Tracing footsteps

My son and I are leaving for Italy a week from today.
I'll stay for a couple weeks to get him settled in and then I have to get back here to my freelance job -- if I want to have a freelance job. I'll have been off a month by then.
My husband will join us for a long weekend. (Flights really are cheap now.)
My eldest boy-child, 24, will then stay.
We've been joking about it for the past few days.
"Next Wednesday is the beginning of your new life," I've said to him, laughing. "All starts next Wednesday."
So far all he'd done was laugh back, with some riff on Wednesday.
Last night, his face lit up at dinner and he answered: "I'm so excited. I cannot wait."
He has no idea what it's going to be like for him.
None of us really do.
He knows it's going to be a big challenge though, which he relishes.
We don't know what the internship/job will be like, if he'll like it, if they'll like him, if he'll be able to perform all in Italian. If it'll lead to anything.
What the social environment at the job will be like. Will everyone be married with kids?
What life out of work will be like for him alone in a small town by a lake in central Italy, a place he's only visited on vacation over the years.
I do know one thing though.
I moved to Italy when I was 24 too.
And then six months later met my husband and life partner at a Thanksgiving party. I had just recently graduated from college in the U.S. too.
Ohmigod. Isn't that kinda freaky?
I stayed six-and-a-half years then. We could've stayed forever. Why do I always want to move? It's so damn hard.
Back to my son.
He's off.
Last night, we speculated how long he might stay.
Nobody knows.

Downsizing?

I think we downsized too early.
Or maybe the whole concept of downsizing when you have kids -- even if they're 24 and 22 -- is outdated nowadays.
Or maybe you just have to time it better.
I'm learning something pretty quickly: You need a big enough living space for you -- and your kids -- to stay comfortably. A family home. Forever.
Don't you? Help me with this if you have thoughts.
If you've left the house where you raised your children, like we did, you still need a big enough home for everyone to be able to stay comfortably -- for quite awhile, it seems to me.
We're squeezed in here, although we have found a way to accomodate everyone.
We have three bedrooms, so we're all in our own rooms. But the smallest room, where my youngest is staying, is tiny, with no closet, so he's on the floor on an inflatable bed we bought.
His suitcase and clothes are also on the floor, overflowing from the case. Since it's the office, we need to move the bulky office chair out at night onto the landing so we can shut the door for him.
It's fine for a couple weeks -- which is all it is. We're having a good family bonding time, which is the important thing, right?
But, but, but.
Shouldn't you have a place that's big and comfortable enough -- with a room for everyone?
I want one. Is that spoiled? I used to have one.
We do have one in Italy. But that's far for everyone to come.
Maybe next year there. Who knows?
Can that be the family home?
Back to here.
It's too small for my family.
Does that matter?
My family's only together for two weeks now for the next few months.
And then who knows. My family is growing up.
My eldest son is going to live in Italy. For awhile anyway.
We live here.
My youngest isn't sure what he's going to do when college wraps up in Charleston, South Carolina this coming spring.
If we still lived outside of Washington, he'd probably go back there, he admitted the other day. That's what all his friends are doing.
We're all in different countries, even if two of them are a cheap(ish) flight away. Is this what we had in mind?
Can't be.

Be Italian

So excited today that my younger son isn't leaving.
He was supposed to go back to the States today, which was way too early for all of us. He's only been here nine days -- and that just wasn't enough for anyone.
He was due to fly out this morning and then go skiing with two college buddies and spend New Year's Eve with them in upstate New York.
But those plans fell through.
Yey! We immediately changed his ticket to Jan. 2.
Truth is, we were all crushed a couple months ago when he announced that he'd be leaving before New Year's, but we were all good, understanding of his desire to spend time with college friends this last year of school.
But still upset.
My eldest son, particularly, wanted his younger brother -- his lifelong sidekick -- to be here as long as possible. For New Year's here with him in this big new city. Don't blame him.
And so did we.
The nine days have gone by in a flash, of course. But now we've got a week left.
It takes awhile for everyone to settle into the family again.
Especially in a new place.
Where you have no favorite things to do or places to go.
Last night, we went to see Rob Marshall's new musical, Nine, which is all about Italy. And then had pizzas.
Italy.
Italia, the name of the movie Daniel Day-Lewis, brilliant as director Guido Contini, is trying to make in Nine.
Part of the movie was filmed on the lake near our side of the hill.
We were floored when the name of the town came up on the movie screen.
Be Italian.
That's one of the movie's big numbers.
That's what my eldest son is off to be soon. I hope it all works out for him. I'm worried, of course. Much more than he is.
We're leaving for Italy soon, he and I, right after my younger son goes back to the States. I'm going for a couple weeks to settle him in for his new internship. Which we hope will turn into a job.
My son has a lot of Italian in him. I know that sounds ridiculous, but it's true.
The person he looks like the most is my Neapolitan father, Luigi -- who he actually resembles a lot. My husband has always said he's the Iacono male of the family, my maiden name. No argument there.
They say it skips a generation, right?
Can he do this?
Work in Italy, all in Italian, live by himself on the side of a hill, drive in an hour every day to what we think will be a high-powered environment and then an hour back?
Be Italian?

Merry Christmas?

I've decided I hate Christmas. Anybody with me there?
C'mon, you can tell the truth. I know there's plenty of us out there, even though nobody wants to admit it.
I read a story in a British newspaper this morning all about how Christmas is just so hard for so many people -- and not just people who don't have money. Everybody basically.
And that everybody thinks everyone else is having a great time -- but the truth is, not that many people are, almost every study shows.
Suicide rates go up, calls to the British marriage counseling service Relate soar, hospital admissions go through the roof.
How can anything that inspires all that be any kind of merry?
Christmas is hard because of the expectations we all have -- even if we don't want to have any -- because of the baggage we all bring to it with the memories of our own childhood Christmases, because of family dynamics, step-families, intact families, singletons, all kinds of things.
A lot more Brits are just opting to go on holiday at Christmas -- and forget the whole thing, the article said.
That's what my one London friend did -- just high-tailed it outta here to a beach in Egypt. She admits it: She hates Christmas.
That beach is sounding kinda good just about now.
Anyway, my youngest son is here, and it's so lovely to see him. And all be together again.
But still.
We don't have room for a Christmas tree and that makes me sad. Our small flat is a total mess most of the time with everyone here and that makes me stressed.
Those may be the two most pathetic statements I've ever uttered.
When I was a kid, Christmas was all about a big beautiful Christmas tree and reading in the living room with my beloved father, while my mother made delicious Italian meals in the kitchen and made everything lovely.
She was a perfectionist, my mother. Used to stay up until 4 in the morning ensuring all the packages were as pretty as she could make them.
She admitted to me once, when I was older, how much she dreaded the whole thing, how hard it all was for her. And my Neapolitan father had at least one very memorable blow-up on Christmas Day.
Sigh.
All my kids want for Christmas is money -- to be used how they want when they want. My youngest said clearly he didn't want any random presents this year.
So we're dispensing with presents pretty much.
Which I'm happy about, I guess, because it certainly makes it easier.
But it also makes me sad.
There is just no winning at Christmas.

Heavy Drinking

The Brits are the nicest people on earth, seriously. As a group.
Taken all together, they're lovely: funny, polite, charitable, knowledgeable, interesting.
But -- and this is a big one -- they've got a serious, collective, nationwide, age-irrelevant, drinking problem.
Everybody knows it. It's in the papers all the time. All kinds of stories.
Every other week, there's some study out showing drinking is higher and more widespread here than in any other country -- and that's saying something. Stories about young drunken girls pulling their panties down in the street, profiles of middle-aged women and how much they drink, business stories about how supermarkets lure customers in with cheap alcohol. It's constant.
The Brits just love their booze. It's an important part of life here, whatever your age bracket. And they all seem to have a huge capacity for it, at least from where I'm standing.
Conversations tell it all.
This morning, a Wednesday, a thirty-something couple on the Tube on their way to work were discussing last night's drinking.
"I just peaked too early," the guy said to the woman. "Ahead of everybody else."
"I hate when that happens," she replied. "You really gotta time it."
And then the two friends on Monday. (Monday's a big day for this kind of conversation).
"I couldn't get out of bed until Saturday night," one giggled to the other.
"I just got so pissed at that party," she went on. "But then we started all over again later."
"Yeah," her friend replied. "I cannot believe it's Monday. I'm still hung over from Friday!" Peals of laughter.
One day at work, I started not feeling too well in the afternoon, felt a cold coming on. Nose started running.
As I was leaving, red-nosed and runny-eyed, a British colleague advised me, laughing, to just drink my way through it.
She was serious.
Not go home, have soup, take some aspirin, watch TV, read, be grateful it was Friday night, rest for the weekend.
Exactly what I was aching to do.
No way. Just go out and get drunk, man.
What else?

Lessons from the Next Generation

My son is now officially having the time of his life in London.
He's got social engagements pretty much every night he wants, mostly with the half-dozen other interns -- and their circle of friends -- who he met while working, but also colleagues from work (all pretty close to his age) and out-of-hours work functions he keeps volunteering for.
I remember that first Sunday after he arrived in early October when he put on his Redskins jersey and the three of us watched the Redskins game in our kitchen on the computer.
I just ached for him that night, thinking what has he gotten himself into by coming here?
He seemed so alone. Like me.
Forget that.
Of course now I'm worried that Italy will be a real let-down after this. He'll be living an hour from Rome on the side of the hill there in a little town by himself, no ready-made group of young people to get to know around him like what happened here.
And the company -- and job -- will be a helluva lot more serious than this was. Much older colleagues, I would guess, Italians with families. We don't know.
All in Italian.
Ohmigod.
I mean here, he was working on a movie show, for chrissakes, in central London. Do I need to tell you anything else?
He's not that worried, though.
Says he's gotta start making some money now. So this is it. Which is true. His dad and I agree with that statement wholeheartedly.
I could learn a lot from my son.
What an admission. Because he still often doesn't make his bed in the morning.
But he's so in the present. Like they tell you to be. But like I'm not.
He just seizes it all, open to everything life has to offer, always.
The other night he had been invited somewhere to do something.
But it was already 8:30 p.m. The appointment -- at a sports pub -- was at least 45 minutes away on the Tube -- and it was raining.
And he had to go to work the next day.
He hesitated for a second when he looked outside and realized it would be a late night -- and take a long time to get there.
Then he jumped out of his chair like a stick insect and announced, "I'm going. What else am I gonna do tonight?"
(Uh, go to bed early? Get horizontal and read or watch TV, like yours truly?).
"Gotta go to things, Mom. Gotta get out there in life."
Came home late. Went to work as usual the next day.
Had a great time.
I went to bed early.

Long Live the High Street

They say Britain is a country of shopkeepers.
Long let it be so.
There are so many cute little shops near my house here in west London -- just one after another.
And they're especially adorable now in the run-up to the holidays, their wares just so stylishly displayed behind gleaming windows.
The high street is lined in Christmas trees, and the flower sellers' baskets are overflowing with gorgeous wreaths, poinsettias, big red berries, tall red lilies.
Today was crisp and sunny.
Stunning.
I love the way couples were buying their Christsmas trees on the high street and then carrying them home together the few blocks home. With the baby in the pram.
I love the whole high street thing.
My son says I'm getting boring with it.
Anyway, I hope it's not under threat.
Because the truth is, even though I love all the little shops, and adore walking the quaint streets looking in the cute windows, I've hardly bought a thing.
And that's a problem, I know.
You can see it.
Sometimes it's hard to distinguish one shop from another.
But I still love them all.
Many shops are hanging on by their fingernails. The recession's been hard here, and credit tough to come by. They're predicting lots of closures of small high street businesses after Christmas.
I can see already, that in the nine months we've been here, quite a few places have turned over.
Some shops, I can tell, have been here forever, and are popular -- and busy.
Others not so much so.
But then, when a place closes down, so far, something else takes its place pretty quickly.
At least around here. Which is an affluent area.
Another shop seems to take up where the last one left off, because well, Britain is a land of shopkeepers.
Long let it be so.

A Royal Wedding?

Good news, folks!
We might get a Royal wedding here soon.
Speculation is mounting that Prince William, Princess Diana's oldest son and second-in-line to the throne, and his long-time girlfriend Kate Middleton could announce their engagement soon, maybe even over the Christmas holidays.
There had been rampant speculation about it last year, but then it died down, the beautiful young couple very briefly broke up, but then got back together, and now rumors are starting up again.
Maybe the Royals think a grand Royal wedding would be well, just a grand old way to break the grimness of the recession, which has hit this country particularly hard. Not to mention the grimness of the rainy British winter.
I watched a great five-part BBC series on Queen Elizabeth II last week on television, called The Queen, and it was really eye-opening, how much the British sovereign cares about her public and her image -- and how the family's very existence is largely based on their popularity.
One segment was about the Queen's "annus horribulus," when Diana died in a Paris car crash and the queen was widely criticized for her cool and delayed reaction to it, while the country went into deep paroxyms of grief. Another was about her relationship with Camilla Parker Bowles, the woman Diana accused of being a third party in her marriage to Prince Charles and who is now in fact, the prince's wife. The first segment was about the queen's coronation as a young woman; Camilla Parker Bowles ended the series.
All riveting stuff.
The TV critics largely panned the week-long, prime-time show, in which a different actress plays the queen in each segment as she ages, saying there was not that much new in it.
Hell, I learned a lot.
But then I'm American.
Or Italian.
Anyway, this dazzling new couple -- Prince William (who's got a lot of Diana in him) and his striking, willowy girlfriend Kate, could become the new young Diana and Charles, in terms of worldwide interest.
They're certainly photogenic enough.
And the Brits have been dying to love a Royal, any Royal, since Diana died.
Shoot, the whole world has.
But nobody could even light a torch to Diana.
But now, maybe, just maybe, this couple could.
Cool. I'm ready!
Bring it on!

Robbed Again?

I got robbed on Saturday night. I think that's what happened anyway.
Whatever happened, I lost my purse. All my cards, my U.S. driver's license, money, British debit card (with husband in Brazil and me not on the account yet), the whole shebang.
Cried for about an hour.
Could hardly handle it, if truth be told. I mean, it hasn't been that long since I had my Mac stolen in Italy. And my son had his wallet stolen in Barcelona.
Anyhoo.
I was on the platform at my tube stop at about 6 p.m., heading to my London friend's house for dinner. In a good mood.
Looking forward to the evening; had had a good time at the Christmas party I told you about the night before.
Sitting on the platform, waiting for the train.
Had my purse with me, my umbrella, a lemon tart I was bringing (bought at Marks & Spencer's Food, which is quite good), and a magazine to read in a bag.
When I got onto the train, I had everything except my purse.
I noticed immediately, within seconds of getting on the train.
Did I leave it on the platform? Or did someone swipe it from me while I slipped it off my shoulder for a few minutes, waiting for the train?
Don't know for sure, but think the latter.
I got off at the next stop and ran to the office at the station and told them. They called back to my station and had someone go look for my bag on the platform, i.e. about five minutes after I had left.
Nothing.
I went back to my stop and ran up to the platform.
People were sitting at every seat. Nothing underneath the bench.
Started crying.
Had nothing.
No money, no Oyster card (to get out of the train), no phone, no house keys, everything gone.
Stood there crying for awhile, trying to figure out what to do, how to get into my house, how to contact my friend to tell her I wasn't coming, how to support me and my son until my husband gets home in 10 days with no money or cards.
My husband and I had gone to his bank to put me on his account just two weeks ago. We had just gotten around to making it a joint account, but it just hit me, while standing there crying, that nothing had come in the mail yet about it. And it should have.
I had his debit card, he's gone, so I hadn't really thought about it.
Until now.
Thankfully, my son was only about a half-hour walk away, seeing a movie not that far from our house. (He could've been anywhere in London). And he had his keys, and £40 I had given him that day.
So I ran to the movies to get the keys -- and some money.
Walked all the way there and all the way home (an hour) in the drizzle, without putting my umbrella up.
Too busy feeling sorry for myself to care about getting wet.
Pretty drenched by the time I got home. And still upset.
Called my friend and cried to her for a few minutes.
While we were talking, someone called her on her cell.
They had found my phone lying on the floor of a train (nowhere near where I had been) and were calling the last person I had texted. Which was her.
So I got my phone back.
Yey!
Spent an hour at the bank this morning trying to sort everything out. Got a friendly guy who took pity on me.
Helped me re-file the application for the joint account (which technically he shouldn't have, since my husband isn't here). It had gotten held up because of some silly thing.
Sent out a replacement card to my home address, which I should get in a few days, even though I wasn't officially on the account yet, and my husband, who's the account holder, is literally in the Amazon jungle. They wouldn't do that when I reported it lost on Saturday.
So hopefully, this week, I'll have a new debit card so I can access the account.
Sometimes I wonder if I can keep writing to you.
Don't mothers say that if you can't say anything good, you shouldn't say anything at all?
(My mother never said that. She was Italian. Italians don't agree with the above statement).
But I bet Brits do.
Anyway, I would like to just tell you nice things, make you laugh, entertain you.
But shit just keeps happening to me.
Is it my fault?
Bad karma?

The Christmas Party

Went to the Christmas party at my freelance company last night. My son went too, with his group of half-a-dozen interns.
At first, before I got there, I felt like kind of a traitor -- and an interloper.
How many Christmas parties had I done at my last company? A dozen? I mean, that's the Christmas party I went to for years.
And then, do I really belong at this company's Christmas party? I'm only guaranteed a couple days of work a week these days, although this month because of vacations, I've gotten twice that.
Is that Christmas Party-worth?
But it's a friendly, young office, and everyone was asking who was going, encouraging people to go. And the interns were definitely going -- free drinks on a Friday night? -- so yeah, why not?
What a fun party.
So much better than the mostly dreary affairs at my old newspaper, where careers were more on the agenda than fun.
Maybe it's because I don't really care anymore. Not sure.
Or maybe they just know how to throw a good party here.
Anyway, it was a d.j.-hosted event with a dance floor in central London -- and I think the bar was free all night.
First good thing.
Dancing and drinking in a cool bar near work on a Friday night.
At my newspaper, the Christmas party was always held on a Sunday afternoon right before Christmas at someone's house.
Can you imagine a worse time?
Two Sundays before Christmas, you gotta give over a Sunday afternoon to work?
And then, it was almost always pot-luck, so you also had to bring something too -- and worry about that.
They divided it up -- some people brought appetizers, some desserts, main course dishes, drinks, the whole thing.
And then stand around and talk to each other for a couple awkward hours when everyone wanted -- and actually needed at that time of year -- to be somewhere else doing something else.
Lots of career-tuning going on, too, since the big bosses always showed up.
And then everyone encouraged to bring their spouses, all of whom felt pretty out of place, usually knowing no one.
Not that much fun usually.
Back to this Christmas party.
Started right after work on a Friday night. Good time. Everyone in the mood.
Still three weeks until Christmas. Nobody gave a shit about Christmas. Also good.
Free bar, and some finger food, so restricted to company employees. Spouses and significant others not invited. Also good, although dangerous with enough booze. But definitely entertaining to watch.
Lots of very attractive young girls work at this television company I'm freelancing at. I'm talking some real beauties. And the men, much much fewer in number, seem mostly to be married.
And British Christmas parties, I'm learning, are all about getting drunk -- and verging over into the inappropriate.
So, especially for a voyeur like me, REALLY entertaining to watch.
It was good to have my son there, so I could go and hang out with him and his intern group now and again. They're all a gas, all in their mid-twenties, all fresh, cute and smart.
Weird, though, too, in a way, to have him there. Have never been to a dancing/drinking party with my son actually. Fun to watch him too.
Everyone danced. Drank. Some did karaoke. All fun.
At one point, I was standing around with my son and his group, standing next to my son at that point (I didn't hang out with him much, but at that moment, I was), and he had his arm casually on my shoulder and I was looking up at him (he's really tall). We were all laughing.
One of the key women at the company came up to me later, a bit tipsy, put her arm around me, and whispered, conspiratorially: "Daniela, don't go the intern route. It doesn't lead to anywhere good."
It took me, also tipsy at that point, a minute to figure out what she was saying.
Then it hit me. She thought I was hitting on my son. Had no idea he was my son.
Most people in the big room that is the office there know by now, but this woman hadn't been around much lately, traveling probably, and had just come back that day after a few weeks, I had noticed. She's someone you notice.
Her comment: Priceless. Pee-in-your-pants funny.
Especially after a few drinks.

Running out of Time Already

It's almost 11 p.m. here now and I'm finally getting down to writing you.
Amazing how working just takes all your friggin' time.
Eight or more hours in the working day. And then here, I gotta leave an hour each way to get there, although today, luckily enough, we got there in about 45 minutes and snagged two seats the whole way.
You just never can tell with the Tube.
My son says it's all about how many trains come.
Duh.
Anyway, so that's ten hours at least.
Then we got delivery Chinese for dinner tonight. So didn't even cook.
But we called my youngest son -- and talked to him for quite awhile.
Ate dinner.
Had a couple errands to tend to.
Watched an episode of a television series on Queen Elizabeth II that I'm enjoying.
And that's about it for today.
Time for bed.
And start over tomorrow.
This is the problem with working.
It's about all you can fit in really.
But then, you don't have time to dwell on anything else. Or do much else.
You get up, go to work, work all day, come home, and that's your life.
So you don't need to get a life.
Because that is your life.

Keep the Home Fires Burning

My husband left London today on a long work trip.
That in itself isn't unusual. He's traveled extensively for work throughout our marriage.
But he hadn't traveled from here yet.
Because he had traveled so much the year before we moved here, and because we had just moved here, he told them he didn't want to travel for awhile.
But now, 10 months later, it was too good of a trip to pass up.
And the time has come.
I didn't used to care that much when he traveled back in the States. I had so much to do -- my newspaper job, my teenagers, my house, my aging mother, my beloved dog. I went to bed early when he was gone. Felt good.
I remember the British wives of the guys who worked with my husband would hate it when their husbands traveled out of Washington, though, especially if they had no kids.
They were out of their element, and alone there, without a life. I felt sorry for them.
I guess I'm them now.
Even though my son is here with me now. Thank God. For another few weeks.
And I do have a sorta job. Which I sorta like.
Nothing like my old job though.
Nothing like my old commute.
Nothing like my old life.
This evening, as my husband was jetting off to South America, and I was jamming onto the packed Tube train after work, I could see myself on his next trip, maybe a couple months from now, who knows. Without my son.
There's always another trip to go on.
And me, at this job, I guess. They've given me four days a week for the next three weeks now. So I've got lots of strap-hanging coming now.
I'm lucky to have anything, though, in this shitty economy.
Even though everyone is at least 20 years younger than me there, in experience too. Which kinda hurts. I could've done the job 25 years ago too.
But we need the money, like most people nowadays. Not finished paying for college. Not old enough to retire. Even though I retired from the one job that meant the most to me in life.
This gig here will keep me from going to Italy, I can see that.
Because I'll feel I have to work. Because my husband is working. Because we need the money to live in this expensive city.
Tonight, I just felt tired.
I want to go to South America.
Or somewhere.
Do something fun.
This move has been no fun at all.
Is that my fault? I'm willing to take responsibility if it is.
I guess I'm supposed to keep the home fires burning.
Like I always did.
Not sure I want to.
Without him here, I really don't know what I'm doing here.