it's a grand old flag

Last night Kendis made grasshopper pie, much to the culinary confusion of the Runfola family. But the dessert was an almost ridiculous success: Luigia was on the phone to friends to share the recipe, and even “I’ll just have the broth” Virginia took a second helping (although, after a scan of the biscuit box, she was careful to avoid all noticeable bites of oreo). And it surprised me—the mint-choco combo isn’t one I would normally choose on my own, but something about that pastel green made me near giddy. I didn’t even need to take a bite before I knew: America. It smells like America! Tastes like America! Like Baskin Robbins and barefoot summers and birthday parties on back porches. And it drove me to something I’ve so far avoided quite well.

THINGS I MISS ABOUT AMERICA:

:: toasters
:: water pressure
:: front lawns and picket fences
:: smiling strangers
:: dryers
:: space/mountains/wilderness
:: friends’ cars in the driveway
:: leftovers
:: libraries
:: maple trees on city streets
:: coats, hats, and mittens in the mud room.
:: high school stadiums and back-to-school specials
:: wait, wait don’t tell me
:: cold basements + down comforters
:: letters to the editor
:: get fuzzy
:: red, white, and blue

Luckily, there’s an equally long Things I Love About Italy to balance it out, but I still feel guilty that this list exists at all.

Oh well. Now you know. Those no-place-like-home clichés? Too, too true.

funny, but it seems that it's the only thing to do

It is raining. Kind of like cats and dogs, but more like orcs and uruk-hai (I KNOW, OLIVIA. I AM A DORK.). I've never seen such angry rain, not even in the UK. Though my summer in Wales did come in handy when it came to dressing for such weather. Nix the jeans and layer, people. Tights dry fast and you'll feel oh-so-much better when you can take your damp sweater off once safely indoors.

But now we're rather stuck indoors, with not a lot to do. Classes are long over and we've hours to go before church. I messed around with broken tertiaries for awhile, translated a few funny words. Listened to some Brit boys debate the Italian word for "song" without offering the right answer. Thought about doing some actual homework, then quickly forgot any sense of motivation. There is something about cold and wet that only makes you want to curl up and ponder. And Sharlie, Lauren, and Kimberly are in the corner learning Croatian.

Ovo je ludnica.

so what?

A Mrs. Lake classic. Tell her anything—your day, your idea, your future—and you’d need to be ready for the reply. “So what?” she’d say. What does that really mean? Switch into show. Stop the tell. This was the week I decided that I really, truly, actually want to write. Couldn’t live without it, don’t want to even try.

So you decide to write a story. So what?

The problem is, I still don’t know how to answer that. But I'm starting to face up to it (and that's a start, right?).

dillo con un bacio

Yesterday I went to the European Chocolate Festival which involved (among other things) cardboard cow horns, purple face paint, inflatable chalets, and Lindt truffles the size of small cars. People navigated the streets with maps made of chocolate bars while tent stalls bartered everything from chocolate laptops to chocolate hot dogs. If you wanted it in chocolate, this is where you’d find it.

Plus, love. True love. I’d just stepped away from the Ciobar when a boy stopped me, pointing to my little cup of hot chocolate. “Bella, non?” he said, smiling. I agreed with a smile equally wide. “Chocolate usually is.”

“Where are you from?” he went on, his friends gathering about, too. He shook his head at my answer, asserting that wasn’t possibly foreign enough. “Nuova Zelanda?” I tried again. A roar of approval. “Che bella, bella!” they shouted, all in on the game now. “A beautiful country. You know what else is beautiful? You. Yes. You are my heartbeat.”

His heartbeat! We’d hardly even met—and after a shared “Forza, Napoli!” they were gone. Though this sort of love is forever; we’ll meet again, I’m sure. Another day, another destiny. Chocolate has a way of bringing people together, you know.

well of lost plots

I am desperate for books right now. Mad, impassioned, foaming at the mouth. And not just anything, not the holiday paperbacks in the English section—real books. Literature. Classics. My heart is aching for that reeling expansion of thought, of perspective, and I find myself distracted, flipping through the library catalogue in my head, imagining what author I could pick up next. This daydreaming does not bode well for any afternoon class, I can tell you that.

It’s not like this can’t be fixed, either.It's my fault entirely, the byproduct of my own indecision. I’ve been into the English Book Shop three days in a row now, yet to find joy. And while it’s a lovely place to be lost in, this has got to stop.

So here’s what I’m down to, and here is where I release all responsibility and leave the picking up to you:

The Age of Innocence ::: Edith Wharton
War and Peace ::: Leo Tolstoy
Mrs. Dalloway ::: Virginia Woolf
Nicholas Nickleby ::: Charles Dickens
The Bridge of San Luis Rey ::: Thornton Wilder

Every one of the above, of course, comes with a ridiculous pro/con list and about a dozen justifications on all sides. I'll spare you. Instead, all recommendations, raves, and raised eyebrows welcome. Just hurry.

VAI.

CHI: Kristin Matthews
CHE: Atomic Anxiety in American Film
DOVE: HBLL auditorium
QUANDO: TOMORROW, October 23rd, 11:00 a.m.

People, I beg of you. If you are at, on, in, around, near, close to, within a day's drive of Provo, you need to be there. Not only is Dr. Matthews one of the most intelligent, inspiring, and incredible women I know, but she jokes like a Gilmore. If there were fan memorabilia, I'd have bought out the gift shop long ago.

If not for your sake, go for mine. I can't believe I'm missing this.

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.)