A Long Winter and a Taste of Spring

"It's hard to say when exactly winter arrived. The decline was gradual, like that of a person into old age, inconspicuous from day to day until the season became an established, relentless reality. First came the dip in the evening temperatures..."* the fall of the leaves, and the changing of the clocks- though there were still occasional moments of hope that winter was just a myth, mornings where it was still possible to leave the house without five socks, thermals and gloves and the sky was clear and bright. But all that disappeared as the did the days of the calendar. Soon, I felt the sting of the cold whipping across my face, the joys of the heater, and jealous of those Italian women with the big fur coats. I always thought I could move somewhere where it gets cold. I mean, I grew up in the foothills of California so I have at least a little clue of what it's like. But my memory must have left that detail out, that there is no escape from the harsh weather when always suffocated with layers upon layers. The heaping helpings of comfort… soup, tea and honey. But this week there has been a change in the air. The other day was a good one because it rained instead of snowed. An improvement. The streets are a little more crowded and I even saw my first pair of elbows the other day too. No more full-body suits needed to face the day. The trees are almost blooming. Spring is nearly here.

*I just found this book called The Art of Travel by Alain de Botton. It's a really interesting perspective on the analysis of why people travel. I've read another of his books and he is really enlightening. I would recommend it for sure!

Heather and Adam's visit gave me a little umph in my appreciation for Florence. I am so thankful that I have such a wonderful family and we have the opportunity to share a joy in exploring the world. It was a thrill to take them to my favorite spots around Florence, like my favorite pizza place, or chatting at the wine store. I also may have never tried so many gelato places since my favorite place was closed for the cold weather. Luckily, though, Heather and Adam were able to taste its magic the last couple days.

I read somewhere that the present could be compared to a roll of film from which memory selects photographic highlights. Of my 5 hour trip my memory now only retains a few static images. My layers of experience had settled into a compact and well-defined narrative: I became someone who recently took a train from Florence to catch a flight to Malta. We started exploring the island that night, though there was, inevitably, a lot more beneath these brisk words than that. To describe every moment that makes up our little trip, would be nearly impossible, so I'll sum it up.

We hopped over to Malta for a break away from the city. We just can't seem to stay away from the water. And the best thing about Malta: pastizzis!!! These little pastries are filled with all sorts of things. There's pea ones, ricotta, ham and cheese (my favorite). For some pocket change we ate every pastizzi we saw. Another highlight was the colorful fishing port, a quiet escape from the unexpected high-rise hotels and vacation rentals.

Getting around, we ignored the advice of taking buses everywhere and instead rented a car. We wanted to be free! And good thing Adam was there because there are few people I would trust with the position of driving on the left-hand side, in a manual car, on the fast-paced roads of Malta, with no road signs. There was a sense of familiarity, it is just a car and just a road, but simultaneously coupled with everything being completely opposite. Malta is pretty tiny so luckily we had a hard time getting lost.

Even though it is such a small island, the oldest discovered temples, an underground megalithic hypogeum from around 3200 BC are found here. It was strange to see an ancient piece of architecture so well preserved, and it was only discovered in the early 1900's. Construction workers accidentally discovered it, which makes me wonder what other history is buried, waiting to be rediscovered.

It is precisely because I have so many stories to tell that I have said none of them lately.

And because there is so much I still want to do that I have done nothing at all. I've been trying to write about what I've been up to lately, but I've been having trouble. If only you knew how many times I have sat down to write or to upload photos, only to have found ingenious ways to procrastinate. There are so many thoughts that I wish to share. The keys just rattle under my fingertips with emptiness, with backspaces, with expectations, and with sighs.

I want to tell you about how tired I am of procrastinating. I've always been a procrastinator. If I really think about it I think it's because I'm afraid of doing something inadequate. I'm afraid of my inability to do what I want to accomplish. So, I instead think about doing it, how I will do it, and end up not doing it.

The days are bleeding into each other. It is so cliche to say that, but I understand why people do say it. The weeks are disappearing so quickly, and though each day seems uneventful, when I look back they have stories to tell.

I want to write. I want to write something good, that expresses what I am thinking. But when I sit down to write I have no words and no thoughts to organize. I give up, disappointed, then the next day feel motivated to capture everything I hear and feel- every clue, every sign that tells me there are stories to be shared and lives to document. I walk through my day ready to capture these moments. I want to write about them so they are not forgotten. These things though, I don't think I could ever forget because they are things we all see and feel and experience on a regular basis. Maybe that's why I want to never forget these things, wanting to capture them forever. These little details about my days are what make up my experience here.

"I have worn the dust of many foreign streets, but to brush it off would surely be a crime. I have the memories of many foreign adventures, but to forget them, would surely be a sin. So, breath in the dust, and keep the memories in."~ Rowland Waring-Flood

I've been in Italy for a while. I've still got a bit of time to go, so my perceptions of this country may change during that time. My life here has become my life. Often the days seem mundane and predictable. The food here has become normal. The language has become normal. The man on the corner of the street playing the accordion has become normal. Cultural differences have become normal…Things that may seem exciting to someone who isn't here have become normal to me, which makes me forget that not everyone knows about life here and not everyone gets the chance to live in another country. I've been so fortunate to have the opportunity to get to know this place so well.

Words

Be careful of words,
even the miraculous ones.
For the miraculous ones we do our best,
sometimes they swarm like insects
and leave not a sting but a kiss.
They can be good as fingers.
They can be trusty as the rock
you stick your bottom on.
But they can be both daisies and bruises.

Yet I am in love with words.
They are doves falling out of the ceiling.
They are six holy oranges sitting in my lap.
They are the trees, the legs of summer,
and the sun, its passionate face.

Yet often they fail me.
I have so much I want to say,
so many stories, images, proverbs, etc.
But the words aren’t good enough,
the wrong ones kiss me.
Sometimes I fly like an eagle
but with the wings of a wren.

But I try to take care
and be gentle to them.
Word and eggs must be handled with care
Once broken they are impossible
things to repair.

-Anne Sexton