Permesso
I wait with them…the mass of humanity standing in line to achieve permission. Permission to legally live in Italy. Officially our permit is called a Permesso di Soggiorno. We are united in our morning haziness, under the first streaks of daylight, as it’s not yet 7:00 a.m. Together we wait outside the red brick building to secure our place in line. A line that will ultimately move forward and give us a number, which will then direct us to a window, where someone behind that window will determine whether or not we have sufficiently met all the requirements for permission. We have secured a Visa from our home country, but now we ask our new country for it’s permission. To me, the entire process feels more like “stand up, sit down, jump here, turn around, now sit down againâ€. But what do I know? The line begins to move, thankfully, as it’s warmer inside the corridor. We are each given a number, and are directed to two different lines. The men that work here speak only Italian, and I try to process what I’m told. “Here’s your number, and after 8:00,†is about all I comprehend from the officer’s Italian. Unsure as to where to go, I turn back to ask. Too late, someone else has already moved up, and there is no time for questions. I see another long line, and dutifully take my place in it. An officer comes by, taps me on the shoulder, and says something to me in rapid Italian. Seriously, does he think I’ve had enough coffee or Italian to understand that? The wheels slowly start to turn…something about “non la sua linea”. Got it! I’m in the wrong line, I’m supposed to go inside instead and find a seat. I have worked so hard to be here. Each person I see has probably done the same. Each one of us arriving on our appointed day, ticket in hand, has a personal story of desire. The desire to make our life in a country in which we were not born. A woman approaches the seat next to me and begins to vigorously wipe it down with sanitizer. Apparently she knows something I do not. I just plopped myself right down. A beautiful woman from the Middle East, her head wrapped in a scarf, sits down across from me with her young daughters. I wonder how early they awakened today to all be here before 7:00....
Read MoreComing or Going?
“Are you going home, or leaving home?†she asked, as she sat down in the seat next to me. My mind was miles away, (about 11,000 to be exact) studying the outline of the Wasatch Mountains from the view of the airplane window. Spanning almost 160 miles, they are the western most tip of the greater Rocky Mountains, and have served as the background scenery to most of the events in my life. Even when I had moved away from Salt Lake City at times, I had always known when I would return. I could count on the airplane dropping down about 10 minutes prior to landing, to give me a bird’s eye view of the jagged granite walls that made up my beloved mountains. And I would know I was home. I could feel it, deep in my bones. This time there was no return trip planned. “Hmmm,†I said, meeting her gaze. I’m pretty sure she didn’t think she’d asked a trick question, and yet there I was, struggling for the answer. Was I going home, or leaving my home? My mind shifted from granite walls to terracotta roofs. Florence, Italy had been my home for six months in the past year and I had come to feel a connection with my new surroundings. I ached now to see a sunset over the Arno, and the sound of opera blasting from an apartment window. I had found a new rhythm with the Campanile bells as my alarm clock, and dodging tourists in a busy piazza had come to feel familiar. My three months in Utah had been predominately filled with Visa application, and reapplication, and visiting friends and family. Only when my Visa arrived in August, did it feel like the hard work was worth it. It’s no small feat to get a Schengen Visa! (Those of you that are interested, feel free to email your questions to me: lisa@betterwaymoms.com. I will spare the rest of you the gory details!) But, to be honest, I had not felt like I was home in those months. As much as I enjoyed seeing old friends and catching up on the local news, my heart seemed to be far away, in a very old country that continued to call to me. Now that I had legal entry into Italy for a year, I could make the ultimate step I had been working towards. Living in a Florentine neighborhood, and totally immersing myself...
Read MoreLavender, Linen and St. Francis
My first trip to Assisi was made only because of St. Francis of Assisi. I loved his prayer. It was my morning meditation, and because of that, I wanted to see his rural hometown and the Basilica built to honor him. Fortunately, I had already experienced Assisi twice when I found out that the Prayer of St. Francis may not have been written by him. It was a little like hearing the reality of Santa Claus, but because I had visited Assisi, it didn’t matter much. Just as the spirit of Christmas remains, the spirit of St. Francis permeates his hometown. The story of St. Francis is one of a young soldier, lost in the ways of the world for much of his life, when he has a vision to serve God. Giving up all of his material possessions, he serves with such gentleness and kindness, that people are transformed merely by his presence, and animals drawn to him, unafraid. While I didn’t equate my donating 37 pairs of designer shoes to be on par with St. Francis, I had learned a thing or two about living more simply in the past year. Having sold my home and 90% of my material possessions in order to move to Italy, I, too, was traveling much lighter these days. I also had come to understand that the only way to embrace my new life, was to open my heart to a culture and a people very different from my own. And the key to all of it seemed to rest in kindness. “Make me a channel of your peace. Where there is hatred, let me bring love.†Basilica di San Francesco stands high on a hill, called “Hill of Paradiseâ€, and can be seen from a great distance. Inside the church, the walls were frescoed from top to bottom by the leading artists of the day. Giotto, Cimabue, Simone Martini and Lorenzetti all helped create a most exquisite monument to the gentle saint from Assisi. The church is in three sections consisting of the saint’s tomb, the lower basilica and the upper basilica. Nancy and I milled around the outside for a few minutes, looking for a place to pay. Finally, we asked a priest and were informed that it was free to enter. Free? First entering the lower basilica, my eyes took a moment to adjust. It’s dark, and the skilled artists...
Read MoreUnder MY Tuscan Sun
Hands down the most common question I am asked about moving to Italy, is one that still makes me laugh. Do you want to venture a guess? It’s not about the bureaucracy involved in moving here, the language or even the men! The most common question I am asked is if I have ever seen Under the Tuscan Sun. That’s right, nine out of ten women are certain that I watched that movie one night and left Utah on the first plane out the next morning. I find that so interesting, because I had no idea it had such cult-like devotion! I had seen the movie years before I moved to Italy, I think, but remembered very little of it. It certainly hadn’t created a life changing moment for me. I related more to Eat, Pray, Love. However, I remain happily in the “Eat†country! Under the Tuscan Sun was filmed in Cortona, Italy. Cortona is a town in Tuscany, close to the Umbria border. It is about sixty five miles from Florence, and easily reached by train in just 82 minutes. One of the many joys of living in Florence is its proximity to cities all over Tuscany, Northern and Central Italy.  After a few months of living here,  I had established a wonderful group of women friends, and could usually find someone willing to join me on a day adventure. We would catch an early train, get to know a new city, and be back in our own beds by night. Did I mention, I think this place is Heaven? As I listened to my friends talk about Cortona one evening over apertivo, I told them I hadn’t yet been to the town of ‘Tuscan Sun’ fame. They were surprised, and said I must see it. But asking around the table didn’t produce anyone who could join me the following weekend. Life Lesson on women who move to foreign countries: They are gutsy gals. These are not the needy, shy or dependent sort that can’t handle an adventure on their own. While that wasn’t the type of gal I had been for most of my life, I was happily learning. Life Lesson on traveling to new places: Tripadvisor is your friend. Use it! Arriving by train to Camucia, I gazed up at the town of Cortona on the hill. I called the hotel and was told a driver would come to the station to get me. Now, you may have a vision of a big Hilton shuttlebus arriving, but this is not what...
Read MoreEasy For You to Say
November 2012: The direction of my dreams was Italy, that much I knew. To live the life I imagined in Italy, though, it was becoming painfully clear that I needed to learn the language. I had spent a month in Florence, done a little traveling, and knew my way around town. But, an adult woman using charades to get a vegetarian panini at the deli was becoming increasingly embarrassing. I wanted to do better. I wanted to integrate more. I needed to go to school. This conjured up terror, cold sweats and a certain amount of regret that I hadn’t paid more attention in Madame McMeen’s seventh grade French class. I know French isn’t Italian, but I knew nothing about a foreign language. Nada, zip, niente. I wish I could say that I researched all the language schools in Florence (there are many), averaged the reviews with the cost, and carefully selected the Istituto Italiano. However, that would be a big fat lie. I chose the one closest to my new digs, where the classroom windows looked out to the Duomo, and where I knew the corner barrista (so I could get a quick cappuccino during my ten minute break). Istituto Italiano. Sounded very impressive, and a little daunting. As I walked up the many stairs on the first day of class, I wondered if I would set some sort of Istituto record. Would I be the oldest student that ever attended? Would I be the one and only person that could not learn by their “immersion method”? Would they speak of me years later, and not in a good way? And, of course, would the cool kids let me sit at their table? Those questions took about five minutes to answer. As Segnora Bernadetta introduced herself, passed out the course books and welcomed us to our new school, I checked out my classmates. Things were becoming clear. I was the oldest…by far. I even had some years on the teacher. There was only one long table, so all the kids sat there, cool or not. Turned out “Immersion Italian” was easy to tune out. I had to force myself to watch Segnora Bernadetta’s lips move and to stay awake. I may not have understood a word she was saying, but I knew I was drowning in a sea of Italiano. Life lessons about age: #1. It really does bring more wisdom. Like how to quickly synthesize a situation and come up with an alternative plan. #2. It...
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