04 March 2008

i miss you



I said my teary "arrivederci" to Italy more than a week ago but I can't make myself believe it.

My stomach is still waiting for a dish of puntarelle with acciughe, and my mind's eye keeps hunting for familiar faces from our Milano street. My mouth wants to have a conversation in Italian and my ears want to hear my name the way the Italians say it. In fact, this whole thing feels more like a jagged rip through the space/time continuum than a move back home.

It hurts. Nothing is in the right place. The light switch is inside the room instead of outside in the hallway. Laundry is in dryers instead of flapping in the winter breeze. And the scooters and their scooting have all gone away.

I blame women here for not wearing stiletto heels. I blame the prices for not having the tax included. And I blame the cars on the streets for being so very large.

However, I will admit to running full gallop at a Thai food delivery guy knocking on our apartment door at dinnertime and bowing to the glory of toasted bagels with veggie cream cheese. The tomatoes here may be taste-free but I will be able to buy them at any hour of the day. And I will open my windows with a smile knowing that something so simple as a screen promises to keep the mosquitoes out.

Sure, it's good to be "home." And it's doubly good to be back with Stefano. But in the middle of all this tumult it's easy to start asking yourself exactly where "home" is.

Is it where you vote? Is it where you live? Is it where your heart feels fullest?

Because - for a while there - home sure felt like Milan.