I am going to do a series where I post a picture from my time in Italy and I tell the story behind it. This is in an effort of me trying to record these memories, mistakes, and joys as they happened and felt.
This was in May, the day Irene, Francesca’s daughter, was baptized. At this point I could understand little of what Francesca said, but I knew that I loved her because she loved me. She told me that she was nervous about the ceremony, and I could see it on her face and in the cake that may have been more elaborate than her wedding cake. I made small talk with her sisters that had very little in common with me beside the fact that we both somewhat wanted out of Italy.
Five year old Margherita then gave me these flowers. Our relationship was still in the stage of me being a novelty, and I was silly enough to think that meant genuine affection.
In Italian they say you are talking to the universe when you attempt to make sense of things that are bigger than yourself.
Laura and I looked over the mountainside balcony at the view of Cognola, and she asked me what I was going to do after Italy. I said I didn’t know. I would probably be a teacher, or perhaps I would strike it lucky with art, but I would most likely be a teacher. She was quiet, and then then she said that she thought that must be an American thing.
“What,” I asked, “Wanting to teach and do art?”
“No,” she said, “It is American to say you know what you will do. Maybe it is because we have less job opportunities here, but Italians are never certain they will be anything. I think we are more realistic. I’ve met other Americans this way, and I’m just noticing the connection now.”
“So Italians never say that they want to do a certain job?”
“Not really. They have a direction and follow what they like, usually. Mostly they just take what they can get. For us it is harder to be as particular like you guys.”
“So did you always want to be an economics professor?”
“Oh no. But I kept studying, taking the next step, and this is where I am. I am very lucky you know. It is a wonderful job, but at your age I would have never said that this job is what I wanted to do. I suppose I’m asking why you young Americans are so certain of what you want.”
This jolted me from my placid mountain gaze. I was brought back to my elementary school classrooms in career week where my seven year old self watched parents stand up and explain why their life choice was the best life choice. They solidified their vocation as the best way to help humanity. What are you going to be when you grow up? It was always a choice.
It was like deciding to eat the doughnut I just bought from the bakery. Choosing the correct purchase was the hard part; once I picked and paid, everything fell into place. Why would I second guess my ability to eat the doughnut once it was allegedly mine?
As I felt universe was pulling me out of my comfort level into a new realm of self actualization, I replied, “I don’t know.” I had to stop there for a moment, because that is the best thing to do when I'm not sure what to say.
I tried again, “ It might be the way we are raised. It always felt like it was a choice we had to make and it would happen. But perhaps reality doesn’t work like that.”
That night was the first of many when I felt small.
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