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?

Work

    Work. Yeah! Damn!

    Maybe the universe does answer when you ask. 

    I'm not sure I asked. In a way, I was just about to turn the corner into hardly caring, but there it is.

    Just after I whined to you about what to do, I got an email from the company I worked for in London for a week in June. The last time I left Italy early to go back to London. 

    Now, they've got two weeks work starting the week after next -- just enough to make going back worthwhile. Flights -- even the cheapo, cheapos from weird airports -- are expensive now, because it's August and plenty of Italians are flying to London.

     The Italians love London -- and all things British -- at the moment. Italians love different places at different times, all together. Italians find comfort in doing things together. It keeps them psychologically healthy, too, is my assessment. You're never without your group here. It's not a country for flying solo. 

     Back to work.

     So, I'm going back to London in 10 days for a couple weeks. And then coming back. (I've got a car now, so I HAVE to come back). 

     This is dividing your time, right? Is this what I was asking the universe?

     There's a big part of me that wants to stay here, of course. C'mon. It's the glorious Italian summer vs. the crappy English excuse for one.  

     A girlfriend suggested I might go down to the Aeolian islands off Sicily with her for a few days to a villa she's rented during that time. Love it down there. And would love to spend a few days with her and her daughter there.  

     And I've still got lots of errands here. Need my resident parking sticker so I don't have to pay one euro an hour to park down the street from my house, but the place you get them is only open on Saturday mornings from 11:00-11:15 (okay, maybe that's a slight exaggeration, but only by a few minutes, I swear).

    And I'm so ashamed to admit I haven't started recycling yet, even though my little town has, because well, I wasn't here to get the special bags you need to put your plastic in and I still haven't gone to get them (tried at the post office, yes, the post office, but they were out). So I'm still driving my trash a few miles down the street to the next town, which is not recycling yet.

     That is just so lame. And so Neapolitan.

    And I've hardly been alone yet either. To be scared, or happy, or whatever I would be, which I'm really not sure about yet.  

    My eldest son and his merry band of back-packers left this morning for Florence. I'm only going to see them at the Rome train station next weekend to give them a big suitcase they couldn't carry around with them. Unless they get robbed again, I guess.

    And my youngest son is here now until Monday, until he goes back to college for his senior year. So I've actually got to go now.

    A closing thought about work.  

    Even though there's all kinds of good reasons to stay, I have to go, I know. Otherwise they won't want me in the winter, when I will really want them.

    And then I have to be honest. It felt good when I saw the email. I was in a good mood all afternoon. And how tanned can one person get, even if they are Italian. (that's a stupid question actually, because the answer is never enough.) 

    Work. Can't live with it. Can't live without it. 

    10 more days of lemon-chasing. Stay with me.