Home is wherever I'm with you

I've become fairly convinced that international flights shave a few days off your life. You wake up early in one place, and 30 hours later you're half way around the world. It's a miracle, really. But when you walk to the baggage claim at your final destination, it feels like you just put your body through a tumble cycle and ate junk food for 30 days.

Ada was great. I can't complain, except for the fat lip she gave me on our first flight. I swiped Jordan Ferney's idea and wrapped some dollar store toys in crepe paper to serve as calculated distractions. Worked like a charm. When Ada would start getting fussy (i.e. the boredom that preceded the overtired tears) I'd grab a brightly packaged present out of my bag. The newness is all she needed. Something besides the same faces, the same aisles, the same snacks and the same two seats that the three of us packed ourselves into for hours on end.

After a short trip over the Alps we spent 4 hours in the coolest airport on the planet (how many airports have baby care lounges?) before boarding our flight to Chicago. As soon as every one was buckled in (and I was rejoicing at the empty seat to my right—what luck!) they announced that the plane we were on had some issues and we were going to get off, wait for a new one, and board again in two hours. As soon as the microphone when dead, flight attendants handing cups of ice cream flooded the aisles. Well played, KLM.

As I ate my ice cream (and the cup they gave to Ada) all I could think was: Two hours. As just under the amount of time we have between landing in Chicago and boarding for Salt Lake. Two hours. As in, we were going to miss our connection.

My only consolation was the empty seat.

When we reboarded, two extremely happy travelers filled the empty seats. They would have missed their flight. (At least someone's prayer was answered). My heart sunk a little. But ever-optimistic Michael kept assuring me, "We'll make it!"

When we landed in Chicago we got another announcement: the gate wasn't free so we had to wait for a plane to move before disembarking.

That is when I lost all hope of getting home in time to meet my family at Cafe Rio and reunite over pork salads and salsa.

We arrived in Salt Lake just before 9 pm. As I looked out at the Rockies—the mountains that mean home; that are jagged and rough but act like big, welcoming arms— I could hardly believe that at 3:30 that same morning (though nearly 30 hours prior) I was walking out of my shoebox apartment on Via Solferino, climbing in a dark taxi, and trying to convince Ada that it wasn't time for jabber, but time for more sleep. We waved good by to our city from the air.

This morning I woke up in my parent's old bedroom. Everything is so familiar it almost feels like the past year never happened. It's a strange paradox that I think we experience every time we make a major shift in life: that it seems at once far distant and very close.

And another one

I was awake for this one. I thought it was just Mike with his constantly bouncing legs shaking the couch—turns out it was something a bit more tectonic.

The house shook for a while, we heard people leaving the building, maybe we should have evacuated, but Ada was sleeping and I'm not about to throw off any semblance of a sleep schedule right before our flight.

An aftershock hit while we were in the library. It was only a short tremor, I hardly even noticed it, but a few parents swooped upon their babies and ran for the door frame. We looked around, took Ada by the hand and wondered, "Do we really have to leave?" Yes. They evacuated all the buildings. Including the library. But at least we returned our books on time.

Hundreds of business people in their pressed clothes and sun glasses gathered in the piazzas and were almost all on their cell phones saying, "Hai sentito il terramoto?"

By the time we got to the grocery store people were beginning to be let inside the buildings again. Great timing since I had to pick up a few things for our flight early tomorrow morning.

Before the aftershock hit we were sitting in Piazza Galvani sharing and orange and soaking up the last few rays of Italian sun for a little while. I told Mike that on days like this—perfect weather, fresh food, time with my little family—I never want to go. But maybe I shouldn't be so sad to leave after all. This place is getting way too shaky.

The truer it gets

You know it's bad when you start crying during the opening hymn.

Our last Sunday in Bologna was as emotional as it was sweet. We bore our testimonies, they gave us gifts after the meeting ended (necklaces for Ada and Taryn since the women of the ward were constantly giving up theirs as entertainment) and lots of hugs and "thank yous" were exchanged.

When people ask me if it was a hard decision to move to Bologna, I answer: "Nope. We hardly blinked about it." The decision was easy for a few reasons, 1) we knew it would only be about 9 months and 2) I knew we'd have a ward family here to help us feel like we were a part of something.

I have learned again and again that community matters, being a part of something matters, feeling connected matters. Our ward in Bologna gave us all of those things. It was a constant reassurance knowing that if something were to happen here, I'd have several people to lean on.

We've spent today packing and playing. It hasn't hit me yet that we're going back to Utah. But I refuse to believe that we'll never be back.

Guests

Bolzano was incredible. When we have a few minutes I'll post some photos. Today we're playing tour-guide to Mike's brother and his wife. We've been looking forward to their stay for months! And bonus: the sun is out. All weekend (we hope).

A presto!

Crescentine

I had never seen a rolling pin that long in my life.

Nor the bread board to match.

It was about as big around as my rolling pin back in The States—as thick as Coke can, maybe less—but it was over three feet long and rounded on one end. The other end had a rounded knob affixed. It looked like a scepter for a chef. The bread board was a big as my kitchen table, dusted with flour. On that sat an unassuming round of dough.

We were in Imola for dinner, invited by some ward members for a feast (a feast!). When we neared the front door and the smell of what was to come filled my nose I could already tell this would be a memorable meal. When we walked in the kitchen I saw familiar faces from church scurrying about the neatly white-tiled space. A large stove and oven filled one deep corner of the room. A forno a legna (wood burning oven) occupied the other. It was a picturesque Italian kitchen. Filled with dishes and fruit and good smells.

An older woman worked the ball of dough in the center of the room. She wielded the rolling pin like it was an extension of her body. She rolled, pressed, extended, peeled, flipped, rolled. She gathered the dough up around the pin and then laid it out flat again, this time imperceptibly thinner. In a flourish of motion and grace (I'm serious, it was like an art form) the dough was rolled flat and nearly perfectly round. Then, using a dough cutter with scalloped edges she quickly trimmed the round into small diamonds and tossed them in the frying pan. It was obvious she had probably been doing this for twice as many years as I've been alive.

Homemade crescentine. Delicious, hint of sweet, straight from Bologna, traditional Italian fried bread. I think I ate a dozen. Maybe two.

Crescentine Bolognese

1 kg. flour
300 gr stracchino (a soft, mild cheese that I'm really hoping I can find in The States)
2 packs lievato torte salate (I'll have to play with leavenings in The States. This is a white powder, but it's neither baking soda, nor baking powder . . .)
2 tsp salt
2 tsp sugar
milk- add until you get a firm dough
* use less milk if stracchino is more liquidy

Roll out flat, cut into squares (or fancy diamonds), fry until just golden.

Silver bullets and an earthquake

We had just pulled onto our street after biking through the foothills of Bologna when a chocolate pang hit. I knew I needed something sweet to share with Mikey after tucking Ada in, so we rode to the end of Via Solferino and prepared to turn left when hundreds of vintage race cars—Alfa Romeo, Fiat, Lambourgini, Ferrari, Lancia, BMW, Mercedes—started zooming past. Turns out we happened upon the route of the famed Mille Miglia (thousand miles). Called "the most fascinating vintage car race in the world" the route starts in a northern Italian city called Brescia goes to Rome and back, weaving through several cities over the course of the four day race.

image via

We kept watching until there was a large break in the cars (and some regular non-race cars started driving past) and made our way to the market. I picked up some strawberries and Nutella and came out only to see dozens more whizzing by. Many of the drivers we wearing the classic leather goggles and helmets with matching driving gloves, piloting what look like over-sized, painted bullets. After another break, we began making our way home when yet another wave of cars rounded the corner and we found ourselves biking the wrong way up the race course.

It was one of those moments that I don't think I'll ever forget. And yet another thing that Ada can use in those silly getting-to-know-you-games like, "I Have Never."

That night there was an earthquake in Italy.

It was a 6.0 magnitude and the epicenter was about 20 miles north of Bologna. We slept right through it.

The city of Ferrara have have gotten the worst of it. The entire city is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. I had been meaning to visit Ferrara ever since we arrived. Everyone who has made the short trip out of town has raved about how beautiful the city is.

Lots of people were talking about it at church the next morning. They described dishes clanging, the hanging lamps in their kitchens swinging back and forth for a good 15 seconds. I feel a little bit cheated that my tendency to sleep like a rock prevented me from have a tale to tell, even if it would have been an inconsequential one.

The only constant

Ada wanted to make this year's Mother's Day one to remember, so she spent several hours in my bed (preventing me from totally falling asleep) and peed on my bed during her morning diaper change.

That little cutey.

As our time is truly winding down, the reality that this chapter in our lives is coming to a quick close is sinking in. Mike and I laid in bed last night talking about how weird it will be to live in Utah again. "I almost feel like I've become a new person," he said, then took it back, and then settled on his first position, "No, actually, I really do. I've become a new person here." I think I have too. It doesn't really matter where you are, your surroundings and circumstances shape you. We have becoming something a little bit different these last 9 months.

While at a friends apartment, looking out on San Luca all lit up, and sitting amongst a dozen Italian women (for a Sera di Donne! aka Girl's Night) my friend and I talked about how change is the only constant. She said that sometimes she's really grateful for that fact. I agree. Not just because life would get too boring, but because that's the point: becoming new creatures. And with becoming comes change.

Cotton Candy

Ada had her first taste of cotton candy today (courtesy of Aunt Julie). This is what she thought about it:

What would we do with out our great friends? They definitely top the list of things we'll miss when we leave.

Guess who's here?

I've been palling around with my bestie/roommate from freshman year.

Me and her circa 2008 and the only photo I could find of the two of us on my computer/facebook. Sad, right?

It's been so awesome to have her here. She's said a few times, "Paige, you live here." I know. It's still bizarre. And what's more bizarre is how soon I'm moving back to the States.

Oh, Bologna!

Megaphone Man

It must be spring because construction projects have sprung up around the neighborhood. A power tool was buzzing loudly when a man across from us flung his shutters open started yelling, "Signore! Signore! Sentimi?" Not getting a response he went inside and found his electric megaphone and began again.

You know, every just has one, right? I keep mind right next to the dustpan.

It made that little electric click and crackle sound before his voice boomed, "SIGNORE! SIGNORE! SENTIMI ADESSO? I wanted so badly to back up from hanging laundry so I could get a good look at Megaphone Man. The episode was just too funny.

Instead I kept on shaking, clipping and hanging clothes until the damp pile turned into two straight rows.

I'm not sure if the construction worker was tuning him out, or if he just  had a really good set of ear plugs, but Megaphone Man eventually straightened his out-leaning body and closed his shutters and I went inside smiling.

Tickets purchased

We bought our plane tickets last week. (Travel tip for you moving abroad types: look for round-trip fares with the return date during low season. We actually bought round trip tickets and saved over $800 dollars by playing with various return dates. Airfare is super wacky. How is it exactly that it costs so much less to buy round trip tickets than one-ways?)

It seemed to spark a sense of finality to everything we're doing here. It's coming to a close so quickly. And just as the weather is becoming perfect and sunny every day. Of course.

Right now the sun is streaming into the kitchen, Ada is asleep, and I can smell the clean laundry hanging outside the open window. I'm trying to savor this period of my life as one that is uniquely beautiful and peaceful. Time in the park. Bike rides on cobble stones. Trips to the fruit stand. Reading in the library. Toddling around piazzas. Chasing pigeons. Tasting gelato.

Mike and I were talking on the way home from church about how people probably think our life is like living out a nine-month vacation in Italy. It feels a tiny bit like that some times. There are still many days that I pause as I enter the Piazza Maggiore and think, "I live here?!" Or times when I see two old women arm in arm window shopping in the matching coats and hats and smile because they're just so Italian.Other times I'm held up in frustration by how paralyzing a language barrier can be (still) or how difficult simple tasks are. 

I feel settled into the pace, the routine, the idiosyncrasy of living in a Medieval city. And many days, I don't feel ready to go home. Good thing we have 5 weeks left to live it up (or live it up in the library, if you're a husband in graduate school approaching a brutal round of finals) before embarking on the next leg of our adventure.

Tied up with string

I've searched for the right word, but I can never seem to find it. When I try to describe what I see as defining characteristics of the Italians, the right, perfectly descriptive word always escapes me.

"They pay attention to detail," I'll say. But that isn't quite right. "They're meticulous," but that seems more off base. "They're polished?"

The best I can do is give examples. Examples like the woman who I met in the piazza the other day. Examples like how well-dressed their children are, wearing shoes every day long before they can walk; their impeccable window displays; their luxury products and the care they take of them . . .

This morning I found another example when I bought some pastries at the pasticeria around the corner: packaging.

They were in some wrinkled brown paper sack. They were placed on a tray and wrapped in the shop's signature paper, then tied with a ribbon. But it's so typifying of many things you buy here.

Flowers don't come in cheap, noisy cellophane, they come wrapped in paper and secured with a ribbon. When you buy something at a store, the paper bag is stapled shut at the top, forming a neat little parcel. Every shop seems to have their own custom packaging; paper stamped with their  founder's face and flashing their logo.

Maybe this has to do with the pedestrian culture. When someone buys a cake, it gets carried home on foot, so the boxes are wide and flat with a handle on top. The packaging is really just advertising (cakes look fun to eat even when you can't see them through the printed board box). When you walk to work, store windows hold your attention so the mental note to come back isn't lost in the noise of the day. You (and your child) are seen by hundreds of people every day, not just the checker at the grocery store, and not just from the waist up in your car.

It may sound materialistic, but it's more than that. Maybe the word is: care.

Don't go. Stay.

It felt like she was pretending to be my shadow. The woman, probably in her early sixties, followed closely behind as Ada and I played on the statue in one of our favorite piazzas, our friends near the steps at the base. Eventually the woman asked me if I lived in Bologna and I told her I did. She said my accent was good; was my husband Italian? No, but he could probably pass for one with a more European wardrobe. I told her we were just here for a short time while my husband studied at Johns Hopkins. We were going home in two months.

"Don't go!" she raised her voice a bit. I can't describe the change exactly, it was like tempered desperation. But that sounds too severe even. Her long, dyed blonde hair, her neatly pressed suit, her silk scarf, her Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses. She was the picture of the quintessential Italian woman to me. Put together. Polished. Carrying a handbag that accented her seemingly brand-new shoes. But the sudden unevenness in her voice seemed American to me—a little less careful about appearances, a little quicker to speak up.

"Don't go." She repeated, level again, "We need more of you here. We need more beautiful mothers and beautiful babies. Stay in Bologna."

Don't go. But we have to. And I'm starting to fear the inevitable jostling and discomfort of uprooting (even if your roots are shallow) and trying to sink them some place new.

Stay in Bologna. Some days, I think I could.

Playing tourist again

Ada in San Giacomo Maggiore. She got over her fear of churches in a hurry.

 It had been too long since Ada and I had ventured out to see something new in the city. We took a walk to a church near by which supposedly houses Saint Caterina de’ Vigri’s incorrupted body. Google maps said the walk was 4 minutes, so I thought it would be fun to let Ada toddle with me to the church, rather than strap her in for a 4 minute ride.

The walk took us 20 minutes.

But she (and I) enjoyed it so much.

We stopped in at the church and Ada was uncharacteristically afraid. She wouldn't let me put her down. Maybe it was the echo, or the dim light. Or the deeps reds and gold?

We shared a pastry at a corner cafe on the way home and Ada flirted with the Napoleon who work there while trying her hardest to score a free Magnum bar.

I did some research during her afternoon nap on some of the ruling families in Bologna before (and after) the Papacy took over. The Bentivolgio's were a major family that ruled from the early 1300's through the 1500's until they were expelled when the Papacy gained control of the state. Their family history is laced with murder, scandal, Catholic indulgences, sinister plots and rebellion. It's a wonder that a movie hasn't been made (but maybe that's just the way all ruling families were during the Renaissance. Nothing new or noteworthy?)

Their seat of power was in church (made ornate by their wealth) called San Giacomo Maggiore. I've walked past it numerous times, but never gone inside. At a certain point in Europe you start to think: A church is a church is a church. I got there a few months after arriving, but after doing some research on the family and the artists who decorated the space, I found the whole experience to be much more enriching in a historical way, rather just a "Whoa. Another gigantic church." Ada got over her initial insecurities and walked every inch of San Giacomo chirping all the way. (Aren't echoes fun?)

After the church we poked our heads into the palace across the street and then stopped by a bakery on the way to the library.

The whole day was so perfect. I was discouraged after being jolted from painting just an hour after I began (note to Ada: if you don't take morning naps anymore, you had better make up for it in the afternoon), but I ended the day feeling like I'm the luckiest girl in the world.

Being surrounded by sights and sounds like these, how could I not be?

My life like Monty Python's

 When we moved into our apartment over six months ago, I had visions of grilling out back in our own little garden. We decided a few weeks ago to host a barbeque with a whole slew of Italians and show them what an American BBQ looked (and smelled) like.

We went to the macelleria on Saturday and bought over 2 kilos of ground beef and over a dozen hot dogs. That was the easy part. The hard part was finding charcoal for the grill.

Months ago my Italian teacher told me that Italians don't like to barbeque because it take too much work. This struck me as so odd: How much easier can it get than hamburgers and hotdogs? but after the rigamarole of trying to find charcoal, I began to understand where she was coming from.

We checked a few places nearby before asking around and making a trek (on bike) out to a supermercato in Zone Lame. We asked two store attendants if they had carbone, one said no, the other said yes, in the back. Not finding it "in the back," we decided to try the next supermercato that our neighbor's nephew told us about.

We pedaled and pedaled, not really knowing how to get there, but remembering a few street names. After we went under the freeway overpass, it felt much too much like the IKEA experience we had right after arriving in Bologna (I just searched my archives, have I really not blogged about this? Story to come. . .) where we rode over 10km, got lost, nearly got our bikes impounded, and nearly all of us ended up in tears . . .

We decided to turn back, charcoal-less, but determined to check a few more places in centro. After getting home, we spent some time cleaning the grill and readying the yard. We talked about other places we might find charcoal, a ferramenta, perhaps? when Mike spotted a big bag of charcoal in our neighbor's garden.

It was one of those moments where our life were a TV show like Monty Python and the Holy Grail, the bag would have started glowing and heavenly voices would have started "Ahh-ing."

After buzzing next door, Mike returned with a very full (and very neglected, cob-webby) bag of charcoal.

Funny how so many wild goose hunts seem to end in your own back yard (or your neighbor's).

That giraffe was supposed to be for Easter. I should never buy gifts early.  I'm too weak.

A love/hate, as always

I've started looking at one-way tickets to Utah. It's made me at once excited and sad, like many changes in life seem to. So many things are entangled in love/hate relationships, no?

I've started to make mental lists about everything, gelaterias, things I'll miss, favorite streets, charming walks, scenic bike rides, quirky shops, best store-fronts, museum schedules . . . I've also started allowing myself to think about Utah summers. Mmmmm, Utah summers . . . are there any better?

Things I will miss about Italy:

In one of our favorite piazza's, Piazza Cavour (proximity to the best gelateria in town may have something to do with it).

1. Piazzas. Why doesn't America have these? Why don't we have beautiful outdoor spaces (the mall doesn't count) filled with benches where people just hang out, eat gelato, read newspapers, and chat about whatever people chat about? Some of my favorite ones are small and tucked away, but Piazza Maggiore is always filled with people, live music, tourists . . . you get a sense of community when you're there even if you're the farthest thing from somebody's neighbor. The piazza's have provided tons of entertainment for Ada. She likes making friends and trying to beg ice cream off people (don't worry, I don't let strangers feed my baby). There are always dogs roaming by or pigeons landing here and there that she chases after, pointed finger leading the way.

2. Hanging laundry on the line. As much as I complain about how time consuming laundry (and everything else) is here, I think I'll actually really miss the slower pace of everything. There's a subtle gesture that people do here that I think evokes everything slow and care-free about Italians. When I hang laundry it's like a moment of meditation. It's a practice in caring about each part. It's also beautiful when it's all out in the garden swaying.

3. Walking. I hope that I can maintain some parts of our routine here even when we live out west for a bit. I think it's therapeutic. I have loved going to the store nearly every day with Ada. It's a good chance for us to breathe in some fresh air, check out the store windows and say hello to our friends at the Coop.

4. Bikes everywhere. I love the bikes here. I love the variety, the repainted finishes, the baskets, the clinky chains and squeaky breaks. I think I'll really miss the feeling of riding on cobblestones.

5. Window shopping. Man do they store owners seem to pride themselves in their window displays. I love it. It's made me second guess my cyber shopping tendencies. . .


Things I won't miss about Italy:

1. Cigarettes. The smell is bad and it seems like Spring has made everyone double down on their packs of cigs, but the butts every where is what kills me. Also, trying to keep them out of Ada's little hands when we're in a piazza or at the park is seemingly impossible.

2. Hanging laundry on the line. And doing dishes by hand. And how the laundry detergent just isn't up to par.

3. Walking. As much as I love it, sometimes it sounds so nice to get in a car and just go.

4. Motos. While it's impressive to see extremely well-dressed Italians zip by on a Vespa, they're so loud and stinky.

5. My bathroom. It's small. And there isn't a tub (and both Ada and I really need some tub time). And it has a bidet (Ada's new favorite depository) which always has crayons or toys in it. And the towels are scratchy. (Do I sound whiny?) I'm just looking forward to my big, soft, bleach-stain-and-all bath sheet that is folded neatly in a plastic box labeled "Towels and Bath stuff."

That sad face is not because I got mad. That's a total Please-don't-make-me-stop face.

I'm working on a Bologna City guide and some Best-Of's. Hopefully I'll have something to share soon.

Peach tea and strawberries

Yesterday I went visiting teaching. I'm in a threesome companionship that visits four other women. We got our assignment a few months ago, but this is the first time I've been able to go with them.

One of my companions picked me up just after 3:30 and we took a bus to the edge of centro. From there we walked a few blocks to meet our other companion. She was waiting in her blue car. I had understood that we were going to drive to our teachee's home. They explained that one of them would sit in the back and I should get up front with Ada. "Lascia il passeggino!" the told me, motioning for me to leave my stroller parked next to the car.

"Siete sicuri?" I asked, not really thinking it would be safe to leave the stroller there while we went to our appointment.

They said we'd only be 15 minutes. I got in the car and went to close the door but it got stuck on the stroller parked too near the car. When they said to leave the door open, confusion too over. I turned to ask them what they wanted me to do again when I saw their Liahona's spread open on their laps and finally realized we were only getting in the car to plan our lesson. No wonder they said to leave the stroller. When I told them I thought we were driving someplace else they got a good laugh and understood my hesitation to just leave the stroller in the parking stall.

We visited one woman. She had peach tea and strawberries waiting for us and quickly made a few adjustments (moving chairs in front of outlets and placing valuables out of reach) when she saw that Ada came too. We shared our message and visited for a while, then I tuned out while I followed Ada around the room and tried to make sure she didn't burn the place down. We were there for nearly 2 hours.

The whole experience was so Italian. The large open window in the second story flat. The high ceiling in the living room. The large painting on the wall. The rhythm of the conversation. The tablecloth. The feeling of having no place to go which makes the moments seem to hang in time. 

But it was also so familiar. Gathering with a few women over the glossy pages of a church magazine. The back and forth of sharing experiences and testifying of truths. The friendship and support. The feeling of sisterhood.

I was grateful after getting home 4 hours later that I am part of this grand organization of women that gives us the chance to be guardians over one another. And it also made me realize how relatively easy my church responsibilities have been in the past (visiting the girl next door, walking to the temple . . .)

I hope this experience will shape my perspective in the long-term; that I'll reflect on it when I feel overwhelmed and too busy to serve and remember that I spent 4 hours on one visiting teaching appointment. And I was tired. But I was grateful for the chance to belong.

A few things

I am starting to be a regular at a few fruttivendoli (and a macelleria) around town. It's been fun to feel like I'm really part of a community here. People recognize Ada and I when we walk in their store or up to their stand a just a sense of familiarity does a lot to make you feel at home. Another bonus is deals and free fruit (if you're as cute–or maybe as demanding–as Ada. She can sure work a crowd. When we pull up to the fruit stand and she sees the clementines, she goes nuts, so they usually give her one or two to chomp on while I order). I really can't wait for asparagus season. It's just days away!

I went to a pescheria today (that's where you buy fish). The smell has kept me away before now, but I feel like our home menu is tired and needed something new. We're trying a balsamic-glazed salmon tonight. I'm always pleasantly surprised at how naturally interacting with the vendors is becoming. I have the vocab and phrases down (though I had to learn a few new words so I could order my fish).

The largest international children's book fair is in Bologna right now. Ada and I went and checked it out yesterday. A giant fox was reading to a big group of ragazzi and Ada did her classic arm-in-the-air-I-want-to-touch-that-thing move when she saw him. I think we might buy a book (for Easter maybe? I remember getting Goosebumps books one Easter. How festive, right?)

The director of recruitment and admissions posted a short summary of our experience on House Hunters International on his blog and tipped me off to the fact that a segment of our episode has been posted on YouTube. You can watch it HERE.

It's spring. As in, officially, calendarily, it's spring!

About as constant as the weather

My afternoons have looked much like this lately. So far, I like our Spring routine: errands done before noon, a quick lunch, maybe the park for a few hours and then home for Ada's nap. While she sleeps, I paint. It's what I always wanted my life to look like; balancing mothering and art making in a way that wasn't stressful or burdensome for me or my kids.

But probably as all phases go, this one will undoubtedly be short. Naps are evolutionary things that are about as constant as the weather. And we move back to The States in less than three months. An onslaught of tumult will undoubtedly ensue as we shift into another gear and try to root ourselves again.

It hardly seems real. Just three months?

I remember our first night here so vividly. Mike and I were both overwhelmed and nearly paralyzed by questions of: What have we done? Is this the right thing to be doing? Where are we? I think we would both quickly answer all of those questions now with a resolute: Yes. This was the perfect thing for us to do.

But until things get unsteady again, I'm going to ride this calm wave while I can and hopefully pump out a few paintings in the process.

Ciao dentone

Things are getting real anecdotal around here, but there is something about toddlerdom that lends itself to constant recording.

Ada isn't a shy baby. She likes engaging strangers in games and flashes smiles at whomever will reciprocate. The other day in the grocery store, we were waiting in line behind a woman in a big fur coat. Think: 8 inch long hairs (tangentially: do you have to brush fur coats with fur that long? And I must make a note so I never forget how silly the Italians are because they all wear parkas and fur coats in 50 and 60 degree weather). Ada flashed her a gappy grin and the women exclaimed about how many teeth she has. The woman started counting ("...quasi otto!") while Ada's smile got more grimace-y and forced and she realized the woman was distracted.

I could see the wheels turning in Ada's little head. While locking the woman in a stare, Ada slowly reached out, and without moving her eyes, started petting the woman's coat.  She probably got a good half-dozen strokes in.

I don't think the lady noticed. She was too busy admiring each of Ada's features and pointing to each one.  I was dying inside. What a clever girl I have: I want to pet that coat. I'll distract her with my good looks!

Perhaps my favorite part of the whole encounter was the woman's valediction: "Ciao signora, e ciao dentone!!"