One year on

It’s been a year now. I arrived in Italy on September 5^th last year. So – what’s the verdict?

Knee-jerk is perhaps a good place to start – Damn! I’m living in Italy!

This little realization strikes me at irregular and yet moderately frequent intervals, and to tell the truth I’m still a little surprised at it. That’s probably because somewhere in my cautious, South African-reared conscience, I didn’t think that I would be capable of such a daring and “exotic” venture. Whether it’s the influence of living in the US or my adventurous wife that has cajoled me into going for it, I’m not sure, and I’m also not sure it’s important.

This “living in Italy” thing transcends the physical dimension too – I’ve left my old lives behind, and there’s no question of returning to them. Even in the moments of supreme emotional challenge (and there’ve been many), my thoughts have always been “how to overcome” rather than where to flee. I don’t know if this is folly or fortitude, but I’m not questioning it.

The second immediate sentiment is “Damn! I’m not in my house yet!” Like any homeowner in the throes of a makeover (the inevitable personal side as well as house-related, as all in that position will attest), the house saga dominates much of one’s thinking and worrying space. But I still have the excitement, and the vision of myself living in it, and now that we’re just a month or so away from moving in, the despondency has an end. I’m sure that in the coming years I’ll look back on it with some amusement and the knowledge of one with “experience”.

So what else? We came to live life for itself, and nowhere that I’ve been is this mantra as obvious as it is in rural Italy. Everything – and I mean e-vry-thing – is a process, and in most cases an opportunity for social interaction. Outcomes are not entirely irrelevant, but they’re not the be-all and end-all that they are elsewhere. Having been here for a year now, it’s quite clear that the Slow Food movement could only ever have originated in Italy.

Has it had the desired effect on me (i.e. slow down, loosen up, smell the flowers, etc)? Sometimes … when I think about it, or when I’m in such a moment. Like stopping to pick up Julius in Colmurano, for instance, when the prevailing atmosphere drugs one into the “live in this moment” mood. Or my experience in the Arte Strada’s preparations. Or in my awareness of seasons and cycles, which seem so much more prominent to me here.

It’s a vital attribute in dealing with Italian bureaucracy, and it’s one area that I’ve failed in. Poste Italiano and Telecomm Italia are primary examples of this. I still haven’t adopted the resigned attitude of long-time residents to these monolithic monuments to inert parastatals, and who knows, maybe I never will. We’ll see.

I’m trusting that osmosis will ultimately play its part in attaining that attitudinal plane. The way people here adopt you can only help, and it’s been perhaps the most notable aspect of living here – the warmth and generosity of the people. I only wish I could interact with them more freely, and therein lies another personal frustration – my struggles with the language. Naturally one has to shoulder most of the responsibility for not having become proficient, but when I compare the effort that Maria’s put in and the ease with which she’s become adept, I suspect there’s also a little bit of innateness about it. So be it – I just have to work harder. Classes in Tolentino start again soon, and so off I’ll go to work on my integration.

Julius, after a cautious start, has surprised me with his local affinities, and a loyalty to Marche (and Regnano in particular) that’s disproportionate to the time he’s spent here. He has his ups and downs, some of them related to the state of his friendships, others influenced by trips away to family (Germany and South Africa). The only thing from his previous life that he hankers after is his school. The public education system here is very rigid and “old school” (as it were), with little room for creativity or variations from the norm. And unlike both of his schools in the US, they barely get to go outside here, regardless of how good the weather is. Perhaps I’m naïve or uninformed, but it strikes me as a blind and unaware perception of the needs of 11-year-olds – keeping them sitting on their butts all day instead of letting off steam and energy in a physical way is nothing short of a travesty, denying them a crucial part of their growth and childhood.

Of course individual teachers also make a difference, and Italian love and caring shine through in the good ones. In one instance last year, when Julius was being ostracized by his classmates for having not towed the group line, his Italian teacher Lori noticed and spent 2 hours one afternoon with the class talking it through. When it comes to their emotional wellbeing, she (and others) treat them as children rather than as pupils; I just wish that this would extend to all aspects of scholarly life.

Maria, for her part, has found her feet as she would just about anywhere. Her natural flow with the language and the way Latins find her to be “simpatico” has helped her integrate quickly. But the house has taken its toll – her German penchant for precision and punctuality, along with the local resistance to anything that varies from what they’ve always done, has resulted in much stress and frustration. Hopefully that will all be a thing of the past rather soon.

The only real loss of our move has been the fourth member of our family, our beloved Mr Young (see previous post here). In the end, it seems our unsettled life in the six months before his death was just too much for him. The passage of time has helped me heal, Julius too I think, but not Maria – she still harbours a deep sadness that won’t go away. Perhaps there’s a (harsh) message in there somewhere – we shall see.

There’s so much more, too, to be thankful for – the crisp clean air, the stupendous views, and the blazing wildflowers of the Sibillini mountains … the soaring cliffs and turquoise waters of the Riviera del Conero … neighbours knocking at your door with spinach, garlic, tomatoes, still dripping with earth.

And, of course, being able to wake up in the morning and say: “I think I’ll go to Florence today.”

Now all I have to do is find a reliable source of income so that we can stay here …