No Newspaper Day

I hate to admit it, but I did not buy a newspaper today.
I read three or four -- certainly not the best ones this town has to offer -- but I didn't actually pay for any. Which is not a good trend. For them, I mean.
First, I picked up the free morning paper at my Tube stop in the morning on the way to work. They gotta stop giving away free papers everywhere if you ask me. It makes you not want to pay for them. Lots of other commuters picked one up like me. They have them stacked up conveniently near the stairs.
I still haven't broken down and gotten a paper delivered, although I guess I'm going to soon. I'm still deciding which paper I want every day -- I like a few of them -- although I am close. And we were away a lot over the summer. And it gave me a reason to go out, get the paper.
Anyway, so this morning, in a rush, I just picked up the free paper at the train in the morning instead of buying one. Save myself a pound. And then someone left the section I like best in one of the quality papers on the Tube, so snagged that. (That happens a bit).
During the day, at work, I checked the Web a bit to read up on the tsunami in Asia.
In the evening, I got the free afternoon paper, guy always hands it to me as I walk down the stairs at the Piccadilly Circus station.
Thanks, I say.
Okay, these are not good papers. But you never know if you're going to get a seat on the Tube, especially in the evening, and you need something to read, and the good papers are fatter of course, and harder to fold, even though they're all tabloids here. Fat tabloids. Love that.
There was another paper left on the Tube in the evening, so even though I don't like it that paper very much -- it's one of the trashy tabs with the naked girls -- I still took it. Why not? I'll look at it tonight, or tomorrow morning with my coffee. They did break news today.
I still like to linger over a newspaper in the morning -- an hour or so ideally. But I am finding, that when I have to go to work, I'd actually rather listen to the BBC World Service, which is just so good.
All bad news for newspapers.
I mean, I'm a die-hard.

The Polish Haircut

Had to get my hair cut today. Hadn't gotten my hair cut yet here, because well, I had no idea where to go -- there are a bunch of places within walking distance of me -- and I knew it was going to be expensive.
And it's not easy finding a new hairdresser.
I loved my old hairdresser in the States -- a lovely Vietnamese woman who became my friend. We told each other a lot about our lives; we were the same age, both mothers of two adult children -- we had a lot in common actually. I went to her for years.
Back to my hair. Which wasn't looking very good at all.
I went out to run some errands and noticed that the hairdressing salon closest to my house had an offer on -- £5 off a woman's hair cut and blow dry. So I went in and asked the guy who owned it, a paunchy Middle Eastern guy, how much for a cut and dry.
£30. Which didn't sound that bad. A lot cheaper than other places I had asked.
I looked at the tall blonde woman who he motioned to, who would be cutting my hair. She smiled at me, holding her scissors. I told him I'd come back after my errands.
As I walked up the high street, I worried about whether I would be sacrificing my hair at the altar of my cheapness -- i.e. get a shitty haircut just to save a few quid. (also known as British pounds). Right before I go to my job again.
Screw it, I'll tell them I just want a trim, less than an inch taken off, same cut.
How bad can it be?
Went in later.
Hairdresser didn't speak a lot of English, but was sweet.
Only been here from Poland about four years. Only been at the salon a few weeks. Used to work at another place.
Gave me a really nice hair-cut, one of those you know you've just gotten.
I told her I had been scared.
She laughed.

A Girl's Best Friend

Can closets make you happy? Or is just the order they bring to your life that gives a woman peace?
Came back to London and was forced to immediately confront the closet situation. First, had to unpack, which can still be hard, and then I have to make room for our eldest, who's coming to live with us for awhile, with his stuff on Saturday. Please let it not be too much stuff. Is that mean and unmotherly?
Have no idea where to put it.
On top of that, it is now going to be winter, so there's the whole winter clothes versus summer clothes thing that everyone goes through. Tried to leave as much summer stuff in Italy as possible. Feel like I've lost several things already.
Had to tackle the closets right away because there's only today and tomorrow before I go back to my freelance job, which because it's all new, requires substantial mental effort -- not to mention the 45-minute commute there and back.
Back to closets. And order in one's life, something okay, I'll admit, I'm addicted to.
There's no hall closet in this flat for coats, so I just stuffed my husband's coats in with his clothes in his one closet, which is in the spare room where our son will stay. My husband still had a bit of room in his closet, and the shit's gotta go somewhere.
We have put up some hooks in the tiny hall when you come in for coats, but I'm needing that for my jackets, so I can free half the other closet in the spare room for our eldest.
Yes, I have two closets. And my husband only has one.
We used to have a walk-in closet in the States. I'm sorry. Shoot me now.
Should I just throw all this shit away?
I will if you tell me to.
I once wrote a newspaper story about closets.
About bigger and bigger closets, with granite islands in the middle with pull-out drawers -- closets the sizes of big bedrooms.
That was in another life.
Now, I need to go to IKEA to get some shelves for the closets, so I can stack stuff better in them.
And one of those stand-up coat stands for the landing.
My husband's going to New York this week for work. Not sure we're gonna have time before my son arrives.

I'm back -- and hope you are too

I'm sorry to have left you hanging, such as you are.
I'm back now.
Thank you for having patience with me. And for coming back yourself. I appreciate it.
We've made some decisions, which wasn't easy. I'm going back to London tomorrow with my husband. My elder son is coming to London next weekend too, to look for work there.
I'm scared of it, I don't know if it's the right move, (there's still that nagging, totally unrealistic, feeling we should all just run back to the States), but I'm going to try hard to make it all work. Just give it my best shot.
My husband is due back at work on Monday, and then he goes on a short trip on Tuesday. Back to the States, if you can believe the irony. To New York. The lucky bugger. (That's a Britishism, in case you're not British. And you're wondering.)
And then it's the first day of the rest of our life, I guess.
Never trusted that saying that much. It's always the first day of the rest of your life, isn't it?
Anyway, I wanted my son to come to Italy. More room here. But it's not realistic. If this internship/job he's still waiting on here doesn't happen, there's not much in Italy for him, let's be serious.
Even though, there are lots of people here who would befriend him, invite him to dinner, help him look for a part-time job to tide him over, all kinds of things. (STOP.)
We haven't given up on the internship/job in Italy for him. That's what he wants; that's what we want for him. They tell us to have patience, that something could break soon.
We're trying, but he needs to get on with his life. It scares me that he's going to sell his car (well, give the piece of junk away, probably) and sever his ties to the States now too. And that we're all gonna squish in together in London.
I wanted to stay in Italy too. But you can't stay married and live in different countries, I've decided. I don't think so, anyway.
I need to go back to my London freelance job, too, or I won't have it anymore. And if I don't have that, I'm doomed there. Even you know that.
And I've been here a long time this summer. Even though it still feels like the blink of an eye.
But it isn't. It's been weeks, months even.
I'm not done with all my errands though, or my new life-making, or lemon-chasing, or anything. Everything takes time. Maybe that's good though. Leaving when the going's still good.
I missed the end of summer here. But so what? I had plenty of summer. It was so hot for awhile here, especially when I had the swine flu. That's why I was sleeping downstairs, where it's cooler, when I got robbed.
Anyway, god, it's not just about me, and the everlasting summer, is it? How selfish -- and shallow -- is that.
I've learned a few things though, that I didn't know, that I wasn't completely sure of.
I love my side of the hill here.
I love this little town.
There are some interesting people here -- expats and Italians -- to befriend. There is a community here.
I know at least half a dozen women here and in Rome who I'd like to spend more time with.
I like living close to my Italian cousins, the only Italian family I have left.
I like being Italian.
It's not a choice actually: I am Italian.
These are the things I know now.
It's a start.

Don't Know Anything

Not sure what to say today to you. And didn't write yesterday for the same reason.
But told myself I would continue this.
On the flying carpet again, a bee trapped in one of those glass things, all of the above.
Can't think of anything insightful, witty or funny to say about Italy.
Don't know what to do about anything.
Feel like such a disappointment to everyone.
Scared to say how I really feel to anyone.
Can't give anyone anything. Have nothing left to give.
Just want to be alone all the time now.
If you know me, please don't write to me. I don't know what to say.

Hot Soothing Baths

Nothing like some hot sulfuric Italian baths to soothe all your troubles away. No wonder the Romans, the Etruscans, and the modern-day Italians love them.
Had a big fight with my husband this morning and had to get away. Needed that solitude back, I guess.
Drove almost three hours north up that old Roman road, the Cassia, to the edge of Tuscany to the most glorious little jewel of a town that is really just a thermal spa. That's all there is to it pretty much.
Back was hurting after the drive and after a few days of not sleeping well and tensing all up in the morning bitterly arguing.
Broken back, broken heart, broken soul, bring 'em all to the big open-air pool with the really hot water. Set among the tall skinny cypresses, rolling hills and hilltop towns of Tuscany.
Magic really. Sat in that water for hours. Moved only to get under the fountains that pummell your shoulders with the hot water.
Incredibly restorative. Like nothing else I can think of.
Wanted to write to you quickly before I went to bed. To sleep the sleep of the warmed and well-fed.
Didn't bring the right computer plug so can't tarry.
Forgot my brush, so my hair is all tangled and smells of sulfur.
Had a wonderful Tuscan dinner though. Rabbit stew with olives and then a local pecorino cheese drizzled with honey for dessert.
And now bed.
In the morning, more baths.
Nite-nite. Sleep tight.

It's the weather, stupid

Besides the food, the landscape, the history, the umbrella pines, the magnificent architecture, the majestic cities, (etc, etc.,) another attribute that makes Italy special is the weather. Gorgeous weather in Italy, right?
So much so that even if it's slightly bad -- partly cloudy, let's say -- nobody knows what to do. Including me.
Ever since I've come back from London, about 10 days ago now, the weather in Italy's been bad -- and by that I mean partly cloudy, with some showers. What?
In England, this weather would be good. Changeable yes, but the sun has shone a bit most days, it's still warm, and rain has only been intermittent.
Here it may be time to break out the fur coats.
No, no, please no. Not yet. I'm not ready.
The last two weeks of beautiful weather here I left to go back to London for my two weeks of freelance work.
A friend from here had invited me to go to the Aeolian islands with her for a few days to a villa she rented there.
But I had to go work for the man. When the man calls, particularly in these shitty times, gotta go, let's be serious.
My friend came back the color of mahogany raving about the Aeolian islands -- the food, the sea, the view from the terrace of the house she rented.
And it's been cloudy and rainy since I came back.
Italians are now wearing jackets. Not a good sign.
One consolation: A couple of evenings we've had the most amazing thunder and lightning over the lake, a natural pyrotechnic show. One night the noise rivalled the fireworks on the mall in Washington on the fourth of July. We were awestruck.
But still. Still. I'm not ready for winter. I'm just not.

The Italians are Right

The Italians may be right after all. (funny that).
Maybe I'm not that well. Maybe that is why I've wanted to be alone. To try to make sense of things. Although it hasn't worked that well, I guess.
Just apprehensive about the future now -- like I never really was before. It's that no road map, no clear idea of where me -- or my family -- is headed any more.
That feeling of being on a flying carpet that never lands can reappear at any moment, when I least expect it, like an Italian traffic jam.
Is it just my age, the empty-nester, mid-fifties, what do you really do with yourself when you're done raising kids problem? I thought I had done with that, but it comes back, I've found.
Is it my newfound, not that satisfying, state of unemployment? And the money worries that go with it? Not used to that. Been working a long time.
Is it the shitty global economy, which has narrowed my options (like everybody's, I know), and scared the hell out of me for my son, who just graduated from college? We've still heard nothing definitive from his Milan interview -- they tell us to have patience, it could still come through -- but right about dawn, I can really start wondering about that. It's been months with no resolution.
I feel bad that we're not in Washington anymore, that he can't just come live at home, our old spacious home, the one we're lucky to have sold, with his own bedroom, closets galore -- and American basement. Near where his friends live. With enough room for us all to breathe -- and live together too.
We're thinking he's going to come and stay with us in London now, but that scares me, although there's nothing more I want than to have my boys nearby. Does that make any sense?
There's not much room there -- I have to clear out a closet somehow to make room for his stuff. Not that he has much stuff. But even the little he has.
He doesn't know a soul there. I know the young'uns are much better at meeting people, but I've hardly met anyone, so is that the best situation for him too? It's been hard enough for me.
And the British economy is in dire straits, no matter how many stories you read about "green shoots." It's a bunch of crap, if you ask me. I'm no economist, but I see more unemployment -- and more misery -- coming there. And nobody quite does misery like Britain, especially in the winter. (It's the rain and the really expensive everything).
And in Britain, you don't pick up a decent job being a waiter or somesuch, like my son has done in the past in the States to fund his life. Being a waiter is not a decent job there. No money.
There's "The City," of course -- the financial section of London that used to have plenty of good jobs with great salaries and good prospects. That's what's collapsed actually, and caused a huge ripple effect throughout the British economy. And my son is a Finance major.
He could come here, of course, to Italy. We've got plenty of room here for his stuff -- and he would like to end up in Italy for awhile. Hence the Milan job hunt. But if that doesn't come through, there just isn't much in Italy, let's be serious.
As an expat friend of mine said on the phone to me the other day, "he's coming HERE (from the States, she meant) to look for a job?". Silence from me. She was right, of course. What are we thinking?
I guess that's where the rubber meets the road for me now -- right about dawn.
Isn't the States the best place for this family to be again? Do we really have time to waffle around trying to make this European experiment work? Shouldn't we just cut our losses sooner rather than later?
Almost everyone at my old newspaper who took the early retirement buy-out seems to have found another job, from what I can tell.
And isn't the U.S. the place where my son needs to launch his career, since he's American and all, and just graduated with an American degree?
But then my British husband is the only one employed at the moment. And his company just transferred him to London (at our request). He certainly can't ask for anything else for awhile.
And I have found a bit of work in London.
And it would be great if it could work out for my son in Europe for awhile. He would like that. And ultimately it would be good for him -- and his career.
But will it work? Who knows? Could easily not. So many people are having dreams quashed all over the world at the moment.
I try to be optimistic -- just think positive. It's not easy though.
Sometimes I feel as trapped as a bee squirming around inside one of those glass pens beekeepers use.

Cars

The dreaded car. The beloved car.
What to do about all the cars in this world?
Got a rude wake-up call -- as in, this is Italy, remember, you idiot? -- yesterday picking my husband up from the airport where the cheap flights land.
A trip that should have taken 45 minutes on fast road from my side of the hill took more than two and a half hours. Got stuck in the most horrendous, most Italian of traffic jams -- an almost complete standstill for miles on the Raccordo Anulare, the beltway around Rome.
Now, anybody who lives here -- or who has lived here, as I have, and who remembers stuff -- knows that the Raccordo can be bad at any time -- although 11:30 a.m. is not usually the time. But the rule about Italy is that at any time, at any place, the most day-ruining traffic can just happen to you. You cannot plan for it. You cannot do anything about it. And you never know when it's just around the bend.
I was zooming along happily towards the airport, making great time, enjoying driving my old clunker like I have been, when I got onto the Raccordo, where I needed to be for about 10 miles to reach the airport. Zipped along on it for a couple of miles -- maybe driving a little fast, but kinda, sorta trying not to -- when all of a sudden, stop.
Okay. That can happen at an exit or something.
But then just stay stopped -- maybe go a mile an hour -- for the next hour.
Italians just irritate the hell out of me when this happens. I see people inching over to the right-hand lane, getting off at the gas station, only to come out the other end of the gas station, just to get a few hundred feet ahead. Making things worse.
My mood is deteriorating. My husband's flight has long landed.
Finally, I hear a warning on the radio, telling motorists to avoid the Raccordo, right where I was. A huge pile-up overnight (Italy has the most hair-rising pile-ups involving dozens of cars) has meant traffic is down to one lane from four and the line is backed up "several kilometers."
I make friends with the guy driving the truck beside me. (Plenty of time to talk). I told him what I just heard on the radio, that the pile-up had happened at the "centrale del latte" exit. At the milk plant. Not a clue where that was.
"That's just up here, not that far," he said, relieved. "That's not bad." We stop and start next to each other for the next half-hour.
Finally, he called over to me. "I can see it," he said, benefiting from his high vantage point over the stalled traffic. "It's just under that bridge. Maybe 500 meters away." I gave him a hopeful thumbs-up.
Maybe twenty minutes later, we both get through. And then, with no guilt whatsoever, I drive fast. Until a guy cuts me off in the most ridiculous, dangerous way and I think, better slow down before I have an accident too.
The first thing my husband tells me when we get into the car to drive home (did I just call it home?) is that our older son in Washington called him just before 6:00 a.m. London time, as he was wending his way to the cheap London airport on the other side of town (cheap European flights are actually not that cheap when you add everything up, like getting to the airports involved).
He said he could tell immediately something was wrong before my son spoke. The time of the call was an immediate tip-off -- 1 a.m. in the States.
My son was in an unknown area near Baltimore, in his car, driving to Baltimore airport to pick up the Maryland friend (we lived in Virginia) he's staying with there, who was coming in on a late flight.
A carful of drunken Latinos had crashed into him at a red light and then sped off, he explained. Quite a jolt to the back of the car, he said, pushing his car into the middle of the intersection.
After they drove off, he drove off after them -- and caught them.
He asked them why they hadn't stopped. They laughed and talked among themselves in Spanish. He could see they had been drinking. A guy in the back seat then yelled out, okay, yeah, let's stop, where shall we stop then?
My son decided right then he didn't need to stop anywhere with this carload of hit-and-runners after all. He sped off, shaken.
And then called his dad in London.
Today, his neck hurts from the crash.

What is wrong with her now?

Italy is not a country for being alone. Besides their families, Italians all have their close group too -- the friends they vacation with, meet up with on the weekends, call every day, like that.
Italians are nothing without their group.
No wonder everyone is tsking, tsking about me now.
All alone in that house? Staying in the house for the best part of the day sometimes? No husband around, family or gulp, group, at all?
My God. What's become of her? She's so sad now.
Thank you for caring. I really appreciate it. But I'm actually not that sad, folks.
Yes, I am alone. But I've met up with one of my oldest girlfriends several times in the evening -- we've reconnected and that's been fun and satisfying for me.
I went to the last water aerobics class last week, where I met the elderly woman I sorta knew, who invited me to dinner the other night at her house further up the hill. It turned out be a delightful evening. She's lived a very interesting life.
I went to the market on Friday and bought myself two jackets for the winter. I've had some nice leisurely drives -- a novelty for me now that I don't have a car in London. I've read two books -- and lots of magazines and newspapers.
I've eaten plenty of mozzarella di bufala with my hands. I've watched stupid Italian TV in the evening -- or danced around my kitchen to the radio. I've emailed my sons, and other friends. I've run errands. I've written to you. I've done what I felt like doing every minute of every day pretty much.
How bad can that be? Incredibly relaxing, actually.
One of my Italian cousins stopped by unannounced on Sunday with his son. Although he had plenty to do -- he's got three kids -- he just wanted to check on me. He came quite a way to check on me.
He didn't like what he saw. Me sitting in the house reading, with nothing planned for the day. (later, I got the unexpected invitation to dinner. At that moment, I had nothing planned though. I could've gone over to spend the evening with my old friend and her daughter if I had felt desperate though, which frankly, I didn't, not even a little bit.)
What are you doing, he wanted to know. (reading. quite a good book actually.) You have to go out (it looks like it's going to rain, so why?). You can't stay in here (Don't lots of people stay home on Sundays?). I could just hear his brain working: Daniela's in a bad way now. We might need to intervene.
Yesterday, my neighbor rang the bell too, looking at me sideways, behind me into the house. (maybe she's got a secret lover in there? How else could she have spent all this time alone.)
I thought your husband was coming today, he said. He was, I replied, but we found a cheaper flight tomorrow. So he's coming tomorrow.
Palpable relief on his face. So he'll be here tomorrow then? Yep, that's right. And you're going to go get him at the airport? Yes, I will. What time tomorrow? Early afternoon. So tomorrow afternoon, you won't be alone anymore?
Yes, yes, yes, yes. Tomorrow you'll be able to look at me again without fear. I will no longer be alone -- and so no longer weird as shit to you.
Tomorrow is now today. Time to go pick up my husband from the airport.
Every Italian I know will be breathing a sigh of relief.

Chains? Alarms?

A big chain? More locks? An alarm system?
What to do about stepping up security on my side of the hill here?
I've been trying to be nonchalant, and grown-up, and all good things about being robbed here while I was asleep alone. But truth is, I have been a bit spooked by it.
I find myself sitting here in the evening with the iron grates shut -- even while I'm here. I've hardly sat out on my terrace. And when I've come back late at night, now I'm hoping to find Nero, the Roman emperor dog next door, barking his head off, instead of wishing he'd just shut up already.
My carpenter came up this morning to look at what he could do to make me more secure. He's going to put a big bolt-like chain on my front door so I can lock myself in better at night -- and of course replace the lock on the door that was broken into. (The iron grates still work on that door, so I've had them shut anyway).
He wants me to get an alarm system though.
A friend of mine here who has one says she never uses it because it's complicated and so sensitive anything makes it go off. But her reasoning is that it deters robbers just because they can see that it's there. Okay, I can see her point.
I went to another friend's house for dinner last night -- an elderly woman who lives alone further up the hill here. She didn't seem worried about robbers at all -- her gate wide open, no iron grates on her windows, and all alone there often, in a much more isolated location than me.
She said she's had two pairs of binoculars stolen there over the years. That's about it. So she doesn't worry about it too much. She doesn't have a lap-top though.
Maybe that's the key. Not have anything.
I can see what it is they want -- electronic things they can sell quickly, like a lap-top or a digital camera. And any cash you may have lying around.
When I'm not here, I don't worry about it. I can see there would be nothing in here of any interest to any robbers.
So it's just a matter of divesting myself of anything while I am here, I guess.
Or invest in some monster alarm system.
People tell me that once the robbers have come, that's it. They don't come again. Then others say that sometimes they come back soon after, after they think you've replaced what they just stole.
I'm not sure what makes most sense. I wish I didn't have to think about it.

Friday al mercato

Even with the super-strong Euro, there's still something that's just plain good value in Italy. No, not the wine (although that's good value too).
The town street market.
My little town's market is Friday morning. And every Friday morning that I manage to get there, I always find something to buy.
And I'm not that big of a shopper (too cheap).
Today, I bought two autumn jackets for 10 Euros apiece. Used, yes, but quite cute -- and in perfect condition. One a padded short black one -- the kind everyone's wearing here. Perfect for autumn, or even mid-summer, in London.
The last time I went to the market, right before I left, I bought a couple of big beaded long necklaces -- two for five Euros -- all the rage here. I wore one of them a couple times in London this last time I was back, and both times, a stranger, a British stranger no less, stopped to tell me they liked it.
The stuff's cheap -- and cute.
Besides clothes, there's household goods. So I've bought tablecloths, towels, pots, pans, spatulas and paper towels there. And there's toiletries too, so I've purchased all manner of nail polish, cotton balls and hair clips there over the years as well.
It's a winning place to bring people who visit -- everyone I've ever brought there has bought something too. One of my son's girlfriends bought the most adorable long dress -- and patchwork bag -- there one summer. I hope she found somewhere to wear the dress back in the States. It looked stunning on her. I can't remember what it cost, but it couldn't have been more than 20 Euros. And I want to say the bag was a tenner.
And then there's fresh fruit and vegetable vendors -- and little deli-like stands selling prosciutto, cheese, tuna -- almost anything you'd get in the supermarket.
So after my jackets, I picked up some dishwashing liquid.
And then a bunch of asparagus and a melon -- for next to nothing.
And a big hunk of mozzarella di bufala, of course, to just eat with my fingers, with the water from it running down them, for lunch.
Who needs anything else when you've got a market like that down the street?

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Sleep. It's a powerful thing.
Slept close to nine hours again last night, all locked in tight here on the side of my hill alone. And could've gone back to sleep some more. The place where I was visited by robbers not that long ago.
Go figure.
Can count the nights on one hand that I've slept anywhere even approaching eight hours since we moved to London in February. Actually, since we left our house and I left my job in Washington last August, just over a year ago.
Loving that bed. Can't wait for tonight.
This behavior begs questions.
Am I sleeping more because I'm depressed, a classic sign of it? Am I sleeping more because I'm relaxed -- nobody to please, entertain or take care of, only myself to think about? Am I sleeping more because it's more comfortable here now, even though I did get robbed? Am I sleeping more because a week of work a month guaranteed in London has taken the pressure off me? Or am I sleeping more because after a year of worry, stress and not sleeping, I'm simply exhausted?
Who cares?
Is it bedtime yet?
Actually, it's a combination of B, C, D and E above. It's not depression, I don't think, although hell, I'm as depressed as the next fifty-something woman, although we may all have our own reasons (you've heard mine). For me, though, depression manifests itself in not sleeping -- wired, worried and awake is me. There's no soporific aspect to it at all.
It is more comfortable here now that it's not so hot.
I'm back in my bedroom and I even used the duvet last night. Like I like.
And I had the window shut, even though I don't usually like that, but it was cool, and I'm worried about robbers.
So I didn't hear Nero, our local Roman emperor, barking next door.
Nero hasn't been barking as much lately, I've noticed.
He can tell summer is drawing in now. Less people out on their terraces late.
The comforting, rigid rhythms of Italian life.
Night-night.

Ommmmmmm

Slept like a baby here on my side of the hill last night. After I made sure to lock myself in as tight as I could.
Funny that.
I woke up at dawn, of course, like I always do. But I just turned over and went right back to sleep. And slept almost nine hours total. Ahhh...
Haven't done that in awhile.
Today, I just relaxed pretty much. It's been cloudy most of the day (even though now it looks like a terrific sunset is developing).
Went for a long drive all around the lake. First went one way all around, and then turned around and went the other way all around. Felt so good to drive. And I love the picturesque, windy road that hugs our lake.
I miss driving, that feeling of bye-bye, I'm taking off. That big old black-top stretching endlessly before me. What kind of American would I be if I didn't? Cars are in our DNA. Nothing like a good Interstate when you're feeling itchy.
And then being Italian too, means I have been known to drive fast -- on occasion. And I used to have a car that went fast. I've always had cars that go fast. Until now. Now I have a clunker. But I don't care. It's still fun to drive. At least it's a stick-shift clunker.
Soon, when I finish this, I'm gonna go sit on my terrace and watch the sun set.
And then I'm gonna make myself a plate of pasta. And maybe watch some silly Italian TV. (It's all silly.)
It feels good to just chill here alone. With my thoughts.
Not worrying about whether I'm this, or that, whether my attitude is good, or not, whether I'm in a good mood, or bad, or anything at all really.
Just being. Ommmm.

Odd Homecoming

I'm back on my side of the hill in Italy, arrived here late this afternoon. It felt kinda odd when I got here.
It was the first time in 10 years that I've ever arrived on my own. I always come with my husband. Once, I came with a girlfriend.
I've been here on my own, as you know. Even though this summer was the first time I've been here on my own too.
But now I actually came on my own as well, which felt different. Like, here I am, living here, and living in London too? I've been here more than two months this summer already.
My husband's in London still, working, but he's coming next week for a couple weeks, until the end of September. So I'm only alone this week.
It felt a little strange tonight, him there in London at home, me here in Italy at home. Two homes for the two of us.
Should I have just stayed in London with him instead of coming here early on my own? Came out when he could come out too? Felt a little guilty doing that.
I already feel summer closing in though, here too.
It's not that hot here now. Tonight, it's even a bit breezy.
I still have the living room doors open though. But now I have the iron grates locked in front of them.
I have to lock them every night, my husband says. And double-lock the front door. He's right, of course.
I locked the iron grates this evening when I went to the grocery store to pick up some food for dinner. And then I didn't open them again.
They're beautiful, sturdy iron with a graceful pattern, but I've never sat in the living room looking at the closed iron grates rather than the big glass windows before.
And soon I'll go to bed, for the first night since the robbers came.
Lots of firsts.
All a little strange here tonight.

Labor Day

It's weird when it's a holiday back home. Like today is Labor Day, for instance.
Not that I had even thought of it actually, but my son mentioned on the phone yesterday that he couldn't go to the bank today because well, it was Labor Day.
Do holidays still happen if you're not there?
Labor Day was always such a big deal, a strong punctuation mark in the year -- the end of summer, the beginning of school.
Not anymore.
First of all, they don't do Labor Day here -- and this is where I live. They did an end-of-summer Bank Holiday weekend last weekend, which I guess counts as their equivalent.
But it's not as big as Labor Day. It's just a Bank Holiday weekend, which comes at about the same time.
Then, more importantly, there's no school anymore, no kids to ready, no first-day packets to sign, no supplies to pick up, no back-to-school nights to mark on the calendar. My younger son went back to college in Charleston a couple weeks ago now. Colleges tend to go back long before Labor Day.
What else?
There's no three-day weekend off work like there used to be because I'm not working like that anymore. My two-week freelancing gig in London is done now, and the next time they want me is in three weeks time. They've said they need me a week a month from now on, which is a good start. But not for another three weeks.
Okay.
So, I guess I won't say good-bye to summer yet after all, even if it is Labor Day. And even though the Brits said good-bye pretty soon after they said hello.
I'll go back to Italy, where it's still hot, my neighbors tell me.
Even though I am a little scared of robbers now. I haven't spent a night there alone since I was robbed.
I can't let a gang of thieves put me off, though.
And I can't let thoughts of Labor Days past weigh me down.

What now?

How much can one family lose in a matter of a few weeks?
My elder son, now back in Washington, accidentally left his backpack at a bar at a friend's going away party the other night. When he went back to get it, he found his video camera, ipod, and British passport were gone. Add that to his wallet that was stolen in Barcelona last month, and the kid really doesn't have much left.
Not to mention no home in Washington.
Then there's the Macbook, digital camera and money that was taken when my house was burgled in Italy two weeks ago.
It has not been a good month for us in terms of possessions.
Thank god that's all they are in the end.
Even though you do get attached to them. He told me on the phone today that he misses his ipod. He was always listening to music. And I know he's going to miss his video camera soon too, which he used a lot to shoot videos he then posted on YouTube. It was his Christmas present last year. Oh well.
More important than the stuff, ultimately, is the fact that my son is flopping around in Washington now, staying in a friend's spare room, not sure what to do now, beyond wait to hear from Milan and get a new driver's license.
And we're here.
Something is wrong with this picture.
He should be staying with his parents if he has no job -- and now no stuff (got rid of all his college furniture and his ancient old car is on its last legs), shouldn't he?
Everything feels wrong.
Should he come here? Look for a job here too? He's intrigued by London, but will he like it? I'm not even sure I like it.
He doesn't have any friends here, doesn't know anyone at all, except us.
Is that enough when you're 23, almost 24?
Probably not.
What about if this thing in Milan doesn't happen after all? It is Italy, let's be serious.
Something has to give here soon.

Commuter Hell

I have just spent the last hour being crushed like a walnut in a nutcracker.
The Tube at rush hour.
Wow. Never seen it like that. And never seen anything quite like it.
I could tell it was bad as I was going down the escalator at the Piccadilly Circus station. There was a big crush of people turning the corner onto the platform, backing up onto the escalator. And when I finally got to the platform, people were lined up 10 deep as far as you could see.
After a couple minutes, a train arrived. But it didn't look like there was any room on the train at all, with commuters squished inside all the way to the door.
That didn't stop anybody, though.
The big crowd I was in just pushed towards the door, with lots of us just heaving in in between those who managed to get out. Nobody seemed to care about the announcement that another train would be coming soon.
I got in somehow, not sure how, ahead of a man who muttered "cheeky" to me as I was crushing in. It's not like I got in ahead of him. I was just part of the throng. And the door closed just behind me -- and ahead of him.
Sorry dude. I didn't mean it.
I stood up for the rest of the ride, smashed in between two other people, who I tried desperately not to actually touch. No chance of reading the paper I had bought. Even though other, more experienced commuters, still managed to read theirs somehow.
And god was I hot in my leather jacket.
The "cityness" of this mega-city cannot be underestimated. Washington just feels like a sleepy little town in comparison.
And there's nothing like the Tube at rush hour to remind you of that.
Whew.
It felt good to arrive at my stop, walk up the stairs en masse with a hundred other people and get out into the late evening sun.
I didn't even mind that I was suddenly freezing as I rode my bike home.

Swine flu

I didn't want to tell you this, but I think I've had the swine flu. Seriously.
I didn't want to tell you because I thought you'd think, gimme a break, she's lying. She can't have been robbed AND had the swine flu.
I am not making this stuff up, I swear.
I got really sick when I was in Italy after my son and his back-packing friends showed up. My son was sick when he arrived, I got sick, and then two of his three friends got sick too.
We all had fevers and then a phlegmy cough that just went on and on.
I had a fever for five days actually, and then a cough for about three weeks. It's actually just going away now.
I know I'm not infectious anymore because I didn't give it to my second son when he came -- or my husband when I saw him again. Plus it's been almost a month now since my first symptoms.
So don't get mad at me for going to work. A girl's gotta work -- even if she is recovering from the swine flu.
How do I know it was the swine flu?
I don't for sure, but what other bad flu is going around Europe this summer? And since when do you get the flu in the summer when it's 90 degrees outside? (God I was hot in Italy when I had a fever. I needed to just lay under the fan without moving a few times.) And the guys had been to dance clubs all around Italy and Spain -- perfect place to catch it.
Good news is, I've had the swine flu, so I don't need to worry about getting it this winter here in England, when they're predicting everyone's gonna get it.
I've had it. It's not fun.
One less thing to worry about.

What to Wear?

Nobody knows what to wear in this country.
Today, when I was leaving work, I saw women in sleeveless tops and summer skirts with sandals (and goose bumps), walking alongside women wearing leather jackets and Uggs.
Not that it's their fault.
When I went to work yesterday, it was chilly and overcast. When I came out, it was hot and the sun was blazing.
This morning, I felt overdressed in my cardy. It was kinda humid outside, and hot on the Tube. I almost stripped down to my sleeveless t-shirt.
This evening, when I came out, it was freezing. A brisk wind had come up. Although the sun was shining.
I feel like I need my entire summer and winter wardrobe with me every time I go out. (Would've loved to have my leather jacket this evening actually). I do carry my little portable umbrella in my bag now. But that's not enough, I'm realizing.
Maybe it's so changeable because it's summer. (ha). Maybe when it's actually winter, it'll just be cold, and that's it.
A lot of the women in the office wear leggings under their summer dresses. That's the only sure way to wear a summer dress, I'm finding. It's definitely a London look. I thought it was just trendy, but nope, that's a look borne of necessity.
Need leggings.
Tomorrow's gonna be good, though, I heard on the weather forecast.
Just windy and rainy all day.
Cool. I can dress for that.
It's the four seasons in one day that screw me.