Hardly slept last night here on the side of my hill in Italy. Tossed and turned until dawn with fitful, fragmented dreams of my Italian parents, my sons in the States, and my own childhood.
It didn't help that I didn't get home until past 1 a.m. -- and shouldn't have had that last Averna -- after an extraordinary evening with my American-gone-Italian friend from the other night. She graciously introduced me to a friend of hers, who made dinner for us at her staggeringly beautiful house: an Australian-Italian woman who lives nearby with her Italian man. (A lot of the expats are hyphens here.)
As we sat eating fish carpaccio in her big, open living room-dining room-kitchen with its wide glass door thrown open to the smooth stone terrace outside, she told the story of how an Australian girl from Sydney ended up calling central Italy home -- at least for now.
Boy did it sound familiar. It was all about her Italian father. That's what mine's about too.
Didn't take long to realize our stylish Australian hostess doesn't fully know where she belongs either, although she's created one helluva nest trying to figure it out.
No way is this just me, although I am at the sharp end of it now, an exposed nerve, or as one old newspaper buddy called me recently: an unpacked box.
Way beyond this tattered old box, the search for belonging is an universal condition in today's world.
Oh good. That means lots of other people have felt this shitty too...and come out the other end.
I reassured myself with that as dawn broke over the hill and my pillows lay next to me in a heap.
Daniela this is a wonderful blog, so interesting. you and Mick too have made a wonderful nest and you are fantastic parents. All the answers to Everything you need will drop out of the sky. love Karen
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