the update

Anyone reading must still have me in their feed and it’s either because they never took the time to delete this very quiet blog or because they never gave up on me, and if that’s the case, thank you!

I owe you an update, although not much has changed since I left off other than our ages (38, 11 and 7) and I’m no longer single. But sharing details of my kids’ personal lives here feels like an invasion of their privacy and sharing details of mine, well, ditto.

In general I have tried to avoid writing/talking publicly about my marriage and post-marriage love life. My ex and I have had an amicable separation and divorce and I didn’t want to spoil that. Also, the immediate aftermath was complicated and I was sad and confused for a year, or three. It was generous of me to spare you the tedium of so much navel gazing and gloom.

Through it all the boys and I were carrying on with school and work and the lifelong project of trying our best to be good people and to live a good life well.

And the years rolled by… it’s been 16 of them since I came to Northern Italy to live. Never have I been in one country so long, and when people here ask me where I’m from I say the name of our town and they laugh. It’s a joke. Ha ha! How can I explain that right now no other place feels like home?

All things considered, we like our life here. Sometimes a familiar restlessness creeps up inside me and that is when I fantasize about a new adventure somewhere else. I entertain the idea of moving to Spain or South America. More realistically, a couple of years ago, I was toying with the idea of spending a year with the boys in the States, but my ex said no. I tried some gentle persuasion, but he would not relent and as positive as I think that experience would have been for us (or would be if he ever changes his mind), I understand his view that it would be unfair. He has made huge sacrifices to remain a crucial part of our children’s lives and to help me raise them. Taking them away would be cruel. So I have decided to stick around a little longer.

My choice became less difficult last year when I fell in love with a wonderful man. What an exhilarating rush that was! A big surprise and so much fun! The first year it was all fireworks and endorphins and crazy lust, and now we are happily discovering that we actually genuinely like each other (and he my children) even without the onslaught of new love hormones.

Things are good. They are so good, in fact, that, except for an occasional bout of adventure-lust temporarily curable with a nice little trip someplace new, I wouldn’t want them any other way.

Posted in like anyone cares, something beautiful | 9 Comments

middle school

After a long while of feeling no need to write in this forum, I began mentally composing a new post this week as the first of my two sons, Eleven, started Italian middle school.

This is our first experience with public school since we used a private school for elementary so my kids could continue on with their closest friends from preschool. Private school is a little paradise for parents, relatively affordable with lots of coddling, endless reassurance and special favors available upon request. Everyone is very nice to the children too.

So far public school has me a little bewildered. First the book ordering. Some of the mothers mentioned we had to order the kids’ books over the summer. Fine. How do we know which books to order? It turns out the school doesn’t tell you but the bookstores somehow know, and provide lists online. I decided to get a headstart and ordered all of Eleven’s books online in June, although the website said that some of them wouldn’t be available until later, but that I could “reserve” copies. When I got back from the States, a few still had not been delivered and the publishing date on a couple was September 23rd, 10 days after school started. This didn’t seem strange to any one but me.

The original store where I had ordered them emailed me last week to say they would not be able to deliver the last of his books and would cancel the remainder of our order, so I bought those books on Amazon. This week the original store emailed me a notice that they were sending me the same books. And of course that was the day I received them from Amazon. So I guess next year I will wait and order everything directly on Amazon. Live and learn.

Every day Eleven comes home with a list of materials he needs. Fortunately, he is smart and attentive and can explain to me what the difference is between a quadernone ad anelli and a quadernone like the kind he needed in elementary school. On Monday we went to the store together and I nearly had a minor breakdown. Yesterday was a little better, and today I just gave him some money and sent him on his own.

The actual school day is short this week. He only went three hours on Monday and gets out an hour early until next week when the regular schedule sets in, or probably. You never know here. There is no gym class this week because of the mosquito infestation in the brand new gym they finished building two years ago.

He had a substitute yesterday for the class they call “Technology” because the teacher “wasn’t there”. They had a substitute for French today for the same reason. The kids asked where these teachers were (“Still on vacation?”) but the substitutes would not say.

There is a teachers’ strike tomorrow. I read about it in the paper and but had no idea how it worked. The teachers never went on any strikes at the private school. I asked around and it was explained to me that you don’t know until the last minute whether there will be school or not. The kids go to school and if the first period teacher is there, they stay for the day, regardless of whether their other teachers are there; if the first period teacher is strikingthey return home. But there is no knowing much in advance.

Luckily, he is smart and eager and hopefully will learn something in all this confusion. So far he has great things to say about his Italian teacher. His Math teacher is OK and the English teacher, in his words, is “Italian. She said, ‘How slowly this computer!’ at the beginning of class, hahahah! So I don’t think she knows English very well. And I tried telling her how to pronounce my name. I told her twice but she didn’t get it, so I just gave up.”

Posted in Uncategorized | 9 Comments

still here

breck moon 2015 004

We spent another peaceful summer in the Rockies and returned home happy and replenished from our five weeks there. I always dread leaving a little bit – it so beautiful and wholesome there; any place else seems tarnished in comparison – but then we get home and it feels right to be back. There may be no sky like the Great Western Sky, but if I go for a run in the hills five minutes from our little apartment and catch a glimpse of our city between the trees, and beyond the red tile roofs and church towers, there stand the first small Dolomites, I think hey, look at that, can you believe this is your home? A place as foreign and as beautiful as all that?

And in this way it often seems to me that I have managed to stitch together the best of many different worlds. Since this past winter the feeling that I am so fortunate to have this life, these boys, this family and these friends, these beautiful places to call home has grown and grown, and the only time I can remember ever feeling quite so content and quite so fortunate was at the tail end of winter 2011, when spring was budding in the green hills where we lived just outside this town.


How things change, how boys grow! How humbling to realize that the things I was so worried about, so sure would be the ruin of us all, turned out to be the very best part and what made everything else all worthwhile.

Posted in like anyone cares, picture taking, The boys, Travel | 8 Comments

lake orta

orta Lake Berryessa is a manmade lake in Northern California, and where I spent all the summers of my childhood. It was formed by diverting natural rivers to flood the valley where the town of Monticello once was, and when I’d swim and waterski in the lake, especially as a kid, but even as I got older, I’d imagine roads and houses and schools, tables and chairs and beds, and sometimes, when I’d let myself get really carried away, ghostlike shadows of the people who had inhabited Monticello before the lake was made. Out in the water, alone, just me and a ski, waiting for the boat to come around and get me, I could get my heart racing with the thought of toys left behind, overturned in the slimy mud and now brown and mossy on the deep, dark floor below.

If that weren’t enough to freak a little girl out, to justify the family rule that everyone had to wear a life jacket or belt when swimming in the lake, my grandmother would tell us the tragic tales of people who had drowned while swimming without a safety device.

Her stories haunt me still.

Last year I swam a non-competitive 3 km in the sea in Croatia, and was panicky the entire time. I couldn’t wait for it to end, and when it finally did I knew I’d be just as jittery the next time around.

This year, I signed up for a competitive 4.5 km swim in Lago d’Orta, a beautiful lake in Piedmont, one of the most beautiful lakes I’ve ever seen, about three hours from where I live. Lake Berryessa will always and forever hold a very special place in my heart, but Lake Orta, well, as soon as we arrived and I caught sight of a perfect expanse of blue framed by hills and mountains, with a perfect little island in the middle, I couldn’t wait to jump in.

And so I did, we all did, everyone from my swim team. But as I moved farther from the shore, the water got darker and my chest contracted. What are you so scared of, one my friends asked, and I tried to explain. Oh yeah, said someone else, it’s that primordial fear of the deep, dark unknown. This was a guy two times my weight, with arms as thick as my thighs. “I get that, too, sometimes,” he said.

It helped to put a name on it, and it helped to know I wasn’t the only one. The idyllic setting helped too. I was a little freaked out when the race began, but pulled myself together by concentrating on the water, my stroke, the other swimmers’ graceful bodies in the water all around me. Once I got going, I was fine. It took me about the same amount of time it takes me to finish a half marathon, but it felt like half that. It was completely painless and enjoyable, nothing like a running race where I sometimes have to remind myself that the faster I run, the sooner the agony will end.

When I climbed out of the water, I was a little dazed from all that swimming. It felt funny to feel the weight of my body after my weightlessness in the water. Mostly, it felt good. I was almost sorry it was over. And next time I don’t think I’ll be scared at all.

Posted in Uncategorized | 2 Comments



We spent a sensational weekend in Turin with friends: first an early train ride, a visit to the Film Museum and lots of walking around the city on Saturday, then a visit to the Egyptian Museum and a little more walking around on Sunday before catching the train back home again.

No one ever complained about the walking, not even once!

Saturday at dinner Six said to me, “I love Torino. Let’s move here!”

“Yes,” I  said. “Let’s!”

Unfortunately, Ten did not share our enthusiasm, and was quick to veto our plans.

Posted in The boys, Travel | 2 Comments


Rarely are the events in our lives linear, rarely do they make much sense, but if we bend them a little, fold this bit back, bring this part to the front, artfully arrange the pieces not quite the way they fell, we can mold them into a narrative that not only makes sense, but is more flattering and props us up.

All the days of last week were warm and sunny, save one, and that was the day I got divorced. The hearing lasted all of six seconds, enough time for us to shuffle into the judge’s dreary office, exchange buongiornos, sit down, sign three sheets of paper, stand up and shuffle out again.

I blew off work for the rest of the day, ran some errands at government offices and met my ex for lunch. Naturally, in between our unabashed glorification of our children’s many miraculous accomplishments, there was some mundane talk about what went wrong and how we never managed to fix it. I had the salmon, he had the couscous, and then we went to buy some underwear for Ten, who is outgrowing everything he owns.

He looked a little sad when we said goodbye, but not terribly much, although he added, “Che peccato,” which means “Such a shame,” and I nodded, because until then, it had, indeed, seemed precisely that. But even as I nodded, I knew I didn’t mean it. Something had shifted in the six seconds in the judge’s office and, especially, over lunch. I rode off on my bike in the rain and started asking myself what it was.

For four years I’d experienced our failed marriage as exactly that – a shameful failure. And yet I’d never felt the least temptation to give it another try.

So it didn’t last the rest of the life of the one who died first, we did pretty well considering what we had to work with, and what we have now is far better than what we would have had if we’d forced ourselves to stay together to meet other people’s expectations of what a marriage is.

It was a nice little love story. And if I can write it so that it ends when he says, under the shelter of a portico, while I hold a bag of our son’s new underpants in my hand, “Che peccato,” the ending was just right.

Posted in Separation anxiety | 2 Comments

just albanian

Yesterday, a friend asked me to pop in a shop near her apartment and get her a couple of things. I must have said something a little off, or my accent must have slipped through, because the shop owner said, “AHA! You’re not Italian!” Which used to happened to me all the time, and now only rarely, because either everyone I talk to already knows me or I fit in enough to pass as an Italian, or I have my kids with me, and speak to them in English, making it very obvious where I am from and no one thinks I am trying to trick them.

“No,” I confessed.

“What nationality?” he asked.

I smiled.

He raised his voice and enunciated slowly: “What N A T I O N A L I T Y ?”

“Wouldn’t you rather guess?”

“Russian!” he said.

I laughed.

“Ukrainian!” his wife guessed.

I shook my head.

“No, no, Polish!” said another customer in the store. “Or Albanian!”

“I think she’s Russian,” said the shop owner again.

In the end I told them I was American and thanked them for the laugh.

“We never would have guessed American!” they all said as I left the store.

Of course, as soon as I saw her, I asked my friend if I looked Russian. “You could pass as Russian. Not Albanian though!”

I saw another friend later and asked him. “You could be Russian, or even Albanian. I used to see a group of Albanian prostitutes near where I used to work and yeah, you could be Albanian.”

“Albanian or an Albanian prostitute?”

“No, just Albanian.”

Posted in like anyone cares, the neighborhood | 1 Comment