I've been considering our move to Okinawa with slowly growing apprehension. People keep asking if we're prepacking, but I can only think of about 3 things that I'll be packing myself. I couldn't handle being an Army wife if I felt like I had to do a whole lot of prep for the movers. I will let them do as much of the work as possible, thank you!
I've also been reminiscing about Italy. First of all, I never thought one could be so homesick for a foreign country. Even here in the desert I'll occasionally see a burnt sienna tiled roof, hedge, and cypress tree out of the corner of my eye--I want to look at this little corner of Italy that's been transported to Cochise County but if I see at it full-on I know I'll spot the RV or whatever else makes this scene distinctly American. ::dramatic sob:: But I digress. I really meant to talk about the move.
I landed on a Tuesday. It was the 4th of July. I remember the redeye from Philly being less than half full and having the entire middle section of --glory!--four seats to myself to sleep on. But being sick and being me I still managed to be bleary-eyed, puffy-faced, and somewhat odoriferous upon landing at Marco Polo outside Mestre in the late morning. I was never one of those people who could magically spruce herself up in an airplane bathroom into which I could barely fit both of my feet. And not knowing what sorts of personal hygiene acts are acceptable to perform in public in Italy, I did not do any face-washing or tooth-brushing in the airport bathroom either. I think the plane was late and I found myself waiting on the curb, sweating and feeling underwater due to plugged ears, half-hearing two women next to me discussing how one of them was here to visit her son at Aviano Air Base. I was contemplating the fact that my husband of one month was nowhere to be seen and fearing that marriage was already revealing dark corners of his character as yet unknown to me, like being late to pick up your young wife upon her arrival in the hostile foreign land of Italy to which you have drug her. Then he appeared striding out of the airport, like a mirage of excellent husband-ness, with a large bouquet of roses. We'd missed each other inside. Apparently marriage was bent on revealing the dark, suspicious corners of MY character.
It was insanely hot. The Volvo was a most amazing shade of teal but already growing on me. We were shelling money out at every turn for parking, tolls, crippled beggars. I was married--yikes! how did that happen?--to the man of my dreams. And Italy was so dirty! This was not what I would have imagined, had I been one of the majority of American girls who apparently dream their whole lives of traipsing about the land of romance and adventure. I did, however, see a very satisfying ruined barn in a field that looked just like the one from that scene in The Count of Monte Cristo. But Nathan told me those were everywhere.
After a sleepy, not-as-crazy-as-I-expected drive on the A4, we arrived home to Valproto. Our appartment, which had recently been painted from a classy white to an outrageous "giallo e salmone", was nice, new, very tiled, with expensive-seeming wood frames around all the doors and windows. Incidently, there were nine doors leading off of the center room/hallway. I came to think of Via Muttona 38A as a starfish--radially symmetrical, sort of. The doors had handles instead of knobs, a welcome improvement in my book. The windows could swing open or tilt in. Real working shutters. Two bathrooms right next to each other. Bidets. A gorgeously deep though Europeanly narrow bathtub. Two little balconies, one overlooking the neighbors whom I would come to think of as crazy, one overlooking cornfields, Quinto Vicentino's distant church steeple, and Alps when the Veneto smog would allow. A few pieces of natural wood Army furniture, Nathan's TA-50, and the new knife set that he had flown back in his baggage after the wedding. The full-size army mattress was so uncomfortable that we piled the queen air mattress on top of it, an endeavor that I decided was too risky in the end.
It being Independence Day, we headed to post for the festivities. Nathan had a couple of friends there, but we mostly kept to ourselves. I was intensely discombobulated. Vicentini were taking full advantage of post being open to them for the evening, and there was a little fair going on. Later Italy played Germany in a World Cup semifinal, and we packed into a tent with a couple of hundred people to watch it on the big screen. Lots of soldiers pulled for Germany, probably just to annoy the Italians, but Italy won and it was amazing. Driving home there were swarms of 20-something boys (the Italian equivalent of teenagers) riding in their Cinquecentos like little maniacs*, honking, waving beer bottles around. Benvenuti!
*Nathan's phrase
I've also been reminiscing about Italy. First of all, I never thought one could be so homesick for a foreign country. Even here in the desert I'll occasionally see a burnt sienna tiled roof, hedge, and cypress tree out of the corner of my eye--I want to look at this little corner of Italy that's been transported to Cochise County but if I see at it full-on I know I'll spot the RV or whatever else makes this scene distinctly American. ::dramatic sob:: But I digress. I really meant to talk about the move.
I landed on a Tuesday. It was the 4th of July. I remember the redeye from Philly being less than half full and having the entire middle section of --glory!--four seats to myself to sleep on. But being sick and being me I still managed to be bleary-eyed, puffy-faced, and somewhat odoriferous upon landing at Marco Polo outside Mestre in the late morning. I was never one of those people who could magically spruce herself up in an airplane bathroom into which I could barely fit both of my feet. And not knowing what sorts of personal hygiene acts are acceptable to perform in public in Italy, I did not do any face-washing or tooth-brushing in the airport bathroom either. I think the plane was late and I found myself waiting on the curb, sweating and feeling underwater due to plugged ears, half-hearing two women next to me discussing how one of them was here to visit her son at Aviano Air Base. I was contemplating the fact that my husband of one month was nowhere to be seen and fearing that marriage was already revealing dark corners of his character as yet unknown to me, like being late to pick up your young wife upon her arrival in the hostile foreign land of Italy to which you have drug her. Then he appeared striding out of the airport, like a mirage of excellent husband-ness, with a large bouquet of roses. We'd missed each other inside. Apparently marriage was bent on revealing the dark, suspicious corners of MY character.
It was insanely hot. The Volvo was a most amazing shade of teal but already growing on me. We were shelling money out at every turn for parking, tolls, crippled beggars. I was married--yikes! how did that happen?--to the man of my dreams. And Italy was so dirty! This was not what I would have imagined, had I been one of the majority of American girls who apparently dream their whole lives of traipsing about the land of romance and adventure. I did, however, see a very satisfying ruined barn in a field that looked just like the one from that scene in The Count of Monte Cristo. But Nathan told me those were everywhere.
After a sleepy, not-as-crazy-as-I-expected drive on the A4, we arrived home to Valproto. Our appartment, which had recently been painted from a classy white to an outrageous "giallo e salmone", was nice, new, very tiled, with expensive-seeming wood frames around all the doors and windows. Incidently, there were nine doors leading off of the center room/hallway. I came to think of Via Muttona 38A as a starfish--radially symmetrical, sort of. The doors had handles instead of knobs, a welcome improvement in my book. The windows could swing open or tilt in. Real working shutters. Two bathrooms right next to each other. Bidets. A gorgeously deep though Europeanly narrow bathtub. Two little balconies, one overlooking the neighbors whom I would come to think of as crazy, one overlooking cornfields, Quinto Vicentino's distant church steeple, and Alps when the Veneto smog would allow. A few pieces of natural wood Army furniture, Nathan's TA-50, and the new knife set that he had flown back in his baggage after the wedding. The full-size army mattress was so uncomfortable that we piled the queen air mattress on top of it, an endeavor that I decided was too risky in the end.
It being Independence Day, we headed to post for the festivities. Nathan had a couple of friends there, but we mostly kept to ourselves. I was intensely discombobulated. Vicentini were taking full advantage of post being open to them for the evening, and there was a little fair going on. Later Italy played Germany in a World Cup semifinal, and we packed into a tent with a couple of hundred people to watch it on the big screen. Lots of soldiers pulled for Germany, probably just to annoy the Italians, but Italy won and it was amazing. Driving home there were swarms of 20-something boys (the Italian equivalent of teenagers) riding in their Cinquecentos like little maniacs*, honking, waving beer bottles around. Benvenuti!
*Nathan's phrase
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