

    And it definitely makes me feel good to have my stuff around me again -- and create a nice home again.

    Yesterday, though, as my husband was stuffing wrapping paper into bags outside while I was unwrapping stuff inside, it hit me again that although this feels good, this isn't any total solution.   

    We don't have that many more days here together already, since my older son is coming next week on his graduation trip with friends and wants us to clear out. And then my husband has to go back to work in London.

    And then I'll be here alone. Which is fine. But I won't be making any progress in London, which is where he'll be, alone too.       

               

    

                    

Moving Day

    I'm sorry I didn't write you yesterday. It was moving day. I was up to my ears in boxes.  

    We arrived at our house in Italy close to midnight on Monday night, having taken the last flight out of London. The guy we hired with a van in London to bring our stuff down from storage arrived early the next morning.

    It was the third time we've been surrounded by packing boxes in less than a year. But it should be the last. For awhile anyway. Unless I freak out and move back to the States. If I do that, though, it might have to be with just a suitcase. Don't know if I can do any more boxes.

    Anyway, the stuff's all here. Everything we own is now either in our London flat, or here. We had to throw more stuff away from storage to fit in the van, but all that's in the past. Move Forward.     

    My husband and I worked like dogs yesterday unpacking, mostly because they come to take paper on Thursdays here -- and boy are we gonna have lots of paper. 

    Most of the stuff we unpacked yesterday is now stacked on every available surface in the house, waiting for its rightful place to be decided. Outside our front door is a sea of packing boxes, waiting to be folded down, and wrapping paper, waiting to be put into recyclable bags to be taken away on Thursday. Don't get me started on how much paper these moving guys use. 

    Anyway, we've got our work cut out for us for the next few days. But it's okay. It feels good to see a lot of our stuff again after a year. 

    I finally found that pewter dish of my mother's I've been looking for that I used to put my mail in back in the States. I may have to slip that into my husband's luggage to take back to London. 

    That's one problem -- some of the stuff I'm finding I wish I had in London, of course. But I have to remind myself I have no more room in London. And that's why it's here. And this is the end of the line for my stuff. 

    It's all good. Much better than in storage. Now, I just have to make sure I actually live here with my stuff now and again.

    As we were unpacking, it hit me that moving day here in Italy came almost exactly 10 years to the day after the first night we stayed in our house.

    It took us about five years to build this house on the side of the hill here in Italy. For almost all of that time, we were living in the U.S., working two full-time jobs, raising kids, and coming only two weeks a year. 

    I told you this was a crazy dream.  

    The first night we stayed here was, just by coincidence, my 45th birthday. The house had just been finished, and it was so empty it echoed like an Egyptian tomb. Wires for light fixtures sprouted out of the many holes in the wall. All we had were the beds we had bought to sleep in.

    I remember that night well. The boys were little and kinda freaked by the big empty tomb thing. My husband and I lay in our bed, surrounded by vast empty space, and I remember thinking, gosh I hope this turns out okay, with my father's favorite line about what we had done constantly going around and around in my head.

    Who made you do this? That's what my Italian father said when I told him we had bought a plot of land in Italy where we were going to build a house. It's actually an Italian saying. Who made you do this? It means: Why the hell did you do that?

    When my father said that, I was crushed. You made me do this, I wanted to shout at him. You, with all your talk of going back to Italy, of us not belonging in America, of us not being American. Who else?  

     None of which I said, of course. I adored my father. He had always dreamed of going back. And here I was doing it for him -- and he didn't approve. He was probably just scared for us. And he was probably right. 

     Anyway, the first night we stayed here was 10 years ago. 

     And now, moving day came two days after my 55th birthday. And that was unplanned too.

     I wonder what my father would say now. I doubt it would be anything encouraging. 

     

        

           

A Birthday Kick-start

     Okay, this is it. Turned 55 yesterday. Flying to Italy tonight for I'm not sure how long, but a good old while. Turning over a new leaf. 

     I am going to make this London-Italy, divide-your-time thing work if it kills me. And it might. 

     No, don't say things like that. I can do this. This was my dream. I just need to go for it.

     Not be scared.

     Not be dragged down by insecurities.

     Or the past. Or what I think I should be doing. 

     Or worries about how I'll never do anything again in my life. 

     Or how what I've done wasn't good enough.

     Or anything.

     Move forward.

     Embrace change.

     Think positively.

     Stop worrying.

     Get to the point where I don't have to keep telling myself these things. Because I'll just be living them.                

         

               

Traveling by Tube

     Love the London Underground. Or Tube, as its known here. 

     It's by far the best, the most beautiful, the most interesting, and the most fun of any city's public transportation system, at least for an English-speaking person like me. If there's a better one, I don't know it.  

    I had a Tube-filled day yesterday. First, I traveled to the complete other side of London from where I live (about 25 stops) to check out our stuff, which yes, we're having trucked to Italy Saturday and brought to our side of the hill next week. (Gotta close the chapter on the stuff, right or wrong. And you didn't tell me not to.)

    Then later, I met a former colleague who's working for a couple weeks here, at a pub near his hotel on yet another side of London.     

    With the Tube, it's easy to do that. And the Tube's fun.

    First, there's the neat stations, many of them art deco gems with pretty patterns of multi-colored tiles, stone archways, and intricate iron roofs outside. 

    Inside, they're adorned with beautiful old clocks (that generally work) and plastered with big, great ads -- for London art shows, plays, movies, books, cool holidays. Gigantic, inventive, pretty ads that are fun to read and make you want to go to all the things they're hawking. 

   And then there's the buskers, who can be quite good. And the cute, easy-to-follow signs, with all the different Tube lines in bright, distinguishable colors.   

    The people on the Tube are infinitely interesting too. Everybody takes the Tube. It's not just poor people, like it can be in inner-city U.S.  

    Maybe because of London's congestion charge -- where you have to pay a daily rate to drive into town -- or parking fees, or because the Tube is just so damned convenient, everybody seems to be on it. 

     Not just every nationality. That's a given here. But really interesting people. Who you can just eavesdrop on while you're deep in your paper.  

     Yesterday, I heard two guys discussing the botched-up filming of an episode of a TV show that I've actually watched. Everything that went wrong, who was a huge dick, like that.  

    And then, when the train was down around the City, London's financial district, two young American guys in nice suits got on, loudly asking each other if they believed their colleague's story that he was pulling in 30,000 a week (pounds, I guess) trading something on margin.

     I got to hear two cute British girls, both in short-shorts (the new fad) and tights, talk about their adventures with men like a scene out of a Bridget Jones movie.

     And then one guy was telling a friend all about life as a back-bench MP, or Member of Parliament.  

     And that was just yesterday.

     It's chill, too, the Tube, like many things here. You can eat and drink on it, which I find amazing. (Never can do that in the States). And its not that intrusive that riders can. I don't notice a lot of discarded food wrappers, or any real signs of eating, actually. And it's really convenient that you can bring your morning coffee on board.

     And they're really nice to you too. Which was proven to me yesterday.

     As I was putting my Oyster Card (cheaper travel) back in my purse at one point during my four-newspaper Tube day (you can get a lot of reading done when you're traveling clear across London twice, no matter how much you're eavesdropping), a gust of wind literally blew it out of my hand and plopped it onto the track. 

    Ah. There it was, right there, just a teensy bit out of reach. Sitting on the track. But I know you're not supposed to climb down on the electrified tracks. No way. 

     So I went and found a friendly Tube attendant, who quickly came down with one of those  crab-claw thingies and got my card back for me.

     "Here you are, luv," she said as she handed the card back, cheerful, smiling. "Back on your way, then." 

Just Do It?

      I've gone ahead and moved forward with moving our stuff to Italy, but I'm not sure it's the right thing. That's my curse at the moment. Unsure of everything. And losing confidence in my decision-making. 

      It's going to cost a bit to get it down there, of course, but really, what is the alternative? 

      Even if we do stay here for a few years, which we don't know whether we will or not, we're never going to rent -- or god forbid, contemplate buying -- a place big enough to fit all our old stuff.  We'll get a place about the size of what we have now, perhaps configured differently. Or if we buy, even smaller.

     Maybe it'll have a bigger staircase though, or no staircase at all, that's the only thing. So maybe we should keep our old sofa in storage here just in case we could get it up the stairs? God. My brain hurts from thinking about all the different scenarios.  

     If I only knew what I was doing, I could get on with the business of settling. Like other people who move. They move, and then move on. I just move.

     I hate the idea of having so much stuff in storage. It's expensive, time just goes ticking by on it, and before you know it, you've been paying for storage for years. For a load of old crap. That you haven't seen in years. 

     I've seen people do that. I've mocked them in my mind. I no longer mock anyone for anything.   

     Then, what if we move back to the States? Will we need our furniture then?

     Even if we do move back, we're never going to get a decent-sized suburban family home again, I don't think. There's only the two of us. We were sick of the American suburbs. We have enough for a two-bedroom apartment here with us anyway.  

     So, why move the rest of the stuff to Italy?

     Because we're not going to sell that house. I don't think. For awhile, anyway. I don't think I can stand giving up anything else. And that used to be the cornerstone of my dreams: having a house in Italy, retiring there.   

     Why else?

     So it's not in storage.  

     So it'll help me settle.

     So maybe I can move towards this ideal of dividing my time between London and Italy, the dream I had.

     The one I seem to have forgotten.

     Should I? Or shouldn't I? Got any advice? I've got maybe till the end of today to back out of it.

                

Living Close

     When I heard my next door neighbor's phone ring last night, I knew for sure. This is what you call close quarters, folks. So, shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

     Or even better, just zip it up totally.  

      We've rented the top two floors of a terraced house in London. An upper maisonette, as its called here. (Shoulda gone for a whole house probably, but it was really expensive.) 

      The master bedroom is an attic conversion, i.e. they've converted what was the attic of this old house and made it into a big bedroom. That's what attracted us to this 3-bedroom flat when we first saw it. That's what made us overlook its other flaws -- like the steep stairwell leading to the first floor that we couldn't get any furniture up. 

      Anyway, the bedroom has three big skylight windows cut into the roof of the house, which I love to just have open all the time to let the breeze through.

      That's one of the best things about London, for me. All those big windows and fresh air you can just let in. It's never too hot, really, no matter what the Brits say. Certainly not compared to Italy -- or the muggy U.S. city I just came from. No mosquitos. No air-con, of course. (what? for one day a year?) 

     But, with all that fresh air and open windows comes a distinct lack of privacy -- which you forget at your own peril.  

     We've had our living room windows open in the evenings recently while we're watching TV or reading. I've noticed that our next-door neighbor, whose bedroom is on the same level as our living room (since she occupies her entire house rather than just the top of it), has had her window open too.

     She probably heard the entire conversation I had with my son on the phone the other night, without even straining, as she was lying in bed maybe, trying to go to sleep.

     Oh dear. 

     Problem is, with the five-hour time difference and the fact my son is still a college kid and so does not rise early, you just can't call that early from here. And it was a nice summer's evening, so aren't you allowed to crack the windows a bit?  

     But it works both ways. When we have jet-lag, or when my husband works a very late shift, both of which happened last week, we routinely get woken to the sound of sawing across the street too early for us. They've been redoing a house across the street since the day we moved in.  

     Anyway, yesterday, we were in our attic bedroom when a moment of tension arose. Voices were raised. (About the stuff. Husband a lot less emotional about the stuff).  

     Then we noticed the three open windows. 

     "The guys across the street must've heard every word of that," my husband said.

     Oh god. Just hide in the house for the rest of the day, I think.        

                        

Making Progress?

    My stuff is a key part of this entire dilemma. At least I think it is. And it is something I can, maybe, do something about, unlike most of the other parts of this dilemma -- like figuring out where home is, missing my kids so much it hurts, what to do about work, having no friends and other little sideline issues like that. 

    I just don't like the fact that most of my stuff, collected over the past two decades, is in storage. And most of my dead parents' stuff that they left me is in storage too.

    I don't like that, as a woman in her mid-fifties, I don't have a home with my stuff in it, rented or not. And I don't know if I can settle without most of my stuff around me.  

    Call me bourgeois. But first look around your own home. Do you have most of your stuff there? Then you'll see what I'm talking about.

     And it's been almost a year now. We moved out of the house we were so lucky to have sold last August and moved into a small flat downtown where we lived until we left the States in mid-February. More stuff actually fit in there than here, though, even though it was smaller. There was no infinitesimal stairwell to get around. 

     Anyway, no point crying over spilled milk or any of that. Gets your nowhere and gotta move forward. That's what my husband tells me: Move Forward.

     So, I'm taking a giant leap forward today. I'm calling both the storage companies where our stuff is (one in East London, the other in West London) to get quotes on consolidating all our stuff and moving it to the side of our hill in Italy.

    I'm going to take all our stuff there and create our new home there. Where else? Wait to get a bigger place here? Not sure I ever will.

    After I move all my stuff to Italy, I'll have all my stuff somewhere I don't actually live.

    But at least it won't be in two different storage facilities where I will never see it again -- and have to pay for that pleasure.   

     And then I'll try and divide my time between what will really become my home there, because all my stuff's there, and my rented flat here where I really do live with my husband, who works here. And thank God he's got a job 'cause there's still a year of college to pay.  

     That's what you call progress.

        

             

    

Scaredy Cat

     Am I just a scaredy cat? A silly creature of habit? Not trying hard enough? Feeling sorry for myself? Is that the problem -- just me? I'm willing to take the rap. 

     Or is this really just as hard as it feels?   

     When I was trying to decide whether to take the early retirement offer from my job last year -- no easy decision -- and move here, I went to see a counselor to talk through it all. Neutral territory, explore all your feelings in a non-judgmental environment, all that. Hell, what's the point of being American if you can't go talk to someone? 

    I told her about our dream to go back to Europe, to divide my time between London and our side of the hill in Italy, to finally have the time to enjoy that side of the hill we spent so much time -- and money -- creating. 

    I told her about my dreams to branch out professionally, try new things, go in different directions, not just be a slave to an editor and a newspaper. I told her some of my ideas. I was excited. I got her excited. I can do that. 

    The way I was talking left no doubt in anyone's mind what I wanted to do, if I could. That might be the operative phrase here -- If I could. 

    Maybe I just can't. And that's the problem.

    Here I am now, feeling like I desperately need another job, just like the one I left. No, actually, a lot worse than the one I left because that was a pretty good one. Okay, that's pretty stupid.

    And why do I need it? Because I need to meet some people -- and create my own life. Not just fill my time wandering around London waiting for my husband to come home. I'm just too young for that -- and too restless, have too much energy, have worked too long, have too many ideas, just too much all around.  

    Maybe that was the stupid part. Thinking I could just live here without a job. It's different when  you've lived in a place for a long time. You leave your job, but you still have your full life. And you finally have time to enjoy it. Here, it's basically no job equals no life because I have no easy way to meet people.   

    And then the boys. I totally underestimated how wrenching that would be.   

    I'm planning on going to Italy for a long time soon. And I'm planning on staying until summer's over, until autumn draws in. That's probably not the best thing in terms of settling here -- another two months gone -- but isn't that what this whole adventure was about? 

    But I'm concerned about that too -- although that's what I desperately used to want -- endless time there. My husband will come for a couple weeks at the beginning, and later here and there as his schedule allows, but basically I'll be on my own there a lot.   

    I'm scared to be lonely there too, like I am here. Maybe worse, because I won't have my husband to wait for. Maybe better, because I love that house. And it needs my attention now.

    What about all the exciting plans I had? They all feel kinda scary and stupid now.  

    At our last session, my counselor wrote a note to me on a little piece of paper and told me to keep it in my wallet and look at it when things got tough.

    I looked at it over the weekend, when I missed my old Sunday water aerobics class so much, I thought I might have to cry. (I think I actually did.)    

    The note's about finding the courage to "live large" and "follow your dreams."

    When she gave it to me, I thought, honey, PIECE. OF. CAKE. What's hard is NOT being able to follow your dreams. And boy am I ready to get out of this cage and live large.

     Ha. 

     She must've known how hard it was going to be.  

     It's just me that jumped in without realizing how deep the water was.

               

   

     Two hours later: Unbelievable coincidence. I just got a note from a British friend of mine who's lived in Australia for years. I met her in Hong Kong a long time ago (20 years now) and we have sons the same age. Met at the playground, I seem to remember. Still in touch. 

    Anyway, she hadn't read this, but she wrote that what's challenging about her life now is the alone-ness, as she called it, that she's not working anymore, doesn't have her son around anymore, and often finds herself just waiting for her husband to come home. I think she's lived in Sydney for more than 15 years now, and I just bet she's got lots of friends. Knowing her.

    She also just got back from visiting England, which is where she is originally from. Whenever that was. Whatever that means. She'd like to come back here for longer actually, if she could, do a few months here. Get out of Australia, where she lives with her Australian husband, to come back home for awhile.  

    Okay, it is now official: IT IS NOT JUST ME.

    It's the universal search for home by people who for one reason or another have left their rightful homes; it's empty-nesterhood, what to do with yourself when you've spent the last 20-or-more years consumed with raising children; it's retirement or unemployment, what to do with yourself when you're used to working hard. It's the perfect storm of what to do with the rest of your life.   

     Thank you so much for your note, my friend. It couldn't have come on a better day. 

     And boy do I know what you're talking about. 

Grandma Shopping

      Know one thing for sure: My carbon footprint is about a tenth of what it used to be. That's what hit me when I was rolling my new shopping trolley back from the supermarket yesterday.

      Rolling instead of driving. Walking, or riding my bike, instead of driving. Taking public transport, as they call it here, instead of driving. Made me feel kinda virtuous. 

      Although I had to be careful not to pull a rotator cuff muscle after I stuffed that sucker full to the brim. 

      It was my first time out with my new shopping trolley. Usually I just wait for my husband to be off and he'll use his car to pick up any big stuff we need. But I kept looking at my new trolley there, forlornly upright, nicely folded, crisp and checkered next to the front door and thought, okay, what the hell did I buy the thing for if I'm not going to use it.

     So off I went to do my shopping.

     Just so you know, shopping trolleys here have that kinda blue-rinse thing about them. Although they are convenient when you're hoofing it. 

     When I was looking for one, a young British woman told me she bought a cute striped one as a mother's day present for her sixty-something mother, who refused to ever use it because she said it made her look old.  

     But hell, who's got any pride left for that?

     First problem: What do you do with your shopping trolley while you're actually shopping? I got the big trolley, thinking that was better because it held more stuff, so what do you do with your big trolley when you're wheeling around the actual shopping cart in the store?

     Can't leave it anywhere, because it might get stolen. Don't see any locked-up shopping trolleys anywhere -- and don't have a lock for it. Okay, get one of the biggest carts you can find and wheel that big sucker around the store in the cart with you.

     What else? If by any chance you know the right way to do it, please tell me. 

     Then, how to stack the stuff in at the check-out counter? Bottles on the bottom? Cans down the sides? Bread and eggs on top so they don't get squished or broken? 

     Check-out guy asked me if I wanted bags. Uh, dunno. But probably not, right? What's the point of a bunch of bags if you're gonna just stack the stuff in the trolley? And anyway, the new ultra-green me doesn't want bags. I don't even think about how many trips I'll have to make up my steep stairs to the kitchen carrying all the stuff individually.  

     I'll just stuff it all in here, sir, thanks. Hope it fits. 

     He looks at all my stuff. Then eyes my trolley warily. Big line forming behind me at the check-out counter.

     Got any trolley-stacking tips for me, mate? So I don't hold up this line, ah, I mean, queue?

                   

Sisters, Sisters

     Had a fun -- and thought-provoking  -- night last night. Met my one old London pal for a great movie to see with a girlfriend -- Sunshine Cleaning, a dark comedy about two sisters that run a cleaning service disposing of human remains. The fact they're sisters -- and impossibly adorable -- is the important part.    

     We loved the movie, and came out in a great mood to a throng of people in London's West End. Sitting outside with a couple of glasses of chilled white wine for a good old chat seemed like the best move. It was early too, so we found a good spot quickly. A woman about our age sat at a table next to us, by herself at that point, a cute, curly-haired blonde with blue eyes. 

    Not that we had noticed her. We were chatting. Then a young woman tottered past us in a tight-black mini wearing those five-inch, really expensive heels with the brightly-colored soles. 

    "She can barely walk in those shoes," my friend said. "She might actually fall over," I said. An image that sent us into paroxyms of giggles, both of us wearing flats. The woman next to us (also wearing flats) chimed in with how much the lady might have paid for that pleasure (about the cost of a sofa) and that just sent us all over the edge.

    We started chatting. Quickly, her sister, (really? just after the movie?) walked up and joined her. Her sister was similar, sort of, also with classic British blue eyes and striking blonde hair, but hers was sleek and straight instead. But they were startlingly different too. It made me think of how different the sisters in the movie were -- and then how different my own sons are. 

     We ended up spending the evening with these two gorgeous British sisters. It was odd. We actually had a lot in common with them somehow.

     They had been friends for years. They actually phone each other every morning, which was just too sweet. And my London pal and I have been friends for years too. Although many of those years we lived in different countries, we've always kept in touch. I met her the night I met my husband, at a party in Rome, coming up to 31 years ago now. And now we're both here.

    And then we all had grown-up children, kind of. And one of them was desperately missing a daughter same age as my eldest who's in Australia at the moment, so we had that desperately missing kid thing in common right off the bat. We had all worked. And women always have men in common, so it was a fun night.

    Coming home later on the tube, I thought about the sisterhood of women. And how important it is. And how little of it I've got. But how it's just not that easy to just conjure up.

    Okay, now, here, we know the reason why. I haven't been here that long. It takes time. And I have a bad habit of withdrawing, rather than reaching out, when I feel bad. Maybe many of us do. How can you know?  

    Where I used to live, I was consumed with my daily life, like so many women at that stage. I had elderly parents, two kids at home, a husband, a house, a full-time job. I hardly had time for the friends I did have. And I got insular with my husband and boys, which people do, don't they?

    When my boys did leave home for college, and my parents both died, I set up a book club with some of the women I had known and liked best over the years, mostly the mother of boys my sons had played sports with, women I had sat on the bleachers with for hours. It was one of the best things I did, just for me, the entire 12 years I lived there. But then I left.

    Don't get me wrong. I know how lucky I am to have three wonderful men in my life who love me -- and who I get to love. Beyond lucky.

    Two of them aren't here though. And life is made of many things, right? And now I do have time. And I was reminded yesterday of the emotional power -- and sheer fun -- of sisterhood.

     But I don't know anyone here. And you need history with people, like I have with my one old friend, when you get to my age. And if you're not working, where do you meet other women you have things in common with? Will my friend and I actually see those British sisters again if there's no place to just meet again effortlessly, like the workplace, the playground, the school bus stop or the bleachers at a high school basketball game?  

     One of the sisters said at a certain point that she had many old girlfriends and could never see uprooting her life, that it just wasn't in her character, that she just would never do it to herself, that she actually physically wouldn't be able to do it. 

     Is it in my character? And if so, why? And what can I do about it now?                    

             

      

          

             

        

Creature of Habit?

     I never thought of myself as a creature of habit. That's a term for old, stuck-in-their ways people, right?

     I was adventurous, always trying new things, always moving, landing new jobs -- a dynamic woman of the world.

     Wrong. I'm actually a big creature of habit, who just happens to have no habits at the moment. No wonder I'm slowly going insane. (Or even quite quickly, depending on your time frame). Maybe we're all just creatures of habit.     

      I'm trying desperately to make some habits here, I can see that. I've got my cappuccino-and-afternoon-paper habit down pretty well. Yep, always go to the same place even though there are lots of different places to have cappuccino on my high street. Often order the same thing.  

      I mean, I found a decent cappuccino in a place I like to while away an hour or so. So why screw with a winning formula?

      In the morning, I've got you to write you, thank God. Without you, I'd already be insane, trust me. 

      My husband always works different schedules, so we haven't really established any set patterns together here either. This week, he's on the late shift, so he goes to work late and comes home late. Next week, he's on the early shift. So he'll go to work early and come home early. This week, evenings alone at home. Next week, dinner together.

      Of course, the real habit I'm missing is the old go-to-work habit. That's the king of all habits that makes all the other habits just fall into line, isn't it? Once you've got the king habit, you don't have to worry that much about any others. They just kneel into place around the king. 

      I thought I was just about to anoint the king actually. I didn't want to mention this, but what the hell? I've told you so much already.  

      I applied for a job here a few weeks ago and thought I had a pretty good chance of getting it. In fact, I had already talked myself into working there.

     You know how that goes? All geared up for my new job and all. I mean, they were the ones who told me about it. So I thought I was pretty much in.

      Wrong again. Didn't get it. They called me in Charleston last week to tell me they were giving it to an internal candidate. 

      I tried hard not to let the call ruin more than one-half of one day with my boys. I mean, I hadn't seen them in months. Can you let The Man ruin that? You'll have to ask my boys how successful I was. 

      So, back to scrounging around for habits here. Or beating myself up that I need them.  

      I've decided that the reason I feel worse in London than anywhere else has nothing to do with this town, but is precisely because of the habit thing. This is where I live now -- and so I'm supposed to have some habits here, some life, some routine. 

     When I'm in Italy -- or in the States now -- I don't need any habits, because I'm there temporarily, on vacation, so the pressure is off.

     I'm trying not to run off to Italy immediately. I'm trying to stay here and be a good girl, a good wife, make some habits, get a life going, keep looking for work, keep trying.  

     I'm sick of being a good girl though. And I'm sick of my non-life life.  

     Got any stray habits you could loan me for awhile?            

     

Pushing Through The Rain

    I've decided to make England's ever-changeable weather the metaphor for my time here.

    As in, push through whatever the forecast, keep plugging away regardless, enjoy it when it's not raining, and believe that the sun will come out in the end. Maybe.  

    Take yesterday.

    I needed to go to the local Jobcentre office to get my National Insurance Number, which I thought I had, but turns out I didn't. Since I worked here for three years in the mid-1980s (I used to work?), I had to have been issued a number then. But they couldn't find it, so the guy said I was probably issued a temporary one then and now need to apply for a permanent one. You need one of those suckers to get paid here.   

    Okay, anyway, whatever, that's actually besides the point.

    I decided to ride my bike to the office. It's a straight shot down my high road about 20 minutes away. Had heard the weather forecast that it was going to brighten up for the evening, maybe become one of those splendid London evenings, which sounded good.

    Looked pretty dark still though. But needed to go before the office closed -- and wanted the endorphin boost I know riding my bike gives me. So set off.

    Before I even got to the high road -- a couple streets away -- it started pouring. No problem. I'll duck under the portico here until it stops. It often stops quickly. And there was some definite blue up in the sky. 

    That worked pretty well. Within maybe five minutes, it stopped raining, and the sun came out.

    Got back out there and cycled almost to the office when it started drizzling. 

    No problem. Was almost there. Had a hoodie on, so pulled the hood over my head and got to the office, just a little bit wet, but still intact. Chained my bike up right outside, and went in, feeling pretty smug. Just gotta go for it, I told myself.

    A half-hour and no National Insurance Number later, I came out to find it pouring. 

    No problem. I'll just wait here under the Jobcentre portico until it stops. Still some blue sky up there. And the forecast called for a nice evening -- and it's almost 5 now.

   Wait it out, don't stress, and you'll be rewarded with a nice cycle home in the sun. Got nothing to rush home to anyway. Husband working late. Cleaning bathroom can wait.

    Then Jobcentre man starts pulling the grate down behind me, muttering excuse me, miss, we're closing. Sprint to another quickly-spotted covered area (there's lots of them) half a block away. Take on just a bit more water.

    Sun comes out after a few minutes. Take off.

    Starts -- and stops -- raining three more times on the cycle home. Take shelter at a bus stop twice and under the awning outside a cappuccino bar once. Wanted to stay at the cappuccino bar but they were closing.

    Finally make it to my own cappuccino bar on the high street near our house. Hoodie wet now, but t-shirt underneath not too bad. 

    Ordered a cappuccino and an apricot tart. Both yummy. Bought a newspaper (natch). Sun came out and stayed out for the rest of the evening.

                                 

    

The Magic of Wimbledon

    How can you not love a country that does Wimbledon? And what a winning Wimbledon weekend it was. 

    Almost tailor-made for us, we arrived home Friday afternoon just ahead of one of the most epic finals weekends. Played not far from our flat here on a sunny, warm London weekend -- simply amazing tennis in probably the best tournament the world knows showcasing world-class American talent. And grit. 

   Wow.

   Not that we went. We just watched it on TV, but still, it was special. And right here where we live. 

    First the Williams sisters -- that great American sibling success story from the wrong side of town -- duking it out in the women's final on Saturday. And then winning the doubles together later. 

    And then American Andy Roddick slugging his heart out -- and actually playing better tennis in my humble, biased opinion -- against Swiss champion powerhouse Roger Federer on Sunday. 

    Yeah, it would've been sweeter if Roddick had won. But still, not too shabby. 

    London -- and our neighborhood -- was full of all things Wimbledon, and so positively adorable too. We weren't sick of any of it yet either, like you get at Christmas, because we'd missed it all being away.

   A florist on our high street put together the most inventive window display of tennis balls and ball-shaped flowers that simply robbed your breath with its ingenuity and freshness. Succulent strawberries and fresh cream -- that Wimbledon staple -- were elegantly stacked everywhere.

    I got a glimpse of just how much London was THE place to be this weekend on our flight home.

    Remember, we got bumped up to business class by giving up our seats on the previous night's over-booked flight? Well, up there in business, we sat next to an American family who was flying in just for the Wimbledon finals.

    "My husband's a tennis nut," the trim, attractive wife explained. Uh, okay. So this is how the rich live. Four business class tickets for you and the kids and Centre Court final seats just for the weekend?

    Yeah, baby. Gimme some of that. Is Serious Money the answer?  

    The weather didn't disappoint either. Big irony that the first year they build a cover for Centre Court, so rain doesn't keep delaying play, hardly a drop falls. 

    After the amazing Federer-Roddick final, a match that looked like it could just go on forever, my husband and I took off on our bikes for an evening ride. Too beautiful not to.  

    We cycled over to a historic house and its sprawling gardens nearby -- our favorite close-by destination.

    A cricket game -- with all the men in their sparkling whites -- was unfolding on a greener-than-green lawn in the evening sun. 

    A man was hitting tennis balls with his young son nearby. We joked with him about how he was grooming the next Federer. Couples and families strolled through the large grounds with its massive trees arm-in-arm.

   We rode around awhile and then stopped on a bench by a stream, faces towards the sun, the huge grey historic house in our sights. 

    It felt good to be back.

    

     

          

      

    

Leaving on a Jet Plane

     Well, this is it. We're leaving tonight. It helps that both my boys are gone now so no tearful scenes at the airport.

      My younger son left early this morning to go with his girlfriend to her dad's place for a week. He was super-excited to go. (I won't even tell you where her dad lives -- you'll just get jealous). I'm jealous. Suffice to say, it's some beautiful spread on a beach not in the U.S. 

      Is he torturing himself with the fact he's far from his daughter and in another country, even though he's nowhere near as far as us -- and no jet-lag is involved? I don't even know him, but somehow, I doubt it. That's just me.  

      Anyway, my boys are fine. It's me that's the problem. I think we've established that. 

      So what now? Wish I knew. 

      The idea of going back to that flat where I could get so desperately lonely just fills me with dread. Sometimes I felt like the walls were closing in on me there like a pack of cards falling in.

      So I'm thinking of just decamping to my side of the hill in Italy as soon as possible for the rest of the summer. Where I might be lonely too, but the sun is often shining, I can go swimming (in my cute new Charleston bathing suit), and the calamari are to die for.  

     But does that just prolong the agony?

     Should I just stay in London and keep looking for a job so I can finally settle there and make a life for myself? Ride my bike like crazy every day to keep the serotonin flowing? Keep looking for a yoga class where I can actually do the yoga?

     Keep trying to pick up stray women in my cappuccino bar to be my new girlfriend? (Yes, I have been known to resort to that. Surprising how interesting a lonely American woman can be to a Brit. In a weird, pathetic kinda way.)

     Or should I just high-tail it to Italy and defer it all to late fall when a small town in Italy is nowhere near as attractive as it is in the summer?

     Don't know. Tired of thinking about it. Tired of being unhappy and rootless. Really tired of myself. And gotta pack now to check out of the hotel. 

     Will write again when I get back.