Decisions

Life is full of decisions...some small, some big.  While some decisions are obviously life altering, others are secretly life altering. (Did you ever see that movie "Sliding Doors"?) I've always had trouble making decisions. I tend to overthink things, maybe because I'm fearful of having any regret. Even on the smallest level, like at a sandwich shop, it sometimes takes me forever to make up my mind. And then afterward, I'm like, "Damn, I should've gotten it toasted." So on a bigger level, it's often extra hard for me to make a decision. And then it feels impossible when you don't even know what your choices are!  I'm once again at this crossroads where I can go in just about any direction, but nothing feels right. I feel pressure to do something grand, something with passion, something that makes the world a better place...but what?

To add to this confusion in my head, I've really grown to like it here. I'd be quite happy living here longer, but I have this nagging feeling to do something more meaningful with my existence. (Something other than eat gelato, teach English to the privileged, and expand my knowledge of Italian wine.) Should I move back to the States? Find a job; settle down. Move to a different country? Find a purposeful job; create another temporary home. Return to Italy? Eat more gelato. 

Just as I was feeling really unsure about everything, I received a message from the Universe that read like this:

A Universal Rule on Decision Making...

Don't make them, Kristin, until it's time to make them.

Unless you already know what you want, in which case, however, there is no decision to be made.

OK, so decisions don't need to be made until it's time to make them. Got it. If you know what you want, then it's not technically "a decision." Got it. But what if you're like me, for example, and you're 37 years old and need a job after this job and a place to live after this place? Then what? Then I think it's time to make a decision. Or is it???? 

Why did he choose the middle doorway?
Why not the left? Or the right?
They lead to the same place....Or do they?

During the last two months, I've traveled just about every weekend and seen some more of what makes Italy so special. The best part was sharing part of it with my mom and aunts, who were here for ten days last month. 

Me & my mom in Florence!!!!!!!!!!!!! (pinch.)

Then a weekend in Cinque Terre was the best possible way to spend Natcho's last few days in Italy. 

Our hike down to Corniglia, through vineyards and wild flowers

Feeling a bit sad that my loved ones had all left, I realized I have loved ones here too! So Tatiana and I planned a road trip down south to a region I had never even heard of before: Marche. 

It's hard to say which region is the most beautiful, but Marche definitely comes in at the top. 

Despite feeling like I need a grand plan, I'm going to put my soulsearching on the back burner for now. With just five weeks remaining, my main focus is on spending more time with my favorite Italians, both my distant family and my new friends, who I know I'll miss deeply after I leave. And the other focus is to just enjoy each day. Sometimes the biggest decisions we make are to just get out of bed, go outside, be present, smile, experience & enjoy the little moments, and be kind to every single person we encounter. And for me, right now, that's enough. 

Peanut Butter

When I was a kid, my mother and I developed a code word for the times I wanted to come home from a slumber party or a friend's house. The code ("peanut butter") was used so my friends wouldn't know I wanted to go home.  For example, "Yeah, I'm having fun but I sure am craving some peanut butter." It was that simple. Use the word and my mom would come pick me up. Homesickness was always a challenge for me and "peanut butter" was my safety net. 


Embarrassingly, the use of this code continued after childhood. While in college, the adventurous part of me thought studying monkeys in the Costa Rican rainforest would be perfect for me, but once there all I could think about was going home. After a little more than a week, I called my mom collect and told her there wasn't any "peanut butter" in Costa Rica. Her response: "You've GOT to be kidding me!!!???", but within a few days I was back home. Too mortified to tell my friends that I quit my big adventure after only two weeks of my two month monkey program, I camped out in my bedroom and hid from the world. After that depressing experience, I lost faith in my ability to be adventurous and independent. I became somewhat paralyzed by my fear of feeling homesick and failing again. Despite my strong desire to leave San Diego, I grew roots and decided I was destined to live there forever. It's beautiful, has a perfect climate, geographically ideal, and most importantly....close to my mom and all things familiar.


I played it really safe for about six years, and probably would have continued to take the safe path in life, despite my desire to be more adventurous. But then I met Natcho...and things changed. Like, really changed. I was introduced to a whole new world of nature and adventure and independence. Not only did he force me to leave my comfort zone, he took me to places my comfort zone didn't even know existed! To him, I am probably still a city girl who won't ever be able to live like a real outdoorswoman/adventurer. But to me, I'm a superstar. I left home! I've been gone for a long time and not once have I even considered using the secret code. This is huge! Because of this, I now know I can do anything I want to, whether it's move to a new country, quit my dream job, or reinvent myself again and again. I'm finally that independent woman I daydreamed of 15 years ago. 


My mom's coming to Italy to visit me next week! She asked me what she could bring me from home. My response: "Vanilla extract, measuring cups, my bathing suit...and peanut butter...the crunchy and salted kind from Trader Joe's." 
My, how times have changed.

Attenzione!

The title of this entry is only meant to capture your attention. There actually isn't all that much to report, but there have been a few mildly noteworthy things that have happened in the last month:

First of all, I have a bicycle. It's a foldable vintage bike (though I haven't figured out how to fold it and it might not actually be vintage). A student gave it to me to use during my stay here, which is the kindest thing a Veronese has ever done for me. Since I'm not allowed to store it in the garage of my apartment building (more on that drama later), I have to carry it down and up the stairs each time I use it. I almost gave myself a black-eye with the handlebars during my first attempt, but I'm slowly becoming more efficient & careful. It's all about balance and control, so I guess carrying a bike isn't all that different from riding one. 


I'm also in a new love-hate relationship with the Present Perfect.  It's complicated.

I've adopted the use of an alarm clock into my daily routine, an unwelcome addition, but a necessary one due to my Mon-Wed-Fri early morning classes at the army barracks. (Where I get to teach a classroom of uniformed Italian men!)

And we've had a couple earthquakes, ones big enough to scare the Veronese into closing the schools for a day and a half. Did you know you can predict earthquakes? Neither did I, but after the 9:30 a.m.  quake, another trembler was predicted for about noon that day. This meant that almost everyone was outside, evacuated from their office buildings, schools, stores and hospitals. Just waiting. 

I had my first cold of 2012, which I thought was an allergy attack to my new alpaca sweater. Thank god I was wrong because I really like that sweater. Then I got my second cold of 2012, which turned into a sinus infection and put me out of commission for a couple of days. It was then when I realized the important role Sudafed plays in my life. When you start rationing decongestants, you've seen better days. By the way, did you know that I got sick because it's cold outside? Yes, in case you missed the memo from 1928, people get sick from cold weather. Not from viruses. It's a common fact here. 

Speaking of cold weather, it's been snowing! This is new territory for me...I mean, I've been in the snow before, but I've never had to walk or bike to work in the snow. Snow = slippery! Winter here means lots of fur coats.  It also means less eye contact, a constant reinforcement of the "closed" behavior that the Veronese are so well known for. And amazingly, it means Verona has become even more beautiful. There's just something about a medieval town laced in white frost.

Winter also means comfort food at the Stefanoni house. After much anticipation, I have finally eaten pearà. This is perhaps the dish that the Veronese take the most pride in, as it is seeped in regional history dating back centuries. It's only served in the winter months and best when prepared by an Italian mother. My surrogate Italian mom, Margerita, made it for Sunday lunch and it was definitely worth the wait. It's basically a super savory peppery sauce (made with bone marrow) that is served with various boiled meats. Yes, I said bone marrow.

And I'm trying to teach myself about Italian art, which is giving me a focus during my stay here in Verona. So far, the learning has mostly happened only through osmosis. I stumbled upon Giuseppe Arcimboldo while teaching a 12 year old girl in her home and was transfixed on her poster of this amazing produce man next to her little desk. While visiting Il Settecento a Verona, a temporary exhibit here in town, I absorbed some 18th century Veronese-related art that provided insight into the history of this area. Portraits of regular people and rich people and rulers, as well as some religious art, of course. I get all mixed up when I try to remember the names and the periods and the details, but for now, this is my new thing.


On the horizon: 
I turn another year older this Saturday, which I guess is really fantastic when you take into account the alternative. One of my colleagues, perhaps the youngest one, recently told me that I looked good for my age, especially considering how old I am. I think this was a compliment. 


Also, on Feb 22nd the three mean women in my apartment building will have their official apartment building meeting, in which the issue of my bicycle will be on the agenda. Will it be allowed overnight storage in the ground floor garage (which is huge and practically empty)? Or will I need to continue carrying it up to my fourth floor apartment? I think I know the answer already.


With only four months left here, I plan to continue enjoying every day, person, class, bite, sip and sunset I encounter. Each day is a gift. Here, there, or anywhere. 

Olfino Horizon, Jan. 2012

Neither Here Nor There

Verona from my castle window

With my new niece Capri!

I've been back in San Diego for the holidays, which has meant lots of much-needed family & friend time, amazing weather & sunshine, delicious non-Italian cuisine, hikes with views of the Pacific Ocean, and trips to Target. It probably goes without saying that I'm staying at my mother's house, in the bedroom I've slept in for most of my life. This is my home. Sort of. My possessions are dispersed among here, my apartment in Verona, and my storage unit (yes, I am still paying for that space!). It's a strange feeling to be on vacation at home and then return "home" to Italy. It's all backwards. Sometimes home feels like nowhere, and I guess that's OK. 

I keep getting asked a lot of the same questions, so here they are along with my responses:
So, how is it? Fine.
Do you like living in Verona? Yes, sort of. Usually. More now than in the beginning.
What's it like? Expensive.
How are the people? The Veronese refer to themselves as being "closed." At first I took their unfriendliness personally, but now I just find it odd. 
Do you like your job? Yes, sort of. Usually. More now than in the beginning. 
What's it like? My classes are spread throughout Verona, so I spend just as much time speedwalking as I do teaching. My more advanced students know English grammar better than I do and I'm constantly second guessing whether or not I should be teaching English. I'm the Queen of the Dangling Preposition so what am I doing trying to teach grammar?!
What are your students like? Almost all are adults and range from beginning English learners to conversational speakers; from military personnel to college students.  They've reminded me of how important interpersonal connections are to my happiness. 
What do you miss most? Cilantro. 
Don't you just love Italian men? Not so much.
(gasp) Why not? In general, they epitomize metrosexuality and are more concerned with their designer labels than anything else. And quite honestly, they're not into me either. 
Are you going back? Yes, definitely. My job commitment and apartment lease are both through June. And more importantly, I have tentative plans to go to a Wilco concert in Bologna in March! 

Living in Verona is kind of like dating someone who you're not that into. Someone who sounds like a great catch, but who is missing that special something.  Verona is quite possibly the most handsome city I’ve ever dated. It’s very sophisticated (some might say pretentious) and has an impressive capacity for food, wine, art and architecture. But despite its attractiveness and wealth of knowledge, I know this will just be a temporary relationship. 

While walking down the street, a Veronese will probably look at you while you pass, but in a disgusted “Linen in winter!” sort of way. When I smile at a passerby, the other person looks at me like I'm crazily skipping along and singing “Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah.” I've been told that this "closed" behavior is common in colder climates, but I don't believe that's the correct explanation because Minnesotans are some of the friendliest folks I know. However, now that I've penetrated the invisible xenophobic membrane of many Veronese, I can say with certainty that they are wonderfully warm and friendly people once you get to know them. 

Rainy but magical visit to Venice

Even though Verona is situated in an ideal spot that allows one to easily reach another region of Italy or a different country altogether, I haven't traveled much farther than Olfino. To travel around costs money and this vagabond is on a strict budget. I make just enough money to cover rent and food, so planning little getaways hasn't been a possibility. But then Natcho came to visit, which meant weekend trips were in my destiny. Once my Sugar Daddy rolled into town, I was whisked away to Venice, Florence, Siena, Milan & then NYC before my final flight home. It's amazing to me how much ground we covered during his three week visit, but this will probably come as no surprise for those of you who know him. Highlights included possibly the best risotto of my life on the Venetian island of Burano, sunset picnics everywhere, climbing to the top of the duomos in Florence & Milan, and the ignition of a spark inside of me to learn more about Renaissance art. 


People keep asking me about my post-Italy plan like I'm supposed to have one. That's like six months away! I think I have plenty of time to figure things out and I'm confident that my next "move" will be the right one, whether it leads to another temporary home or finding a more permanent one. Either way, I'm excited to see where 2012 takes me!

Burano Island, home of the famous fish risotto found at Trattoria Da Romano

"That's Amore"
Young Italian stallion seducing one of the many American college girls in Florence.
(Best eavesdropping of my life.)

Inside the duomo of Santa Maria del Fiore in Florence.

Siena...Wow, wow, wow! 
This is a glimpse into the piazza where they have the Il Palio horse races.

Milan's Duomo, which took over 500 years to complete!

Routine Immigration

Can you believe this bridge dates back to 100 BC!? Most of Ponte Pietra was blown up in WWII and then rebuilt with original materials. Kind of amazing when you think about it (or walk on it, which I do a few times a week b/c it leads up to a great lookout point).

Well, life here is starting to feel kind of normal. I have classes to teach, places to go, people to see (sometimes)...Having somewhat of a routine feels good. After over a year of not working, I can now finally tell the difference between a Saturday and a Tuesday. I can now say "TGIF!" (not that I'd want to). And pretty soon I'll receive an actual paycheck! 


For the first time in my adult life, I have a job that doesn't require an alarm clock. I get to wake up when my body decides it's time to rise & shine. Long gone are the days of having to drudgingly crawl out of bed to start my coffee pot and get to work by a certain ungodly hour (only to find my vice principal waiting at the gate to tell me I'm five minutes late). I'm on a different time schedule now. I'd like to call it my Italian time schedule. It works for me.

Morning Friends

The longest part of my new morning routine is waiting in line for bread at the best bakery in town (which is only five doors away!). It often takes twenty minutes to get to the front of the line, where I always end up feeling tongue-tied and overwhelmed by the choices. The overly serious woman who works there wears a sequined hat everyday, maybe to offset her demeanor...and when she's ready she sternly says "Prego!" and I just say "pane" and point to one of the ten different types of bread...and then "brioche" and point to one of the ten different types of brioches...and then I sometimes point to something else, like the zucchini & cheese pizza encased in flaky puff pastry. My ordering skills are slowly improving and pretty soon I might be able to go in there and actually pronounce the specific names of the bread and pastries. Now, that's a goal! 

Routines make me feel comfortable and give me a sense of belonging when there might otherwise be none. They provide a sense of familiarity in an unfamiliar place. It's strange to live in a city where I don't quite fit in with the tourists, but where I certainly don't fit in with the locals either. I'm just kind of on my own, trying to understand the logistics of a new home, while at the same time trying to keep myself happy. And a routine is part of what makes me happy.

But talking about pastry choices and new morning routines becomes super ridiculous when one steps out of their "Me, Me, Me Bubble." I left my bubble last week while waiting in the immigration department of the police station (the dreaded questura). While hovering outside of my bubble, I realized how difficult it is for most people who move here to work and live and survive in a new country. Like, really survive. For most of them (I presume) it's not just about happiness and comfort and routines. It's about providing for families and creating a new life. 


When I arrived at the police station I was surprised to find 200 foreigners already lined up along the street outside of the building. About 150 more people lined up behind me. The gates opened at 8am and then one-by-one, we were herded into one of two very small rooms. Babies, kids, elderly folks, women, men...all from around the world. And then there was me...the only person from North America, quite possibly the Western Hemisphere. Most were from Algeria, Sri Lanka, Pakistan, India, Libya, Tunisia, China, and the Ukraine. It made for fantastic people watching, but it was also sad because there we all were, waiting for our numbers to be called so we could learn the fate of our futures. Would we be granted permission to stay and live here legally? And I felt like I was the only one of us who didn't really care one way or the other. I knew I'd be fine either way. The looks of exhaustion on those faces made me realize (once again) how easy life is for me. Many of these applicants had obviously been there before and knew the system very well, almost like the immigration department had become part of their new routine in Italy. While some left looking devastated, others left looking like they had just received the best news of their life. 


When my number was finally called to go in the back "interrogation" room (five hours after I arrived!), the stern man opened my passport and instead of questioning me, he flashed a big smile and said "U.S.A.!!!!" and then "California!!!!" and then "Hollywood!!!!" and that was the moment I knew I'd get my permission to stay. Then I left the building to start my afternoon routine and return to my bubble. 

Bike Riding

"Life is like riding a bicycle - in order to keep your balance, 
you must keep moving."

~Albert Einstein

There's an Italian expression, "Hai voluto la bicicletta? Adesso pedala!", to describe someone who has finally obtained their goal, but who then feels overwhelmed. It means,  "You wanted the bicycle? Now pedal!"  I had a dream to live in Italy and I made it happen. I got a job, I obtained my visa, jumped on a redeye flight to Milan, took a train to Verona, but then when I woke up the next morning in a new place,  it was suddenly all too real. I had one of those "Oh, crap!!" moments. Moving someplace foreign has rattled my confidence and made me second guess my decision making skills. (Not just the decision to move here, but practically every decision I've made for the last twenty years!) I think this is normal, though. Right?


Finding a place to live, figuring out how to get from point A to point B (and then back), communicating the most basic words, and just transitioning into a new way of living has been challenging. Even the simplest things can seem overwhelming, like where to eat lunch; how to buy a bus ticket; when to safely cross the street.  I've been feeling tired, overly sentimental, a little lonely, and allergic to almost everything. Apparently, these are all signs of culture shock (even the allergies!). It's seriously strange because it's not like this is my first time here. But I guess this is my first time really, really on my own in Italy.


Turns out, a visa isn't enough to live here. I must obtain a permesso di sioggiorno (a permit to stay), which according to Italian law, must be filed within eight days of arriving. It's actually a very confusing process due to all the logistics involved, but I'm almost over that hump (I think).  Finding a place to live was possibly the most difficult task, but I serendipitously stumbled upon a super cute & cozy apartment that has a sublease for the same amount of time as my visa. It's in a perfect location, just a ten minute walk to the center of Verona and just a couple blocks from a 14th century castle.


The next big obstacle is transportation. I'd like to buy a little scooter to get around town, but the search for one seems daunting...and riding one seems a little dangerous. I've always been a terrible bike rider. I didn't even learn how to ride one until I was embarrassingly too old. And now I've moved to a city where the main mode of transportation is by bicycle or scooter. There's some irony here. I just hope I can stay balanced while I pedal my way through this new place.

The neighborhood castle

One of the best things about living in Verona is being able to travel to another
country for the weekend...like Munich, Germany for Oktoberfest!

It might seem like I don't want to be here, but that's not the case at all. I'm just freakishly introspective. I feel privileged to have created change in my life...and proud of myself for overcoming my own fears to make this happen. And more grateful than ever.


p.s. My couch pulls out into a bed. Visitors welcome!

Stomachache

For months, I’ve had an aching feeling in my stomach about this whole moving to Italy thing. People always say "listen to your gut" but it's not as easy as it seems! Maybe my reluctance about moving to Italy has more to do with nerves than "my gut" or maybe it has to do with laziness, since finding an apartment, buying a scooter and maneuvering through the English-teaching niche seems like such an effort. Or maybe this aching feeling really is my gut telling me not to go. I have no idea. But aside from that feeling, there have been a few other things that are making me wonder if moving to Italy (albeit temporarily) is the right choice. 


The mean lady at the Italian Consulate who made me cry during my visa application appointment is one of those things.  It took me six weeks to get this appointment, which ended up lasting no more than ten minutes. I was so nervous about missing it that I flew home early from my family-time in Massachusetts because I knew Hurricane Irene would cause my flight to be cancelled. I drove up to Los Angeles with ALL the necessary requirements and paperwork. I arrived on time, opened the consulate office door, and there she was...Signora Sourpuss sitting there behind her glass partition and giving me the evil eye. It went downhill from there. Call me sensitive, but I really think her tone was borderline abusive. And maybe because I had just learned that my grandmother had passed away, I didn't have my invisible mean lady shield activated. I was sad and tired and simply could not handle Signora Sourpuss's vexatious ways. So after she chewed me up and spit me out, I started to cry in the middle of the consulate office. In front of everyone. Uncontrollably. I've since learned that tears are quite common in that office, and so are denials for visas. So what I thought was a slam dunk quickly turned into a crapshoot. The next day I resubmitted my application with the extra information she requested and now it's just a waiting game (a very long, anxiety-packed waiting game). 


I've spent most of my recent days in San Diego sorting through all my stuff and downsizing into a smaller storage unit. The concept of a rented storage unit is so bizarre, but sometimes necessary for someone like me who has made the choice to live out of bags for awhile. I've spent $1, 340 in the last year to store my stuff. That's insane!!!  As of today, I finally succeeded in dividing my things into two equal groups, one to keep and one to discard, which feels great...but the sorting process really got me thinking. Seeing my photos and fondue pot and my refrigerator magnets has me aching for a place to call home. I want to nest. But of course this is a normal feeling when one's life is up in the air and lacking stability. So I'm trying to stay objective. 


And most of all, the death of my grandmother has me reflecting more than usual about life choices. Reggae Mama was my icon for adventure and independence, but she was also very grounded and knew how to balance travel and family. So what would she do? She'd go to Italy, I'm pretty sure. And if given the chance, I will too. I think. 


Then, yesterday, I saw my super intuitive friend Amanda, who in a non sequitur sort of way while we were talking about fresh squeezed juice said, "You don't want to move to Italy, do you?" I assured her that she was wrong because I do want to move there, but she could feel my doubt and tasked me with doing some soul searching (one of my favorite hobbies). So..."What do I want? Like really, really want? I’m supposed to leave for Italy in two days, which obviously isn't happening since I don't have my visa (& they have my passport). But before I reschedule my flight, I'd like to know for sure that I'm going. My job starts on the 21st and I have business cards for my side tutoring business...but I need to prepare myself for Plan B, just in case. If Signora Sourpuss grants me my visa, I'll jump with joy onto that airplane and into a new life in Verona. If I don't get my visa, I'll join the 14 million other unemployed Americans here, but for some reason that doesn't seem so bad.  Hopefully I'll know by tomorrow!

Will I get to use my new business cards?????

Update:
The visa arrived two days later!!!!!! So I'm packing my suitcase and heading to Italy!