Finally, I am moved to write again

Today is 28 November 2009, two days short of nineteen months since our return from Verona Italy to our home in Long Valley, New Jersey. This is the first time I have really wanted to write about anything. A long time processing and a long time to gain perspective.



This morning I am sitting in my rocking chair, Emily the cat on the ottoman, Angel nearby at his computer with our little Italian cat Annie on his lap, and I am reading the NYTimes online. The article is about living in the city of New York and what people see out their windows. Mostly, the article is about the comradeship in a big city that is gained from seeing someone across the street in their apartment at night, doing what you do, living a life. Not voyeurism, as some commenters complained, but a common humanity lived side by side but in separate bubbles.



And I am thinking of the apartment across from mine in Verona, both on the third floor (American numbering) above a narrow strada. The street is so narrow that one car at a time can pass by when there are cars and motociclismi parked on both sides. The residents across the way go away from November to May to their home in the mountains, living in the city for the spring, summer and early fall. This seems a little crazy to me, since the summer weather in Verona is brutally hot and humid. However, this is the time of the most activity outside in the city streets, so this must be what they love.



I had lived in my apartment for almost three years before I found out that the woman I nodded to and assumed to be la signora of the house was actually the hired help. I should have known: she was too friendly to be a Veronese, who can be very closed and would never nod at a stranger in another apartment. Now, with the distance of time and space, it occurs to me that the nodding woman thought that I was also the hired help. I was always in the kitchen cooking, or taking care of my herb garden on the balcony that was beyond the French doors in the kitchen. These are things that the help does in the neighborhood in which we lived. So, she must have thought I was one of her own.


I was able to put this particular two and two together after actually meeting the signora of the apartment in the shop of my friend Agnes. Agnes told me that the signora lived on my street, in the first block and was preparing to leave for her home in le montagne for the winter. This could only be the owner of the apartment across from mine. But this woman was a coiffed blonde in furs, who responded uncomfortably to the introduction made by Agnes. Maybe her housekeeper had told her about the silver haired woman who worked for the invisible signora (both would be me!) and so we could not be introduced as equals.


I think of the kind dark-haired woman who worked for the blonde in furs, and hope that she is treated well, that she has a contented life. And I imagine that today the apartment is closed, the window boxes empty once again, the shutters drawn, the apartment waiting quietly through the winter. I always felt a sense of loss when the apartment was closed up because it was comforting to see the life playing out across the street. And I was always glad to see the apartment come back to life in the spring.

So I understand the article in today's Times about New Yorkers who feel a kinship to the people across the avenue whom they have never met.

A quiet late night

I just read an email from our international move coordinator, Rainier Overseas Moving, telling me that our container arrived today, sailed through Customs, and will be delivered Wednesday, July 2. I was just getting used to living a Spartan life, with one furnished bedroom and one furnished eat-in kitchen. But, as the late great George Carlin might say, my 'stuff' is coming home.

It is a little after midnight. It's a moonless night, there is no sound but the kitty water fountain burbling away and the refrigerator humming. I am sitting by an open window, it is cool out...though we are expecting a build-up of heat coming tomorrow.

Angel asked me today...or was it yesterday?...if I had thought I would be so happy about being home. My instant reply was YES. I think I knew in October of last year that my time in Italy was limited. There were just too many problems with where we lived, and the Euro was just too strong to continue to support. My biggest clue came that October at the beginning of only our second trip home in the time we were away, when we were leaving Newark Airport, had cruised onto Route 80 West, and I innocently said, I could kiss the ground, I am so glad to be home.

WELL! Angel did not react well to that honest remark. After all, I was the Queen Mary who had set sail for Italy in 2005 with the intention of never looking back.

We got through that moment of clarity. I think it started us both talking much more honestly to each other about how we really felt about daily life in Italy.

Mornings here in Long Valley we awake with the birds, to the quiet, the blessed quiet. We're up early, have our cereal and coffee, and then out in the garden to work on claiming the flower beds back from the weeds, moving mulch, putting in new plants, puttering. Angel said to me, as I was attacking some particularly tangled root systems of persistent weeds, 'The little girl loves playing in the sand'. And that's me...playing in the sand. I have dedicated garden clothes that could stand on their own after two days. I love it.

May 31, the flight home

May 31 was our reentry into life in these United States. I am very happy to be home. Somewhere on http://www.expatsinitaly.com/ someone wrote that 3 years is the decisive barrier...if you can make it past 3 years, you will stay for a long long time. If you don't make it to 3 years, then you were meant to just be on a very very long vacation.

We liked living in Italy for a lot of reasons, but we didn't love living in Italy for a variety of other reasons. We left behind wonderful friends, and it will be very sad not to have them in our lives on a daily basis.

Our daughter picked us up at Newark International after 7 PM EDT. It was a very long day, beginning at 7 AM CET, when we awoke, got dressed and ready for the day, zipped up suitcases and then went out for cafe and brioche at our favorite coffee bar, Tubino. We did our giro (walk around the Centro) one more time, and came back to the apartment in time to be picked up by our great friends the Willemsens, Agnes and Alexander, with eldest son Guillaume as our driver, and second son Julien coming to say goodbye. Youngest son Florian was sound asleep after a late late night at his job, so I sent him a hug and a kiss.

It took from 11:00 AM to 12:10 PM to check in, due to computer problems at Lufthansa. Then we had to immediately start the trek through security, ending up among the last to board the plane. On to Munich where we had a 45 minute window to get to our flight, again being among the last to board (the last to board was a couple from Princeton NJ who had arrived at Pisa Airport to take their flight to Munich to find the airport completely closed down for an Italian military airshow...don't go there!).

We sat in the last row, with Annie and Emily in their carriers under the seats. They never said a word; Annie looked scared so after the meal service was over, she slept under a blanket on my lap until my legs couldn't stand it anymore, about 3 hours. Annie never ate but Emily, an old pro at travelling by now, chowed down on her Science Diet moist nuggets.

The plane was full. Fortunately I always order a Low Sodium meal (to avoid water blowup) so I got my bland food, and Angel got a tray with a roll, a wilted salad and a little dessert and a promise that after Business Class was served, they would see if there was anything left for him. He eventually got a hot entree of dry fish, creamed veggies and something else. Uck.

At Newark, our first three pieces of luggage (4 suitcases, one bike box and one wheel box total) showed up almost right away, and then the system imploded for 45 minutes. The carousel started up again, we got our last three pieces and wheeled our two trolleys, carrying our cats, and went out to meet Sandra.

Home never looked so good.

Kitty Pet Passports

No kidding. Our faithful and loyal American world-traveler-kitty Emily and our crazy little Italian kitty Annie are flying in the cabin on Lufthansa with us. Here is what we had to do:

(oh, before I tell you, when Emily went to Italy we went to Dr. Shatto, our veterinarian for all her shots, papers, certifications, etc. in two visits...one more than 30 days before the flight for a rabies booster and the other visit within ten days of the flight for her health certification)

In February, make our plane reservations and with those, separate reservations for the space under our seats to be occupied by our cats. Cost: Euro 90 EACH...you do the math. The nice Lufthansa lady tells Angel he can go to the airport now and pay, to get it out of the way.

Angel takes the bus to the airport, finds out there is NO WAY you can pay until the cats pass weight inspection the day of the flight...8 kilos ((17.63 lbs) for each cat which is to include the weight of her individual carrier. Sounds like a lot, until you weigh Emily and find out our big American cat weighs 8 kilos all by herself (Annie weighs 3 kilos). We put Emily on a restricted diet (she had gained 3 pounds after moving here, depression and less activity in an apartment).

Visit in February to Dottore Dal Zovo in to find out what the process is and what the timeframes are for the pieces of the process.

Visit in April to Dottore Dal Zovo with both kitties to begin the process: rabies shots, health exam. Annie, the Italian, gets a new microchip implanted in her neck. Dottore Dal Zovo assures us that Emily's microchip is sufficient because, in his words, if you travelled to ten countries, it would make no sense to have ten microchips. We agree.

Not less than 21 days later, May 5, visit to the Canile (the dog and cat pound) with both kitties so that their microchips can be read and matched to their new passports. The receptionist agrees with our information from Dottore Dal Zovo that Emily will not need another microchip. We believe her.

We see Dottore Pavan. Emily needs another microchip, as the American A.V.I.D. system is not readable by the European system. OK. Dottore Pavan very carefully completes all our paperwork. He also gives us a ten-minute explanation of the ins and outs of using the passport in all the countries of the world, and how important which pages are for which updated certifications. He is very nice. The receptionist gives us a bill to be paid at another building in another part of town on another day. We take a cab back to the apartment.

Addendum typed on 14 May: I forgot that Angel also had to return to Dottore Dal Zovo, without the kitties, for Dottore Dal Zovo to stamp and sign the passport to certify that he indeed had given the kitties their rabies shots. No charge. Isn't that nice.

May 12 we go to the Department of Health, Pet Section, to pay our bill. The little miss at the window rejects the bill, saying it needs a codice (code). What code? The one that should be supplied by Dottore Pavan. We leave a callback for Dottore Pavan, and start for home (25 minute walk). The good doctor says he will call the Sanita (Health Dept.) and straighten things out, and call us again.

We stop for another coffee to await his call. Angel returns to the Sanita while I go home. Angel calls me to ask for my codice fiscale (like a SS#) because...this is good...my codice fiscale is NOT IN THE SYSTEM. Why? Because we were, as immigrant pensioners, required to have our own private health insurance, so we did NOT sign up for the National Health Service, which covers both humans and pets. This passport thing is administered by the National Health. So, when the little miss types in my codice fiscale, I am a non-person. She says to Angel, You must have just arrived. He agrees, not wanting to open this can of worms.

The bill is paid...all Euro 33.26.

The kitties now each have her own formal blue passport (same size as a people passport):

UNIONE EUROPEA

REPUBBLICA ITALIANA

REGIONE DEL VENETO

PASSAPORTO PER ANIMALI DA COMPAGNIA

Emily has lost 3 lbs., or 1.36 kilos, back to her pre-move-to-Italy weight, so she is good to go. We are over the last big kitty hurdle...we think.

Aliens

This is not about illegal or legal immigrants in Italy. This post is about stress, and the things it does to a body.

Since we gave notice on January 6 to our landlord that we were leaving Italy, since the worst confrontation with our horrible neighbor on December 14, I have been trying to make lemonade out of lemons, smiling and being polite. I grumble to Angel, but he gets tired of hearing that, too, as I get tired of grumbling (though I have to say that crossing Lungadige...the frontage road along the river...at any time of day is to take your life in your hands, which makes me grumble...see previous post about where in the pecking order pedestrians fall).

My body has given me progressively dire warnings that I have to change my life (which I am going to do) and get out of Dodge (which I am going to do) so that I can feel at home again in my own skin. First, I clench my jaws at night, which started in 2003 after a terrible accident I was in that brought on screaming nightmares. I now clench my teeth so hard on my plastic night guard that my jaws are sore in the morning anyway.

Second, my right eyelid developed a random tic which almost is comical because I think it must look so insane. I wear sunglasses a lot.

Third, I feel a sudden sharp pain in the center of my stomach whenever I have to deal with some absolutely crazy unexplainable piece of Italian bureaucracy, or Italian tell-you-one-thing-mean-another so as not to offend by not saying what you want to hear.

Fourth, and most unexpected, I have ... there is no other way to say this... an external hemorroid. I call it the Alien. Angel asks me how the Alien is today. I tell Angel that I have to get up from our lovely outside table at the cafe and walk around because the Alien is ready to leave. I have had to learn to go into pharmacies (farmacie) and talk in my combination of English and Italian to perfect strangers about my Alien.

Angel Googled for causes of the Alien, and he found...STRESS. He also found OLD AGE, but we are not going to go there. Of course, no more coffee, chocolate, citrus, tomoto, spicy food. Hell, I already don't drink, so this is further limiting my diet. I think I will go on an all-white diet: potatoes, garbanzo beans, cauliflower, pudding, fish, chicken, like that.

I also carry a little inflatable ring to sit on in restaurants. Of course, it fits perfectly into my beautiful Bottega Veneta bag...just the thing.

Stress ('lo stress', in Italian) is my companion.

Balcony on the Strada

Another of the very attractive features of this apartment is the balcony off the kitchen, overlooking the strada below. Very tall double wooden doors with tall glass panes open onto a balcony big enough for a small cafe table and two chairs, with iron railings holding planter boxes

I envisioned an herb garden in the planters, snipping and clipping my herbs into fresh scrumptious offerings from my little kitchen. We planted jasmine to wind amoung the wrought iron supports, to shield us from the street, and a little lemon tree which sadly had to be cut down in anticipation of our move. It gave the sweetest lemons you ever tasted.

Just one thing. From the time we contracted the apartment in April 2005 to the time we moved in during August 2005, the small family ristorante across the street changed hands and became a bar attracting, on Friday and especially Saturday nights, lowlifes and drunks. We think they got chased away from wherever they were hangin' before, and decided to call our neighborhood watering hole their home. Most Sundays, the place was closed, so Sunday was always nice.

In September 2005 the Romani ... the gypsies from the encampment at the old airport outside of town ... occupied Chiesa San Tomaso, where Mozart played when he was twelve years old. The city was threatening to close down their camp (which did happen in 2007) so this was a protest. The gypsies took over the church, the piazza in front of the church, and it was generally an uncomfortable situation. And really loud.

I keep thinking of Cher's song with the refrain 'Gypsies, tramps and thieves'...now that means something concrete to me. Everyone in the neighborhood was upset and watchful to make sure the big palazzo doors to the various courtyards up and down the street were securely closed, because the Romani do come across the roofs at night to break into the apartments. Fun.

The gypsy crisis was resolved in time...early October...for a young Italian movie actress to be married in her old parish church, San Tomaso, replete with television cameras, movie cameras, limousines, hundreds of onlookers, her ex-husband 'and a cast of thousands cheered as the happy couple was driven away'.

The next drama was the Sri Lankans on their balcony across and one level lower and down the street. Dressed as they are accustomed to dressing at home in their country, which is in not much, they sat outside on their balcony, with cell phones, oogling the passing young Italian girls. One of them took to 'pleasuring himself' as the girls passed by, as one of our neighbors put it. Police were called, protest petitions were signed, and finally after months and months, there was a 'surprise raid' throughout town looking for illegal flats, and the flat was emptied of about ten illegal residents. The flat has never been rented again. There is probably a denuncia (lawsuit) against the landlord wending its way slowly, slowly through the Italian legal system.

So, my little balcony was not quite the balcony I envisioned. There were the buses that came through between 5 and 7 PM, and all the vehicles trying to beat the light at the next intersection, including that most horrific of engines of destruction, the moped. Screeeeeeeeee!

Even the plants are leaving...

...and today was the first day of their exodus.

One of the great features of this apartment is the terrazza on the second floor. In sun for much of the Spring and Summer and early Fall, with flowering jasmine abounding and burning bush and cascading ivy, and my many potted plants (in beautiful pots brought from New Jersey...I thought I was staying for at least five years), with its own automated watering system, the terrace should have been a little piece of paradise.

Our awful neighbors took that away. Their tiny terrace adjoins our 12 x 12 terrace, and that did not turn out to be a good thing.

So, today, after asking my friends Alexandre and Agnes if they would just give a new home to my beautiful plants, the first ones left. Repotted by Angel in clay pots provided by Alexandre, out they went, down the stairs, into the van and off to their new home.

This is the first indication of how I will NOT be handling well this whole leavetaking. I know, I know, don't cry over things that can't cry over you. Well, those things are symbolic, capisce? The terrace now looks discombobulated, and just not its old self. Kind of like me.

All my conscious effort goes into saying how glad I am to be going home, that I can't wait to get on that plane May 31, good riddance to a silly little country that just doesn't work on any level. But I don't really mean that. This is the denouement of a dream that I had since childhood, to live in Europe. The first tangible evidence of the end of the dream just went out the door.