The secret to a long life

Today I met my host dad's father who is 100 years old.
I don't know if I've met someone who was a century old before, but anyone I've met that was close definitely looked their age.

When we pulled up to this man's house, he was sitting on his porch reading a newspaper. When I walked up, he stood up to greet me with a Buonjorno and the traditional two kisses on the cheeks. I didn't understand anything he said, but that is because he spoke Italian. He still insisted on asking how I liked Italy, and he wanted to know exactly where I came from.
I had to ask his secret of life. This man was incredible.

It was quite simple:
Eat little, but eat often.
Walk a lot and read as much as you can.

This man grew up as a peasant. Literally. His family lived and grew apples on land that belonged to a count, or earl. They were incredibly poor. Luckily for him, the count was forced to let his peasants buy their own homes and land when he made a poor investment in the silk industry. So my host dad's grandpa spent his entire adult life working in a factory down the hill from his purchased home.
He walked up and down the hill/mountain every day. He still lives in that house today, surrounded by  his family, the most beautiful mountain valley I've ever seen, and a whole lot of fresh air.

He remembers everything and shows no signs of fading at all. He still reads, goes on walks, and loves to talk about life in the Non Valley.

I haven't decided if I want to be here for 100 years or not, but at least now I know. I'll keep ya posted on that one. Here, honestly, I get why it'd be worth it.

Dad's 50th birthday

Here is a funny story, in case you were missing them.

So a few weeks ago my older sister and younger brother were texting about what to do for Dad's upcoming birthday. We all agreed that since it was his 50th, it had to be something good.
Well here is the thing, all of us would be gone. Megan at school, Patrick and camp and me in Italy.
We also have no incomes. Well, Patrick has the old ladies at church that give seminarians a steady supply, but that's about it between us.

We agreed on getting a hammock, I think. We thought it would be great for the cabin and Dad would enjoy it. I mentioned that Dad doesn't ever relax so what is the point, but that was ignored.
I also mentioned a hot tub but that was shot down as well.

Well our planning fizzled, and nothing was purchased.

A week before I left for Italy I mentioned how sad I was to be missing Dad's big birthday. My mom started to say something and then stopped.

"Wait, Emmy, what did you say?"
"Dad's 50th birthday."
"You know he's turning 49, right?"
"Wait. Really?"
"Yes! Oh my gosh...wait are you serious you thought he was turning 50?!"
"No, yes...maybe! Patrick and Megan seemed so confident and nobody questioned it!"
"Wow, thats hilarious. Nope, just 49."

Well I was relieved because I'll be home to celebrate. And also maybe able to buy something nice.

The thing is I forgot to tell Megan or Patrick we were mistaken, so they each awkwardly found out courtesy of my father.

New Country Resolutions

So, I am officially one month in. Well, almost.
In many ways it has flown by. In other ways I think about every time I've tried to run on a treadmill. The first minute always seems to go by so fast, and in my second minute I'm like heck yeah I've got this! But by minute 8, a minute feels like the longest stretch of time in the world.
In case you're wondering I'm not much of a runner.
My spirits are well. Well, I take that back. I just made delicious french toast for Davide's lunch and he hated it. So I'm a little confused and hurt at the present moment.

What kid doesnt like french toast with home made jam and powedered sugar? I didn't make the jam, just in case you were wondering.
A week and a half ago my host mom Laura and I were getting coffee and she mentioned that she's a little concerned about me making friends (as in I haven't.) Until last week, I hadn't exactly wanted to. But last week I decided it was time.

So I caught a bus and used my map to find the Social Stone, a bar that has an English night every Thursday. I'm still unsure of how it started or if it is even with an organization. Most of the members are Italians working to improve their english, and people are of all ages.
So I showed up to the round table and said, "Hi, is this English night?" They said yes, and Boom. I had friends.

Its an interesting group. There was a real estate agent, a recent law school grad, a medical school hopeful, a primary school German teacher, a psychologist, and others. 
They were incredibly friendly, older than me, and enthusiastic that I was American. That was a surprise.
The most interesting guy I met was a French psychologist who told me I had excellent Italian pronunciation (which is a joke. 5 year old Maggie who I take care of will be the first to tell you that). I think he was a bit buzzed, but I'll take the compliment any day.

They spent most of the evenign asking me questions, and I was more than happy to talk about myself. If I had a dollar for every time I said "In America.... Where I'm from.... Oh ok, well I am used to...." I would at least have an extra month's worth of my Au pair salary. 

After drinks they walked me around to some local places. They added me to their group message and  promised to take me hiking. All these things I am ok with.

Things I am realizing:

A) I don't know how to make friends in the real world. This would be an issue anywhere I went, but it feels heightened in a foreign country. I went from being a youth group kid in high school, to a young life leader in college, to a camp counselor. All of these things helped me grow immensely and shape my identity in values I firmly believe it, but I've never been forced out of that Christian youth ministry esque circle.
Until now. And all of that is so foreign here. They don't understand summer camps, or high school ministry, much less young life. Trying to explain Young Life to a young woman I met was hilarious.

B) I may find friends that are like minded and enjoy my lame idea of fun, and maybe I won't. Either way it will be ok. I might not even find real friends at all, and that is ok, too.

C) I enjoy silence and alone time.

D) I am not here to bless Italy with the culture of America. It makes me feel important to be in that mindset, but its not true. I am here to learn and to immerse myself in new surroundings. Constantly comparing things to America is only going to build up walls that will keep me from being "all in."
If I keep this up I will never be comfortable and most definitely homesick.

So my resolution is to stop. Only speak of America when asked.
Seems like it'd be so easy, and I never thought I would be guilty of it. But I am that's just the reality.

Why I started writing

Growing up I always thought I was going to be famous. I firmly believed it was just going to happen. I was a classic middle child in many ways. I didn't care about pleasing mom and dad like my older sister did, and mom and dad were occupied with young brother (and beyond), so I never quite got the attention I wanted, though I demanded it often. In many ways this lead me to imagine that one day I would finally recieve all the attention my talents deserved.

Because having many siblings meant play dates with other kids were usually considered unnecessary; because my parents grossly limited our TV and computer game intake; because we live in Aiken SC where summer heat is unbearable and outdoor activities are limited to trees and trees alone; I read often.
If reading every AR book taught me anything, it was that journals were cool. And I knew that many famous people kept journals, and thats how we knew stuff about them. And these journals were worth a lot of money.
Well I decided that because I was going to be famous, I should keep a journal. Because one day someone would come accross it and consider themselves the luckiest person ever.
I wish I were kidding.
That is why I started keeping journals. 

On September 11th 2001, eight year old me did not fully understand what happened, but I knew it was important and I knew that when important things happened you were supposed to write something you were thinking when it was happening so you could look back and remember it. So it would be worth a lot of money.
 I pulled out my strawberry scented notebook and wrote: "Today is the day the bad men (I couldn't remember the word terrorist) flew a plane into the World Trade centers. It is the worst day of my life."

A few years later in 2003 I wrote "Today is the day the space shuttle exploded. I now want to be an astonaut."

A)That is terrible cause and effect logic.
B)I hated science so to this day I struggle to connect the dots on that one.

In 5th grade I thought I was going to be an actress. And if that didn't work out I could be a writer. Every so often I would write poems and short stories and read them to the world, so was sure I had talent.
But here's the thing. If a nine year old asks you to hear a poem she wrote and printed out on pretty paper with a hand drawn flower border, clearly she's proud of it. You wouldn't break her heart by telling her the poem is stupid because every line is the same except for the last world  in each sentence right?
Nobody told me. But they should have.

Anyways, I kept my journals all through middle school and high school. By the time I got to middle school people stopped telling me my writing was genius, so I stopped believing it was. But honestly I didn't really try too hard. In anything. I just assumed that people who "made it" doing cool things were constantly told "Oh my gosh you're a natural you could really be something!"It was always just known they were great.

Well I hadn't gotten any of that since 5th grade.

Then there comes a time when you have to decide what you want to do with your life. Such as, determining a major. Thats when I really had this "Shoot. I wish I was actually good at something." moment.
What was I good at? Anything?"

The only thing I could really think of was working with kids. I spent most of my time babysitting in high school, so in comparison to people who had social lives, I wasnt too shabby.
So I became an Elementary Ed. Major.
Two weeks into that, I knew I was going to hate it. Not working with kids, but the Elem. Ed. major.
Was I good at anything else? Like, better than other people good?
I got a 5 on my AP US History test, and that was better than most people. Done. Switched to History and Secondary Ed. Was I a great stand out student? Heck no, but I loved it.

So I'm not 8 anymore. Before I started this blog few people (with the exception of a few unfortunate college professors) read anything I wrote. Which is probably good, because it was mostly angsty prayer journal entries. I no longer want to be famous, and I no longer assume becoming famous is  an inevitable thing in my life.

Today I was reminiscing on my not so humble writing beginnings, and thinking "Wow! I've come so far. I don't only write as an offering to my future fans." But then I was thinking, so why am I writing?
This blog started out as a way to share self deprecating funny stories about myself.  These days its more of a "Hey this is what I'm doing...". The latter was easier, I can tell you that. As of late, my posts have been scattered, much like my thoughts and emotions.

I can't promise it'll get better any time soon, but thanks for joining me on this white water rafting esque blog phase.

(That means that things are sudden, exciting, always changing, and scary at the same time. I love analogies, so I could talk about this specific one for an hour but I won't.)

I'm bad at Vacations

I am a firm believer that self improvement is a good thing. For me it usually happens when realize an unpleasant something about myself. This week I realized that I'm still forgetful. Unfortunately my college diploma didn't fix that for me.
My friend Haley and her mom came to visit for a few days this week. Mrs. Hunt's one request was that she didn't want to plan anything. Fair enough. "No problem! I'll plan everything." The problem is I forgot to plan anything.
Its not that I am a complete space cadet, I just forget things. Often.
I'm not proud of it, trust me.

I tell myself its because I fill my head with too many important things, but we all know that is not true. Important things are quite the minority in my basket of thoughts; I'm just forgetful. Usually its misplacing objects.
Such as:
-The kindle my brother gave me for Christmas that I left on the first European plane I ever took. (Don't worry I already cried about it.)
-The keys to this house I've left in the house already.
-To respond to the few messages from friends I've gotten. This has no excuse, I literally have nobody to text here and I severely love my friends at home. I don't get it. 
-The fact that I was supposed to pick D. up from school at 3:05 not 4:20. I didn't realize this for a solid week. And no, nobody said anything to me. They just let me pick him up 25 min. late and said nothing.
Thankfully my mom friend Francesca told me, and I haven't done it again. Please Italians, you are not being rude by telling me I am consistently 25 min. late. Its because I have no idea what is going on ever; anything helps.

Anyways, I forgot to plan things for the Hunt's visit.  I had reservations for a nice dinner place, but that was it. So after they arrived and we went to the amazing dinner I realized I had no idea what to do the next day. So I went home and pulled out the mega pile of brochures that my Italian mom and I picked up at the tourism center in town.

A) There are lots of cool things to do here, no matter what American self appointed European travel experts say.
B) I can't read Italian so I didn't know what they were saying or how to sign up or what their hours were.
I feel like a little kid trying to convince my mom I was "reading" books but really just making up my own story based on the pictures. She always bought it.
So I decided to sleep on it, and in the morning I hatched my grand plan to them: walk around town, and maybe go see the castle. And then make dinner with my Italian family. 

A few factors made this interesting:
A) I still didnt know my way around town. Its pathetic. I say didnt like I do now. Lol. Still don't.

B) It was the first day of summer heat. I'll be honest, I was expecting chill summers. Cool mornings, cool nights, and a bit of heat in between. Nah. 80-95 all day. And no air conditioning. They're all about energy conservation here and air conditioning is just excessive. I mean yeah, but its nice. So I've just been sweating for a week, pretty much all day long. There could be worse things, I realize that.

C) It was a National Holiday so almost every store worth seeing was closed.

D) Walking all day long takes a lot out of you. There is only so much coffee and gelato can do for sweaty feet.
I actually havent found anything gelato and coffee can do for sweaty feet. If discover one, holler at me please.

We ended up coming back in the afternoon and passing out.
Haley and I spent awhile brainstorming something to make for dinner. We were going to do a fun "cultural exchange" that meant we cook American things and they cook Italian..yadda yadda. Well there is the thing:
They cook with grams, not volume.
They don't have baking soda, or American flour, or vanilla extract, or chocolate chips, or baking powder, or brown sugar.
I've been so stressed out by having to use number conversions (and my brain, really) to cook things I know, I really haven't cooked at all. Sorry family. I made tomato soup and grilled cheese actually, but that's about it. That dish was a hit though, they had never seen anything like it.
^ok thats a lie. Tomatoes cheese and bread are full on staples in their diet, but they had never experienced it in this American combination.

Haley used her magic science powers to make lemon bars that were wildly successful. And I made over cooked chicken and veggie kabobs that were politely praised.

The dinner was great. Having Haley and her mom here made Italy feel like home, which hadn't happened until that night. We talked, laughed, and shared stories with my wonderful host family until midnight; and we could have kept going.

As warm, inviting, and loving as my host family is; it is hard trying to be completely myself when I so badly want them to like me. Not in a bad way, but if you are entering as a guest into a new family, of course you want them to like you. They are paying for my food, room, vacations, at entrusting their children to me. Its normal to want them to think they are making a good investment.

What I needed was to be made fun of. The reminder to not take myself too seriously; and for someone who knows me like family tell stories and laugh about the stupid things I do. I needed someone to affirm for my host family that with me, what you see is what you get.

As the Hunts were saying goodbye, Mrs. Hunt said something along the lines of "You guys are so wonderful, Emmy is incredibly blessed to have you." And they said, "Well we are so blessed to have her, really we are."

I needed that. A seemingly simple affirmation that I am in the right place.
So does Italy feel like home yet? No, at it probably never will. But does it feel right? Yes it does.
It feels overwhelming, and I'm in freak out mode all the time, and humbled because I never know what is going on and I can't read people or situations like I'm used to and that is a huge pride killer in and of itself.
But we aren't called to a life of comfort.

At camp W we have this chart for camper growth. It looks like target and the inner circle is comfort zone. The middle one is growth zone, and the outer one is freak out zone.

The goal is to get our campers in the growth zone, but we have to monitor to make sure they dont end up in freak out zone because that is not productive. It was always easy enough to get kids to get out of their comfort zone when I am happily in my comfort zone doing it.

But now I've been pushed out. Its not easy, but its where I need to be. So basically I'm in growth zone with occasional visits in freak out zone. And occasional visits in comfort zone.
Maybe for the first time in my life I'm realizing that comfort is a gift, not something I've earned or deserve.