Three Months, Two Weeks, and Four Days

It’s starting to hit me how real this is. And how unreal. Today is April 26th. I have been in Italy for three months, two weeks, and four days, give or take a couple hours. I have studied Rome, visited churches, met people from around the world, eaten so many new and delicious things, learned Italian, lived in Italian, lived with a family other than mine. I’ve had so many experiences that were inconceivable last year at this time. Last year, I was furiously writing papers that I should have been working on all semester. This year I am doing the same (sooooooo…not that different). Last year, I was living at Loyola and getting to know the girls that I would be living with in the Fall even better. This year, I am living with a family that I will potentially never see again when I leave Italy in less than two weeks (very different). Less than two weeks. What? Two weeks? Where did the time go? How did I let it slip by without cherishing every moment—every game I played with my host brother and sisters, every dinner we shared, every delicious, fresh pizza I ate, every juicy blood orange I peeled, every nice person I talked to, every word I had to look up to try to understand a little bit better, every lazy afternoon strolling around the city, every refreshing cono piccolo di gelato, each park bench that I sat upon to read, the new people I met in my program, the professors I had and the knowledge they tried to bestow upon me, and the list goes on. I’m trying to be more cognizant of these great things that I have been given this semester, see them for the gifts that they are, and be thankful.

The first few weeks I was here, I was constantly in wonder at the experience that was my reality. I couldn’t believe it—it was so surreal. I found so many things to be new and amazing—and they were! Yet now, I turn around and see a two-thousand-year-old building; no big. I walk(ed) past the Spanish Steps everyday to go to class; they have became just another staircase (except when there were five hundred Greek soccer fans inhabiting them, yelling calcio cheers, raising banners they had made, and drinking beer). I see Caravaggios in churches; whatever, there’s a Gentileschi two doors down in the next one. I drink wine with dinner; it was sometimes cheaper than having water. Seriously? I feel so jaded. What a good Italian I am.
;-)

But, I am so fortunate.

And I am realizing this.

I wanted to write here about my life in Rome. But, it didn’t seem to happen very well. As some of you may know, I’m not the best at keeping in touch and can let things fall by the way-side if I am not pushed. Perhaps that is what happened here. Perhaps it was that I didn’t know how to talk about everything that I have been doing. Perhaps I was trying to be profound and nothing was coming. Perhaps I got behind and didn’t know how to catch up. I think it was mostly the last one (but a little bit of everything). I often intended to write, then time escaped me or I spent too long in the park or sleeping or on Facebook. So, I’m sorry. I want you to know that I’m trying to take advantage of the time I have left here in Rome. It really is a spectacular city and I will miss it once I leave.

I will especially miss my host family. Like I said above, I may never see them again. This is making me very sad. I’ve been living, eating, being with them for three months, two weeks, and four days. Once I leave, our connection is so broken because my Italian language skills are not going to get better; therefore, communication will progressively get harder and harder (not to mention the barrier of my inability to keep in touch with people in general). I will leave them forever: they will change so much, as will I. When I left America three months, two weeks, and five days ago, I knew I was coming back. Everyone I was leaving, I would see again in four short months. I knew I would change and so would they, but it would be four months. And I could contact them relatively easily, in my own language. I would be able to go back to all the places I knew so well and re-embrace my American heritage, my Newman identity, and my niche among my friends. It would be fine, okay, and the same (and that’s the way I want it). But when I leave Italy in twelve days, I will not be able to come back to the same place. I can visit Rome, sure, email with my host family, absolutely, but I don’t think I will ever live here again. And if I do, it won’t be with my host family, and I won’t be frequenting the same places as a missionary, teacher, graduate student, however I could return. Thinking about this is making me a little melancholy. More than un po’. My life will be changed forever and I can’t change it back.

Someone once said (and this is paraphrasing),

“When one stops changing, one stops living.”

I hate that. Knowing life goes on is hard. I want to stay here and be comfortable. But, I suppose if I never did anything I wasn’t one-hundred-percent comfortable with, I would never have climbed Mount Vesuvius, ate formaggio e pera gelato, come to Italy, made a dinner, gone to Loyola, or tried anything new. Being uncomfortable is good. It keeps you moving, searching, and striving for more.

Ahh, so many revelations at once! Can we handle it? Prova! E’ meglio provare che non provare. La vita e’ dura qualche volte, ma sopratutto, e’ bellissima.

Amore, pace, e gelati,

Susan