Post #5: 10 Years Later

This picture shows my youngest sister, born 9/11/90, with my grandpa during a family trip to NYC. It was taken in late August of 2001 to capture a moment between grandfather and granddaughter. We wouldn’t realize the significance of the snapshot’s backdrop until three weeks later...

It was an event that altered the course of history and claimed 2,983 innocent lives. An event that turned September 11^th from a date in the calendar year to a stand-alone title of the most devastating act of terrorism to take place on American soil.

How many people can remember where they were when they learned about the 9-11 attacks? Most of you, I am sure. I was in my Physics classroom. I don’t remember many of my high school days, but I will never forget that one.

Today, 10 years later, I look back on the tragedies. I listen to the names of those who died as they are read by the family members they left behind. There are mothers who lost sons, men who lose their wives, children that never met their fathers because they were born months after the towers fell… and the list goes on.

Whenever I remember that fateful day, I remind myself of this: it was hate that inspired the attack, but it was love that came out of it. Love for our country and love for the heroes within it. Some of these heroes wore uniforms while others did not. All risked their lives to save others, and far too many ended up making that ultimate sacrifice. I feel incredibly proud to live in the country that such extraordinary people called their own. And to be a part of a community that never forgets, forever honoring those who died 10 years ago with nothing less than love. 

Post #4: Ready... Set...

As of last Wednesday, Kevin’s back in Italy! Besides Hurricane Irene delaying his departure by two days, and the airline losing his sticks at the London layover, the trip was smooth. He was met at the airport by the same duo that greeted us last September. Except this time they brought a flat-bed truck as opposed to the small hatchback they brought last year. I still cannot believe we managed to fit four passengers, six bags, and a set of hockey sticks into that vehicle! Even though it was obviously made by the manufacturers of Mary Poppins’ handbag, our faithful transporters decided not to push their luck this time. A flat-bed truck offered more than enough room for Kevin and his bags this time.

Since then, Kev’s days have been made up of double sessions, team appearances, pre-season games, and the gradual adjustment to the six hour time change. He’s been busy to say the least, but he reports that this year is off to a more organized start than the last. It could be his familiarity with the area or it might be related to the fact that he never lost communication with his homeland. Unlike last year where we were car-less, phone-less, and internet-deprived for weeks, he started out the season with his phone from last year. And, since our apartment isn’t ready yet, he’s being put up at a hotel that amazingly offers free WIFI.

While he continues his Italian transition, I’ve been finalizing details with insurances that needs modifying, subscriptions that need cancelling, gifts for our Italian friends that need buying, this weekend’s party that needs planning, and paperwork that needs endorsing. All of this plus packing because, in one week, I will be joining him! 

Post #3: Buon Anno Nuovo

Happy New Year!

For the majority of the adult population, the start of a new year corresponds with the commencement of a new fiscal one. The date is January 1^st, and the ceremonious occasion is celebrated with champagne, a ball-drop countdown, and resolutions for the year to come.

For teachers, however, the start of a new year is marked by the first day of school. The date is different than the January “new year”, but the excitement, anticipation, and sleeplessness leading up to it are the same. It happens somewhere between the end of August and the day after Labor Day and the event is celebrated with teacher workshops, lesson plans, and back to school shopping. (Like students, teachers love back to school shopping! I guess you never truly grow out of the love for new binders and pens, or for the carefully selected apparel ensemble that gets laid out the night before the first day.)

As I have learned by living the hockey life, the teacher’s year coincides with a hockey player’s year rather nicely. The season begins, in most leagues, around the time that school starts. In the weeks leading up to it, players hit the ice to prepare for pre-season training. They organize their work-out schedules like teachers do lesson plans. And they do their own version of back-to-school shopping. Skates, sticks, and, for Kevin, goalie equipment. Pads, gloves, blockers, chest protectors, and helmets, and he awards the same meticulous attention to choosing the color scheme for that protective gear as I do when selecting color coordinated school supplies for my classes.

Though I will not be teaching this year (school year, that is), I appreciate that my life still revolves around the same schedule. Many years of operating on the school year calendar make me look forward to September as a month of new beginnings in the same way that most people look forward to January. And I’m glad that I can still experience the excitement I would normally feel this time of year even though I am not returning to the classroom. Because, while I am not prepping the classroom and planning original ice-breaker activities for a new crew of math scholars, I am packing for Italy. And as much as I will miss being a part of the school community, I am excited to see what the year will bring. 

Post #2: Life's a Beach

When I was exploring Italian towns, rarely were my eyes afforded the opportunity to look down.  So there I would be, practically tripping over my own two feet as I navigated blindly over the lopsided cobblestone streets that were positioned below, and thus outside of, my allowable range of vision. The truth is, there was so much to see and I had only two eyes to see it all with! Tripping would have been but a small occupational hazard to my wide-eyed marveling of the details around me. 

Residents of whichever town I was wandering were surely observant of my unsure-footedness and probably had to take a few extra strides around me as they passed to account for my noticeable weaving. I of course, didn’t have time to notice my impact on the foot traffic… I was too busy looking at the buildings, the markets, the colors, the road signs, the mountains…

As I sidestepped, miss-stepped, spun around, and sauntered on in my mesmerized state, I often wondered to myself, where in New England could I bring a native Italian to inspire such a state of amazement? The quaint piazzas and ancient architecture that made my jaw drop were little more than the familiar backdrop of their daily lives. Surely they appreciate the beauty of their home country, but not in such a way that they were walking along like me, in what could be mistaken as a drunken stupor. So, where in Northeastern America could the scenery captivate an Italian’s attention to this extreme?

Having returned to the States, this very question often makes me notice little details in my surroundings that might be different enough to be intriguing to an unsuspecting Italian tourist… the set up of our neighborhoods, the usefulness of a cul de sac, the abundance of stop lights, the height of a skyscraper, the novelty of a 24-hour convenience store, an IHOP breakfast. I am also more aware of things that  are the same, like many of the store names that were directly extracted from Italian vocabulary. A boutique called “Bella”, a spice and olive oil shop called “Gustare”, a restaurant called “Papa Ginos” (okay, not so much this last one).

Beyond spotting cross-cultural similarities and differences since coming home, I often find myself saying, “I bet an Italian would like this” about things that might be appreciated by a foreign visitor. Say for example, when I am eating my grandfather’s signature barbeque ribs, sipping an oversized coffee from a travel mug, or grocery shopping in the middle of the day. There are also many places that I’ve visited since my homecoming that have inspired this declaration and thereby reminded me of just how beautiful New England really is. Most recently, there’s one destination that I’ve found myself thinking all Italians-in-New England should see…

For the past six weeks, we have been staying at my husband’s parents’ home on Cape Cod since I can commute from there to my summer teaching position outside of Boston. The commute isn’t easy, but coming home to a house a few steps from the beach certainly lessens the burden.  The more time I spend on the Cape, the more I come to understand why hoards of vacationers are willing to battle unavoidable and unrelenting traffic to get there on any Friday night or Saturday in the summer only to battle it again on their Sunday afternoon or Monday morning return trip. Quite simply… it’s worth it.

So, what makes the Cape so special? Well, there’s the charm of the towns and the beauty of their beaches. Consider Sandwich, the town in Upper Cape where I am currently boarding with my in-laws. This town is more residential than some of the more popular Cape destinations like say, Hyannis or Chatham. In Sandwich, you can drive along 6A and stop at countless little restaurants, ice cream spots, and jewelry shops. There are several old buildings that stand as beautiful reminders of colonial America. There’s a farmer’s market on Wednesdays and a tiny farmstand that offers delicious ears of corn and a fresh selection of vegetables daily. The homes epitomize oceanside New England living… Cape style constructions with sand dollars adorning paned windows, and “Life’s a Beach” décor signs situated next to blossoming hydrangea bushes in the gardens.  Not to mention that most of the sideroads branching off of 6A end at a quiet beach. The ocean, too cold for a girl who grew up swimming in lake water, is nonetheless refreshing. It is clean and clear enough for our dog to perfect his new trick of retrieving rocks from underwater.

Each town along the cape has its own qualities, but they are all characterized by a similar feel to the one described in Sandwich. Even the “touristy” spots along the water maintain this personality. Families flock to Chatham, for instance, where the downtown is always bustling with shoppers and outdoor patios are the place to be for grabbing a late lunch.  Lighthouse beach is speckled with sandcastles, sunbathers, and the occasional Frisbee throwers. Seal-spotting (and, as of recent years, Great White watching) is a popular tradition.

Wellfleet is another excellent spot along the coast where the waves are high and the sand dunes are higher. A drive-in theater allows for a fun evening excursion, and a beachtop restaurant is another excellent spot to relax under the sun.

A unique and appreciated component of the Cape is its paved and bike-friendly rail trail. Outdoor enthusiasts can park their cars in Dennis and bike to Wellfleet or Chatham and beyond. And the list of outdoor activities available in this seaside escape goes on…

Yes, the Italians have the Cinque Terre, five towns which are among the most beautiful I have seen in Italy. But I bet that any Italian would look at the simplistic gray-shingled homes set against the backdrop of the Atlantic Ocean with the same awe that I took in the colorful Italian villas set in the forefront of the Ligurian Sea. 

Post #1: Second Helpings

What felt like a three minute break from writing was apparently a three month hiatus from it. But, I’ve decided to bring the blog back. And what better timing to resuscitate Life, Love, and Gelato than now, when I see many parallels in my current life to the day that I published my very first post…

A year ago, on July 31^st. Matt White’s rendition of “Love” was playing while I fed my brand new husband a piece of our custom made Coconut with Strawberry filling wedding cake. Soon after, I was honeymooning in Cancun, drinking electric lemonades on the beach, and eating an ice cream dessert after every meal.  Soon after that, I was bouncing around New England to say my farewells before heading off to Italy for seven months of new adventures.

Fast forward to today, where I am just a few days removed from having eaten a piece of that same Coconut cake in celebration of our first anniversary. (Despite having been frozen then thawed, it was still delicious!) Though I am working as opposed to relaxing on the beach in Cancun, I do visit the ocean and eat an ice cream dessert on most nights that I crash with the in-laws on Cape Cod. And, like last year at this time, I am spending my weekends traveling throughout New England to visit loved ones, because, soon enough, I’ll be headed back to Italy. Yes, that’s right. As if writing it outoud will make it more real, I will write it again…. I am headed back to Italy.

So yes, there are clear similarities between my life now and my life 39 posts ago. My “home” still lacks a permanent address, and my life still lacks a more-than-tentative yearly plan. But I am not “home”less, and, as it turns out, plans are overrated. So, things are going just fine as I transition to this next chapter. 

Post #39: The Calm Before the Swarm

I love a good old-fashioned rainy day. The kind of day where changing out of your sweatpants is not required, but you can consider it an extraordinary accomplishment if you do make it into a pair of jeans. The kind of day you can watch  Lifetime original movies or an America’s Next Top Model marathon for seven consecutive hours, and do so shamelessly. Sometimes rainy days are useful for fulfilling household chores. Other times they are useful for doing nothing at all. A rainy day, no matter how you choose to use it, ultimately feels like time well spent. Unless, of course, the rainy day falls on a day you planned to be outside. Or on a weekend in the Summer. (Passing showers are acceptable in this case but only if the excuse is needed for a little afternoon nap.) Rainy days are also not-so-welcome on the day of a wedding or any Monday of a holiday weekend. I guess I really should have been more clear… I love a good-old-fashioned rainy day when it conveniently situates itself into my schedule in consistency with my energy level and desire for the excuse to do nothing or a whole lot of something that would otherwise be a nuisance but isn’t because I’ve got nothing better to do because it’s raining.

So yeah, under the right conditions, I love a rainy day. But, notice the singularity of the word ‘day’. Very rarely do I appreciate rainy days delivered consecutively. They usually lose their novelty after 24 hours. I mean, I’m not THAT lazy.

So, yeah, April was tough up here at Lake Sunapee. When it wasn’t raining, misting, or snowing, it was foggy. And the fogginess carried with it a dampness that forewarned of rain to come. The weight of the gray mist that settled over the water made it feel like the sun had permanently vacated the sky, and I should, therefore just be appreciative that at least it wasn’t raining.

My rainy day to-do list (clean under the refrigerator, take a ridiculously long nap, sew back together the dog’s stuffed animals, read a celebrity magazine, or do none of the above without feeling guilty about not checking things off a list) became a sunny day to-do one (straighten my hair since it won’t get ruined by rain, rake, run, hike, and stay outside for as long as possible).

As I waited for sun to come back, I turned 26, I time-traveled back to colonial times and learned to live with a woodstove as the primary source of heat, I figured out how to bring a colonial cottage into the technological era (hello Ipad 2), I spent Easter with some family, went to NYC to visit more family, I policed traffic while a couple large snapping turtles crossed the street, I fulfilled a few pre-wedding bridesmaid duties, I joined a gym, and I got a job (a real one that I will get paid to do, unlike my other self-awarded professions of the past 8 months like ‘Gelato Connoisseur’ and ‘Travel Planner’). And I waited, very impatiently I might add, for the golden opportunity to play outside. All the while, I clung desperately onto my resolve to take pleasure in the little things. But my hands were tired from holding on so tight and I knew that if the day didn’t come soon, I would lose grip altogether.

Then, finally, not a second too soon, the sun evaporated the clouds. It was late afternoon in the last day of April. It had been unsurprisingly gray all morning when suddenly the sky lifted. I nearly ran out the front door. And I didn’t go back in until I’d spent the rest of the day outside. I couldn’t tell you what I did… I was so excited I think I blanked out.

The next morning, the first day of May, I woke up to another day of sun. I’d recovered from the shock of Vitamin D being reintroduced to my bloodstream and I was ready to take full (not frenzied like the previous afternoon) advantage of the day. And that’s what I did. Together with Kevin, and the dog (who was probably even more cabin-fevered than us), I went for a hike up the back side of Mount Sunapee to Lake Solitude, and then to the summit. In less than two weeks time, the trails will be overrun by swarms of black flies and mosquitoes. So, we knew the sun’s return was a miracle, perfectly timed for hikers in the Lakes Region. It was as if Mother Nature was making peace with New Hampshire residents for having abandoned them during the first month of Spring. She gave us, not only a sunny Sunday, but a bugless one to boot. And it was perfect. A few more of those and I will be forgiving, maybe even appreciative, of the next rainy day.

Two ducks taking off into the fog...

Cloudy day ends in a beautiful sunset over a still-icy lake

Finally... the sun!

Hiking up Lake Solitude Trail

View from the Mount Sunapee Summit

We helped this "little" fella cross the street to safety

Post #38: Back to Reality?

When I was in college, home was, at one point, a white-walled dormitory room. At the same time, it was the raised-ranch yellow house that I grew up in. My “going home”, depending on the context, could have meant walking back to my room in Randall Hall or driving two-and-a-half hours south towards my childhood town. In the last few years, as I’ve moved around, “home” has further diminished in it’s quality of specificity.  Home came to mean my husband’s parent’s property at the Cape, my family’s cottage in New Hampshire, my family’s house, and whatever temporary residence I was occupying at the time whether it be in Providence, RI, Newmarket, NH, or Luserna San Giovanni, Italy. It became a feeling more than a place. Something I could pack up in my suitcase and carry with me.

While my perception of home is perfectly suitable for my transient lifestyle, I’ve found it’s not exactly compatible with society’s idea of the word. Especially when my transience could potentially involve international relocation at six-month increments for the remainder of Kevin’s hockey career. Semi-annual relocation isn’t necessarily a problem. But, with the logistics of it all, it’s certainly not a walk in the park.

Take the already confusing issue of insurance for instance. Qualifying for healthcare plans requires establishing residency. Establishing residency requires living at a single address for at least six months out of the year.  Alright, so I use my family’s home as the base for our United States residency and I look for insurance in Connecticut. But, when Kevin is playing hockey, I am covered under his insurance. So, technically, paying for coverage for the full year would mean paying twice for coverage during the hockey season. Seeing as individual health care plans are grossly over-priced, this option is very expensive. However, with pre-existing condition clauses still in effect, cancelling coverage during the season and starting it back up when it’s over could lead to a financial nightmare should a problem develop when I’m not covered by a U.S. policy. Mainly, I could be denied coverage when I re-apply.

Next, consider internet and cell phone plans. Specifically, consider the two-year contract. Not exactly helpful for a mobile couple. Trying to secure wireless internet for the cottage address has proven a particularly tedious endeavor. The question isn’t “how much will it cost?” The question is, “do you prefer to pay your fortune in  installation and early deactivation fees for a two year service or in the upfront cost of the device and outrageous rates for pay as you go service?” Having already paid the fees of a prematurely cancelled policy in Italy, neither of these options is especially desirable.

Then of course, there’s the matter of finding property insurance when our belongings are stored between three different addresses. Not to mention our two cars and the insurance that’s involved in storing a vehicle and the problem of storage itself.

So, yes, I am back in New England. And between visiting with friends and family, I have been occupying myself with the aforementioned logistics of settling into my life here. All the while, I am readying myself to complete a different set of logistical tasks in September when we prepare for another move. It seems that we may have to deal with the ordinarily frustrating pieces of adult life at a higher frequency than the average couple, but I keep reminding myself that it doesn't matter. Because I'm home.