Foreign and Familiar
I’m not sure if blogging about life in another country is still a cool thing to do, but here I am. Sitting at my writing desk with Monte Di Procida lingering in my periphery. Procida, the isle that mirrors the mount is hidden from view. As I follow the line of the peninsula I find a castle, a casual thing to see in this part of the world. This one is impressive though, massive and mostly intact.
These aren’t places I’d ever heard of or ones I would have probably visited in my lifetime. They just happen to be the backdrop of my everyday life now. Today’s backdrop also includes extra noise from the freeway and hazy skies.
I remember the first day trip we attempted down to the the Amalfi Coast just a week or so after getting to Naples. The kids needed a nap, so we opted for a long drive after worshipping at a beautiful Anglican Church in the city. As I looked out over the dramatic coastline and walked the enchanted alleyways sparkling with lemon-everything, the dissonance grew louder. I knew in my head it was an incredible place to be, but I had no desire to be there.
Minori, Amalfi Coast. Notice the terraced hills from the farming..more on that to come.
Travelling for people like me is enjoyable when there’s the promise of home waiting on the other side. At this point we were far from moving out of our temporary housing and nothing yet (still?) triggered that warm feeling of familiarity. I love new people and places, the more different the better. But what I often long for more is not the foreign but the familiar. Those deep connections and meaningful contributions of life in one place.
Somehow, instead, in the past 5 or 6 years we moved across a state, then across state lines, and now across the world. I know the emotional drill. The sense of separation, loneliness, resistance. Why do I have to do the work to make brand new friends when I have incredible ones dotting the landscape of the Southwest?
How exactly do I begin to orient to life here, find my sense of purpose and belonging, all while creating that sense for my kids? This all takes time and work that I don’t feel like I have enough of. So the idea of blogging about the experience has felt far from my mind. But today I realised I need it. Writing for me is a sense of home. When I form words into sentences it connects what I’m feeling, thinking and hoping for in a way nothing else can. And it creates the potential for endless connection.
Old Olive tree bathed in last light in Stintino, Sardegna (lesson learned..you can’t eat olives straight from the tree)
Plus I have stories that I can’t just let slip into my distant memory. Take Sunday, for example. Another car-nap situation, this time without Reese (my husband). We got all the way to Caserta and I shimmied our Honda Jazz within the blue parallel lines. We were in visual distance of the coolest park in town so Cora (my 4-year old) was hyped. Before I could open up my car door the puking began. Miles (my 2-year old) was drenched. I pulled him out of his carseat that had kindly soaked up some of the vomit.
No change of clothes or water anywhere in the car. The two things you kind of need when your insides and outsides are coated with stomach acid..and we were 45 minutes from home. I stared at the one item of clothing in the backseat- Cora’s pink & white tie-dye dress. I’m sorry Miles..
We wandered into a corner cafe only slightly more disoriented than normal. One espresso macchiato, three Italian cookies and two bottles of water. I responded to the concerned stares through repeating “grazie mile” and gesturing to the oversized pink dress with a light-hearted tone coloring the words they didn’t understand. Oh well.
Before we started our turn-around trek back home, I attempted to order a pizza to be delivered upon our arrival to make the evening easier. I was only 50% confident it would actually work. When I got the call from the unknown +39 number I got excited. That is until I realised he was not at my house and nothing I was reading off of Google translate was solving the problem. The one thing I understood him saying was along the lines of, can’t you find a friend who speaks Italian to get on the phone?! No, sir, I don’t have any of those around. When he finally made it through the gate he was frustrated, but in a sort of endearing Italian way. He leaned over to my neighbor’s nephew playing basketball out front and definitely talked crap about us to this 4-year old like they were old pals.
The pizza was delicious.
Next time I’ll tell you the story of getting my car stuck on a median or the time I had to drive in reverse for a 1/2 mile on a one-way street or the adventures in trying to pay my tab at cafes or being asked if I was in the American CIA. Or I’ll go way back and tell the tale of arriving at the Naples airport and the insanity of just getting our stuff through the doors.
The privilege of being here is not lost on me. I already look back on some of the adventures we’ve had in these first few months and feel in awe that we’re getting to be here. I’ll share some of the beauty and joy of exploring this ancient place. But in addition to that, being in a foreign land has all sorts of implications for my understanding of hospitality and the way I’m making sense of life these days. I hope to be able to reflect in a way that can serve you in your journey as well. Ciao for now :)
