Crazybananas

When I lived in Italy, I had a lovely professor(a) named Francesca. She was the second Italian professor I had in college, and she was incredible. She was about five feet tall, gorgeous, arms decorated with random tatoos, long, wavy black hair. She was young, probably 27 or 28, but she had two gorgeous kids and the most incredible accent I’d ever heard. She’d been born and raised in Florence, but when she was in her late teens, she met an American boy, studying in her city. After three days together, travelling across Italy via train, he asked her to marry him. And she said yes.

Her family thought she was insane, but she packed up and moved to America. Lawrence, Kansas, to be specific, where her young husband was studying at the University. She became an Italian teacher by chance, and then began teaching at KU. She was always kind, never scolded and made the language so much fun to learn. She encouraged us to immerse ourselves in it, even hosting random nights out at local college bars, where we were only allowed to speak in Italian.

Every year she would travel, with her young children, back to Florence with a group of KU students who were studying abroad. The program was based in her hometown and she was able to see her family while she was there. It was the best of both worlds, she kept her job, her trips home were paid for, and her kids got to really “be” Italian for a good amount of time each year. It broke my heart, when during a drunken night out on the town, surrounded with the intense history of the city, she confessed that her marriage was on the rocks, and she was preparing for divorce.

I remember being so sad. Such a lovely love story, over, just like that. I asked her what she was planning to do about her living situation. Would she move home, to Florence, or stay in Lawrence with her children? She answered without hesitation, she would stay in Kansas. When I asked why (Somewhat rudely, but really? Lawrence, Kansas over Florence, Italy?), she just said, “Well, I remember my first day in Kansas. I remember looking up, and thinking I had never seen skies as beautiful as that. And I knew it was my home. No matter how often I come back, I think of that sky, and I know where I belong.”

Every spring, when the grey-ness of winter fades and blue lights up the sky again, I think about Francesca. She’s right, you know. The skies here are more beautiful than anything I’ve ever seen. And no matter where my life may take me, I’ll always know where my home is.

One of my best friends in the whole world is having a baby. Just four years ago we were listening to Portuguese marching bands and hopping random trains to Amsterdam, and now we’re both going to be parents. Crap. I fear for the future.

With the help of the wonderful Kristi Kay and my gorgeous mother-in-law, I threw a ducky themed baby shower (based off this shower on Hostess with the Mostess) for my dear Abbie this past weekend. After the guests had left, I took some quick photos of Abbs with her big ole belly. Taking pictures at events like these always makes me yearn for a new lens. One that possibly doesn’t suck and that can actually handle high exposure. The grass is always greener, I suppose.

For the entire set, click here.

Sitting on the steps of the duomo in Florence, waiting to for the rest of the group to arrive. Not realizing that this was the most amazing meeting place on the planet.

The train ride through Tuscany to the beach.

That first night in Florence, when we went for a walk in the rain and two young, Italian guys in full suits ran by us, stopped and said “che bellissima” and kept running.

Throwing up outside of bars and being called idiot americans.

Our matching tube tops.

You teaching me about art.

The bartender at Dolce Vita that turned out to be extremely short and hid it by standing on a platform behind the bar.

Burritos.

Riding home on the back of mopeds in the middle of the night.

Trips to the market to buy expensive beer because we missed home.

Trips to the cigarette machine down the street.

Smoking on the balcony overlooking the city with our fashion school roommates.

I miss you, Anna Banana. Happy birthday. I hope Japan is as wonderful as Italy. And I hope you’ve found everything you were looking for.

You should, it was well documented on this site. I was in Italy and afraid I would never again get the chance to eat gelato with reckless abandon, so I ate 3 delicious ice cream treats each day to make up for it. And I ballooned. It was truly frightening.

Since then, I’ve “tried” to be a little better about my obession with sweets, ice cream in particular. I’ve cut down quite a bit, I think. My husband would disagree. But he also owns a Quake t-shirt and used to attend LAN “parties” in old warehouses, so, really, who is he to question me?

So yesterday, when I checked my work email in Iowa and saw that we were having an ice cream social at my work (yes, I work at one of those places that has random ice cream socials), I didn’t curse or scream or throw a fit because I was out of the office. But when I got in today and received an email about how there was leftover ice cream in the upstairs kitchen, I tried to stay away. I succeeded until about 8:30 a.m. Then I ate this:

And now, I may vomit.

I just got off the phone with a friend of mine from Italy (Hi Anna Banana!)who had been surfing my site at work. She said she had been looking at my pictures from last summer and she got extremely emotional and just wanted to hear my voice. I could only talk for a few moments (work calls unfortunately), but I understood exactly where she was coming from.

It’s strange to live in a place where reality is really a fantasy. Where you’re living a life that will only be yours for a short time. Time seems to stand quietly, letting you believe that this fantasy life is truly yours. Only to sneak up on you and snatch it all away in one quick (well, not exactly quick) plane ride. Then your dropped back into whatever mess you’ve left behind. All of the problems and fears you had run off to escape are right in your face again, and it’s a test to see if you’re strong enough to handle them.

When I returned from Italy, I didn’t think I was strong enough. In fact, I thought my life was over. I wasn’t sure I could fix all of the things I’d screwed up. I wanted to go back to Italy, where things were ‘easy.’ I was depressed, lonely and deeply afraid that my life was crashing down around me.

Today, one year after my Italian summer, things are very different. I’ve gone through so many changes resulting from that trip and my subsequent return to life as I know it. But yesterday, I realized something. It hit me several times during the day. As I ordered Mexican food to feed my hangover. As I snuggled up to Trent to take an early afternoon nap. As I was covered from head to toe in 4-year-olds who felt I was a human jungle gym. As I went to a movie I’d been wanting to see with a group of friends. And as I drove home from that movie with a cool summer storm enveloping my car. Steam rising from the roads. A new CD blared. And I thought, “Holy shit, I’m happy. I’m truly, deeply, strangely happy.”

That’s what came from all of that fear. I faced it. I was actually strong enough. I still can’t believe it. I have no idea how I got here. But I’m here. That’s what counts. Now I can look back at those pictures from last summer and smile. And miss those times. Those people. That life. But I’m not sad. And I don’t have regrets. I’m happy right where I am. So. Very. Strange.