And now, after a month eating my face off back home in the States with my loved ones, we’re back in Italy. The weather is beautiful, the sea is luscious, and I’m eating pasta again after a 30-day pasta detox. The people I know here say that nothing new has happened since I’ve been away but that’s not true – Manuel’s dog has apparently started a gang war with the neighborhood strays and upstairs, my neighbors have exchanged Ilaria for another baby who looks just like her but is a bit taller and screams a lot less. Uncanny, the resemblance.
I’m back at work – freelance assignments in the morning and fiction writing in the caffe by afternoon. The staff has welcomed me back and I’m expanding my knowledge of their menu by ordering hot chocolate and spremuta every once in a while. No new car drama to report and here’s hoping it stays that way.
I try to walk along the beach every day. Everyone told me that come winter, I’d be unhappy living on the very edge of town; that the beach would be dank and sad and depressing; that I’d regret my decision to stay year-round in what is by and large a tourist town.
I dunno. Doesn’t seem so bad to me.