I Spend More Time -- Lugano, Switzerland

It's hard for me to write when I'm feeling at home. Even if I'm going on adventures, engaging in all manner of interesting shenanigans, and still adjusting to living in a new country with social norms particularly challenging for hobos like me (like keeping my feet off the dashboard of a car... I was under the impression that "footrest" was the primary purpose for dashboards).

I write because I need continuity. I need something in my life that stays the same amidst the whirlwind of chaos that is my drifting existence. This blog gives this disjointed vagabond a much needed through-line. A through line that keeps me in touch with where I've been, where I'm going, who I was, who I am.

Who I'd like to be. Who I'd rather not be again. You know, the things our close friends and family usually do for us.

But when I live in a place and it feels like home, I don't have the same need for an online through-line. I'm home. Cadempino is my stability. Massi is my through-line. I don't feel the same pressing urge to express myself through writing, because I can take that need to Massi. To his sister. To his friends.

But I feel guilty for not writing. I feel like a part of me that I love dearly is slowly atrophying in the dusty cupboards of my mind. But I'm also not in the habit of forcing myself to do things I don't need to do. I'm in the habit of recognizing seasons of life, and trying to live with the seasons, without resisting.

Now is a season of settling in. Of resting my vagabond boots, and hopefully putting them away for a good long while. Now is a season of home. It isn't a season wherein I walk around thinking, I wonder how I will describe this in my blog later... I wonder if she'd be annoyed if I shared this bit of dialogue... how am I going to turn these moments of speechless wonder, these snippets of indescribable happiness, into a blog post? 

Now is a season of just living the wonder. 

I spend more time learning Italian (badly and slowly) than writing.

I spend more time strolling through gorgeous Italian villages than writing.

I spend more time photographing lakes and flowers (I mean, it's Lake Como. You can't not spend oodles of time photographing lakes and flowers) than writing. 

I spend more time getting to know Elli than I spend writing. Time during which Elli makes me feel so welcomed. So totally at home that writing doesn't even cross my mind.

Feeling totally, unequivocally accepted by Massi's family has given me such comfort. Such hope for us and our future. Such a solid feeling of support and security.

I spend more time sinking into the realization of how ridiculously lucky I am than writing.

Massi and I continue our weekend adventures. He whisked me away to Bern and Freiburg (in a car, not on a motorcycle. For which my aching low back, sore ass and knees were very grateful), to explore the cities and to visit friends/family.

One of the nice things about spending eight long months in Guatemala, is that I have a thoroughly refreshed appreciation for European cities. 

Traveling from Cadempino to Freiburg and Bern was fun for this perpetual (it seems) monolingual.

And by fun, I mean horribly embarrassing and confusing. Just in case the sarcasm dripping from my fingers wasn't conveyed properly.

Going from Italian, to French, to German was not at all pleasant for my brain. My sad, English, sort of Spanish, brain. Even though I was literally only switching around a few words. Remembering to say "salut" instead of "ciao", or "danke", instead of "merci".

I can't imagine what it would be like for these things to be natural. To just automatically switch without needing to agonize over it a few seconds before every sentence. Or, in my case, word.

This is when I wish Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy wasn't just a fantasy and that there was such a thing as a Babel fish. 

My life would be unimaginably better. 

Which is saying something, 'cos it's pretty good right now. 

I struggle to speak Italian. For several reasons, I think. Because I'm self-conscious to speak around Massi (who speaks a stupid amount of languages), and because I'm just sad that I have to start over again. In Guatemala, I had achieved a level of Spanish that allowed me to communicate my needs, no problem. A level of Spanish that even allowed me to have fun conversations with people (mostly with Silvia. Who had infinite patience and could understand my bad pronunciation and what I meant when I said things like "dientes muy inteligentes").

Just focus on learning Italian. And don't think you should be anywhere you aren't. It's okay to start over. Again. It's okay that you forget when to say "Ciao!" and when it's more polite to say "Buongiorno." 

It's okay that you're a beginner again.  That you sometimes (oftentimes) still accidentally offend people. That you don't know how to express yourself in this new language. 

You're allowed to think it's hard. To think it's frustrating and embarrassing. You're even allowed to be angry at yourself when it takes you seventeen times to remember how to say "how are you?"  

Just don't get discouraged by thinking you're somehow behind. That you have all this catching up to do. Don't invalidate the experiences that got you where you are today by telling yourself, "I'm behind." 

Because you're not behind. You're exactly where you need to be and you shouldn't be anywhere else.