as the deadline quickly arrives

Time is moving slowly, becoming a reprehensible foe in my ventures and my spirit. I say so because my allotment of well organized, scheduled, delineated permission here is creeping closer to its ending date and I’m not prepared, as a student to return home. I am, instead, entirely entranced by the notion of seeing my friends, my family, my dog and ethnic foods again. So here we go.
Italy has left me wanting more, the way a great meal, film or relationship does. I have such an abundance of activities to look forward to on a daily and momentary basis that while I’m occupied, which, is about two thirds of the time, the clock is spinning recklessly towards tomorrow. I’ve not seen, experienced, nor learned a fraction of what I came here for. I don’t speak the language, I don’t know where my family is, and I don’t know what a truly Italian lifestyle is. I can’t. I’m not Italian, I’m an Italian-AMERICAN. I’m coming to terms with my reality, and it spreads further. Food is an oral-tradition, it transpires and progresses through the generations, through manipulative palates and variances in dedication, pride and passion. So, in other words, tradition is impossible to discover, because all recipes and methods have become modernized, through the generations. It’s not to say that the approach isn’t at all alike, or that the flavors don’t continue to elicit the same satisfaction, because each taste I find screams of predestined glory. I have submitted my resume, my list of perhaps relevant work experience to a world class establishment in order to sustain hope for a second chance in my long awaited trip to the ‘motherland’, but it is a complicated scenario that I will delve into in a future episode. Separately from the food is the culture, in which I am a lowly outside observer. Not to degrade or minimize my own individual significance, but the reality remains that as an outsider, and these days, being an American, has a detrimental response to social interaction. We are politically blasphemed, and publicly protested against. My politics do not represent that of my government, but I am irrevocably proud of my country, even through its perpetuating struggle. This brings me to my next point…
…I am anxiously awaiting February 25, 2009 to arrive so that I can fly to the States. I will likely come home “empty handed”, that is, without auxiliary packages. I will likely return to a state of inner chaotic confusion which will lead me to wondering why I hadn’t stayed in Italy and traveled through Europe, avoiding customs and government agencies for the next 3 to 5 years. It is, without question, a choice that either answer will cause me great disappointment. The United States of America does not represent me anymore, nor do I represent it. Italy does not have a government, on the other hand, that I would invest any of my effort in trying to rationalize, so politically, a contorted U.S. takes a slight lead. The food here is precisely what I needed in my professional career, and I will be hard pressed to find a community, never mind an entire country, that plays with the same philosophy of agriculture and culinary quality the way the EU seems to. Italy, and the rest of Europe, all win in overwhelming dominance for my food knowledge diatribe over the US of A. What cannot be replaced, what I had been convinced I could live without for 24 years of my life were my social dependencies. It is the hardest aspect of living this far from home for me to handle, that I have a family back home who are finally all getting along, and I have trusted friends that I had become accustomed to seeing and talking with and trusting in for the first time in my life.

I am coming home, eventually. Whether it is February 25 or at another date and time. I am torn between the nature of the two cultures I’ve been a part of and in the next 3 weeks, I’ll be forced to determine, with certain micro-analysis, what my next step will be.

Go Slow, Stay Local
Va Piano, Rimane Locale.