what I’d wanted to say

Here is one of the many problems with knowing just enough language to communicate in a foreign country: you can say it, but you can’t mean it. At least, not the way you want to.

Like when you’re trying to talk about your sisters. They’re amazing, you say. My best friends. But that’s not right—what you meant was

At night we stay up late talking, and laughing until we can’t breathe. When we were little, that would get us into trouble, especially past midnight. Now, we can't stop no matter the consequences. Everything that ever happens to me, I save to tell them. The good, the bad, the just plain ridiculous--I am storing it all up for the minute we're together again. But, being so far apart, I have a strange outsider's perspective; we’re growing up, and it’s bitter and sweet all at once. I’m beginning to see what we’re becoming, the women (oh! That word alone!) we will be—which seems ridiculous, but true. And what exciting futures! Full of promise, and joy, and a sure knowledge that we will always, always have each other. Which, really, is all I ever wanted. If I had no one else but them, it would still be okay. They are the light and the love I most look forward to.

Or when you want to explain how incredible your roommate is. We started a club! you exclaim. It’s about Life. And she’s from Oregon. Good, but not exactly

It’s unreal! We were so lucky, being thrown together under this eight-hundred year old roof, with the tap-dancing pigeons and a room with three walls. She makes me smile too much and laugh too hard; she reminds me of the great good in the world even while indulging my rants and raves. Today she shortened "situation" to "situatch." And danced along the computer corridor to her own little song. And almost ran away from school. Sometimes, I feel infinitely too uncool to be with her, this film major extraordinaire with her easy wit and lively curiosity. Oh, and our club is going to take this world by storm.

Or sometimes it’s as simple as retelling your morning’s adventures. Not bad, you shrug. Just another day. When really

When I sleep, I dream they’re here, with me. 1920 is just off Via dei Rossi, mia scuola only minutes from Emigration Market. When I wake up, I’m confused, frustrated. My duvet should be white, not peach. My cat grey, not ginger. At breakfast, I spoon out the Miel Pops while remembering pumpkin granola. At school, we plan for home. “We’ll do it then!” we shout, smiling, hoping. A million ideas, none fit for here. It is always there, then, when. I am in a weird place, missing old life and looking forward to new life and not living my present life very well at all*. Which means that I'm more frustrated with myself than anything.

I mean, if I could say all that, then it would be time to go home, anyway.

____________________________

*(And I most definitely just stole a line from an Elder M letter.)

well, that was weird.

I was just talked out of school by my teacher. Muzzi, no less. Of all the people in all the world, she would be the one to stare down my coughing fits and then tell me to tough it out. Instead, she was all sympathy and motherly worry.

"But we hardly have any time to learn as it is!" I said.

"Go. Home. And don't come back. At least not today."

"What about the Oral Exam?!" I exclaimed.

"We'll move it to Wednesday! You'll be better then."

"Don't you want to give me homework?" I tried.

"No. But you should drink hot milk and honey."

Which was the third time an Italian has given me such instructions, so I think I should probably listen? I guess it will give me something to do, anyhow, seeing as I suddenly have an entire day free, and I do know that I'm not well enough to spend it gallivanting about Siena.

But I really did think I was up for school.

draw something

Two weeks into this assignment

and three more to come—this card was all too easy.

lei vive!

Well, it looks like I'm getting better---just in time
for my oral exam.

Not that I'm studying for it, or anything. There are garlics to draw and doodles to procrastinate with. A watercolor to paint and another sketchbook page to fill. Four weeks to go and too many thoughts to fill them with. A dinner to find and a walk back home. And a long, long night ahead of me.

morendo.

Sono malata. La testa, il naso, la gola, lo stomaco: tutto è rotto. Non posso fare niente. Se mi sdraio, non posso respirare; se mi alzo, non posso stare in piedi. Che frustrata! Che stupida.

But that didn't stop me from going to Assisi yesterday, and it's certainly not going to postpone my plans for Lucca in the morning. Plus, there are about a hundred other things to love about Italy right now, despite being sick in bed. Like

1:::men in linen suits. how do they do it? in from Firenze without a wrinkle from the commute.
2:::white peaches from the agrumeria around the corner from la scuola. not only so, so good, but so, so pretty.
3:::midnight contrada revelry, no matter the day or occasion. last night they were dressed in cardboard boxes.
4:::writing love notes for Italian homework. Mi mancano le nostre passegiate a mezzanotte . . .
5:::cute toothpaste in shiny silver boxes. and the cheapest kind, too!
6:::finding a piece of New Zealand in a tiny corner of Tuscany. A wee mosaic tree to thread about my neck.
7:::chocolate festivals in Perugia. one week to go.
8:::coming home late to find Franco snoring on the couch. tv on, house dark.
9:::early evenings at the branch doing genealogy work. Pasquino Pasquini! A true story.
10:::being friends with the bollywood-obsessed owners of this internet cafe. it's nice, running into people you know on the streets.

And now my pictures are uploaded and you are spared any more rambling from me.
299 photos in Italy to 854 from Wales. Both over six weeks' time.
Huh.

I've been thinking so much lately that lately I think

I've been thinking too much.

So my mum sent me this, and I'm sharing it with you.



The end.

I can give you the present, I don't know about the future (that's just stuff and nonsense)

Guess what I forgot today? Yep, camera. This failure is along the same lines with the fact that I can't for the life of me keep a planner. Sure, I'll write everything down and feel smugly organised at the beginning of the week---but I'm not going to look at those notes ever again. Note to self: remember notes to self.

The good news is that I had it with me last night, when Franco showed us up through countless crooked stairs to our palazzo roof, a small catwalk above the city bathed in the light of a full moon. But I didn't have it at dinner, to document prophecies and palm readings, and I didn't have it this morning, when Lauren and I passed a wee delivery truck just begging to be photographed on our way to school.

But back to the fortune telling. The Polacca was back, a rather crazy lady that we came to love and appreciate when she was here last week for dinner. And this round was just as good as the last, smiles sneaked across the tables as she talked and talked and talked, while the rhinestone "SHOWY" across her shirt sparkled in the lamplight. At one point, her mistakes ("Prego per te, prego per te, e prego per te," she said, passing around the dessert) had Franco laughing so hard he could hardly breathe---and when she went on about a flower from her homeland called "Lucrezia," Luigia looked askance. Who knew that was only the beginning?

She was still explaining the Lucrezia flower while we were clearing up the table, when Virginia asked (a little cheekily, methinks) what her name meant. At this, the Polacca became very serious. "Virginia," she breathed, one hand over hers, "you have a very grand name. And I see that you will have a very grand life." I smiled, thinking this was all part of the game. Virginia only urged her on. "Wait, you can see the future?"

There was a dramatic pause, the room silent, the clock ticking. "Yes," our Polish friend replied, heavily, reverently. "But only sometimes."

And so began a long complicated next twenty minutes, in which both Virginia and Franco's palms were read ("It won't be as good, since I do not have the right words."), energies explained ("Oh yes, yes. I have a very positive energy."), and signs sought ("I have an unfortunate psychology, because I was born on September 7th."). Unfortunately, I missed a good two minutes of the gypsy show because I have this habit of remembering my sister during such strange moments, which sends me into hysterics. I ran for the safety of an empty kitchen, where I collapsed against the countertop for some final laughter and a few deep breaths before regaining some sort of composure and joining the table once again. The Polacca was not so amused. "Why do you smile?" she demanded.

My tongue still hurts, I had to bite it so hard.

By the end of the storytelling session she had at least three cups of white wine in her, and the promise to return tomorrow to read Luigia's future. Later that night, after the rooftop adventure, we gathered in our loft room to translate and relive the better parts of the evening for Alyssa and Kendis, who could only guess at the goings-on. Oh, it is a story that will last a while longer.

And now there are half a dozen Swiss boys singing around the Common Room piano, switching from German to English to Italian and back again. I don't know; life is just pretty puddle-wonderful.