italian dreaming (and practicing)

Ever since I read Under the Tuscan Sun and Eat, Pray, Love, I’ve had a burning desire to live in Italy. (Yes, I loved both, so sue me.) I’ve visited a few times — Rome, Florence, Venice, Cinque Terra — but this was 15 years ago and the trips weren’t long enough to absorb the culture.

When I think about Italy, I dream of stone kitchens, homemade bread and long dinners with wine. I dream about delicious espressos and walking among ruins. I dream about stone churches in bustling squares and women leaning out of second-story windows over flower pots. I dream about the blue ocean, and visiting nearby islands.

A. is half Italian — his mom is from Orsogna and moved to the U.S. when she was seven. She is the youngest of five, and she speaks Italian with her brothers and sisters. In their New Jersey home, above the stove, hangs the sign “Cucina.” When we visit, she asks C., “Dove la Cucina?” and he looks up and points to the sign. When A. makes C. spaghetti, he’ll say to him: “Mangia la pasta.”

Around the time C. was born, my MIL brought us Italian CDs. They’ve been sitting on our bookshelf, uncracked (I thought I’d have time on maternity leave, silly me).

But C. has had a fever since Friday and this morning it was a scary 104.2. The nurse at the pediatrician’s office told me to give him fluids and meds — and keep him cool and inside (it’s pushing 100 today). So I’ve read him a trillion books and we’ve played with trucks and blocks. He’s his usual funny self — he makes himself laugh and says, “Fun-ny.”

But I need inspiration to combat cabin fever, so I pulled out the Italian CDs and loaded the first one into my computer.

C. seemed a bit confused about counting in Italian (he just started counting to 10 in English), but he giggled when I put my hands out and exaggerated the pronunciation. And I had fun learning basic words, like macchina (car) and chiavi (keys).

Of course, the best way to learn is from the natives — like his nonna (grandma). And someday we’ll travel to Italy to show C. part of his heritage. I’m hoping we can live there for a few years so he can be fluent and we can explore Europe, but that’s far away. For now, dreaming — and practicing — keeps me happy while I’m trapped inside on a hot desert day.

dreams and all kinds of ridiculous

Since A. left for Afghanistan, I’ve had two dreams where I’ve been mad at him — both times because I felt abandoned. It doesn’t take a dream analyst to know that I’m still grappling with him not being by my side when I wake up in the morning and go to sleep at night. But what I find amusing (after the fact, of course) is that unsettled feeling from the argument lingers and that I wouldn’t mind an apology. For my dream. For things that A. did not actually do. But yes, an apology would be nice.

The first time it happened, A. said, “You want me to apologize for your dream?” And we laughed a little bit. I know it’s ridiculous and just saying it makes me laugh.

This morning, I woke up and sent A. an email about my dream — trying to make the crazy that goes on in my brain sound as coherent as possible. I wrote that we were at a massive sports complex/concert venue — and my cousin Kate was there [weird], as was my coworker Ali [weird]. I decided to go for a swim in a humongous pool where I saw an old high school soccer teammate Jess [weird] and when I got out, I couldn’t find A. [see earlier note about dream analysis]. He still didn’t show up overnight and I was hanging out with some friends. When he did come back the next morning, he was hung over [A. can't drink on the base and doesn't drink that much, anyway]. He had gone to the concert and ended up sleeping on the floor of a random girl’s place. And in my dream, I wasn’t mad, but thought I should be mad, so then I became mad. [Read: Ridiculous].

A., who in real life has a cold and isn’t getting much sleep, sent me an IM this morning saying hello, and then: “Sorry I abandoned you at the concert.”

Sigh. What a good man.