Things I Never Thought I’d Miss
Holding my cup of coffee on a Sunday morning, I looked out of the window at the radiant blue sky. As evidenced by the Renaissance masters, the ethereal light in Florence, Italy is unlike anywhere else. Suddenly breaking the stillness was my favorite neighbor, a three year old boy. I don’t know his name, I just know that he delights me daily. This morning he was still in his pajamas, chasing his cat and singing. Right behind him was his mom, calling him to come inside for breakfast. I watched her lovingly gather him up in her arms. And I remember. I remember when my days were filled taking care of the needs of my children. When breakfasts were made, and sticky hands washed, baths were given and laundry reproduced at an alarming rate. I remember when mothering teenagers, the sound of the garage door finally opening at 2:00 a.m. was the answer to my prayers, and I did grocery shopping five times a week. I wonder how I got here. Not here as in living in Italy here, but here….living alone. Like many women of my generation, I grew up with the aspiration of marriage and children. The end. Well, I actually wanted to be a wife, mom and a Rockette, so my ambitions were high. I certainly never planned on living alone, although there were times, during the child raising years, it was one of my favorite fantasies! And yet, closing in on sixty years old, it’s where I find myself. Living alone. And, I live in a foreign country, where I still struggle with the language, so it can be a lot of alone. But daily, I find it so interesting. Would you make your bed in the morning if you knew, for certain, that no one would see it all day but you? How about meals? Placemat and napkin? Would you cook? I never thought about where I would be when the job of being a mother was over. I certainly hadn’t wished to be a wife, mom, Rockette and then move to Italy. Yet, here I am. Settling in to a new chapter of life, still another one that didn’t come with any instructions. These days I work and study, and I write. I meditate when I want to, and choose my own time for breakfast. I walk. Everybody in Florence walks. By the end...
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...
Read MoreMamma Mia, That’s a Big Church!
When the taxi driver dropped me off at my new apartment, and I saw it was adjacent the Duomo, I was relieved. My sense of direction is questionable at best, so I knew this location was a stroke of good luck and perfect for me! The Basilica of Santa Maria del Fiore, better known as Il Duomo, was my next door neighbor. Imposing and majestic, the cathedral sprawls over the enormous piazza and is the heart of the city of Florence. The terracotta dome can be seen from almost anywhere in the city, and between its size, and the accompanying bells from the Campanile, I never became lost. Well, almost never. Of course, I knew that I would be alone on this adventure. This thought stayed with me as I wandered through the narrow streets and explored along the Arno River. Unlike the “Cheers” bar, no one in Florence knew my name, and certainly no one would miss me at the end of the day if I didn’t return to my apartment. But Florence is an extremely safe city. Aside from pickpockets, the crime rate is low, and violent crime is very rare. I never felt uncomfortable, day or night, walking in my new city. I skittled around my new neighbor, the Duomo, many times a day, just as Michaelangelo had as a child. I could never resist looking upward at this most famous landmark, now serving as my beacon. It seemed surreal to call this home. Whose life was this? Oh yeah, mine! I had given myself the month of October to explore. The anxiety I had experienced over the Atlantic Ocean had abated immediately upon arriving. Jet lagged and sleep deprived, perhaps, but I felt deliriously happy to be in Italy! Initially armed with five words in Italian, (bango, grazie, buongiorno, caffé and vino), I confidently put off language class until November. I had wondered just how good my own company would be. Would the fact that I know entire soliloquies from ‘Camelot’ and ‘Carousel’ be enough to keep me entertained, or would they eventually drive me mad? Striking up conversations with others was pretty much out of the question, as my limited Italian was, well, limiting. Any long conversations were those I had with myself. Each morning I learned a few new phrases (thank you Google Translator), and would step out of my door with a map in hand and a route in mind. Living on Via...
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