I finally feel as if I’ve come to a peace agreement with Italy. We’ve both put down our wielding swords and reached a common ground, a shared notion of understanding.

In the previous few weeks I had begun to feel a little lost, a little weary of this country and it’s wonderful customs. The constant search for food other than Italian had started to grate on my nerves. The inconvenient transportation system that seems to only run when wanting to made me long for the simplicity and clutter of my own car. Our apartment, with its unpredictable water pressure instilled in me a negative outlook on the Italian plumbers guild.

My life at home has been so entwined with family and basic comforts, that it doesn’t seem all that shocking I was encountering the feared homesickness. But, as these past few days have worn on I feel as if I’ve found solace in the unanticipated uplifting moments of kindness or the granules of familiarity, the crumbs of memory that seem to sprout unexpectedly.

For example, the autumnal weather that has encapsulated the city reminds me so much of fall in New England. The crisp, burnt, woodsy scent, that smell of absolute stillness and cold, transported me home to my yard—a childhood memory of raking leaves replacing my thoughts. Every so often a scent is so overwhelming that it feels as if the world has shifted and you are experiencing an elapsed moment of time—a rare gem of history. The unforgettable scent of fall rushes through the pages of memory, eliminating my discomfort and my trivial complaints.

This past Friday I was walking home from Parma, a bottle of wine and some fruit inside a grocery bag slung over my shoulder. As I rounded the corner to my apartment I felt my feet slide out from under me, the bottle of wine slipping from the bag. With the abruptness of my fall and the unmistakable sound of broken glass I began to cry.

I’m not sure why the tears came so hastily, for I generally pride myself on being the type of girl who doesn’t cry over a stubbed toe or even a broken bottle of wine. It could have been a combination of the sharp pain and the overbearing weight of homesickness.

The warmth of the tears as they slid down my cheek only embarrassed me more, heightening my awareness—people had seen me fall and were now seeing me cry. I tried to be brave—but sometimes it is impossible. The thought of having to pick yourself up and brush yourself off seems to dissipate with the anguish of the moment.

Looking up from my pathetic state I saw that three old women had gathered around, looks of concern radiating from their faces. “Non pianga”, “Don’t cry”, they told me. Helping me to my feet and steadying my walk, they all wiped the tears from my cheeks. And it was in this moment, these perfect minutes of human goodness I felt happy to be here in Italy. The ancient, Italian women walked me home, each carrying a grocery bag, smoothing my hair from my face and telling me about the many people they have seen slip in the same spot.

And so, I’ve decided this: that wherever we are in the word, whatever outfit we chose to wear, person we fall in love with, decisions we make along the way, there will always be a moment of pure upset. A moment of “what was I thinking?” Of confusion, of self-consciousness. It’s undeniable, we can’t avoid these moments—it will happen to me and to you and to everyone else.

But what makes these instances bearable, what makes everything worth it are these rare moments that life seems to throw at us. A unnervingly serene sunset over Florence, the comfort of a good book, the unexpected help of others, the scents of our childhood. They all seem to shift the bad over and replace it with the good. And it’s so surprising, this shift, that it seems to light you from within and seems to heal you in ways that you never even knew needed healing.

Someone wise once told me that there exists in the human heart, a great propensity to hope. They claimed that as human beings, we are presented with an immense amount of longing—an insatiable appetite for days of the past, the yesteryears, the golden moments of flimsy photo albums. Those moments of the past and these moments of the present seem to recapture instances we’ve lost, figments of our lives that seem long gone. They are rivulets of hope rushing lazily through the course of a lifetime.

My favorite face in Italy.

His is my favorite face in all of Italy. The lines that crease his forehead, the light whisper of age that sprinkles his temples, the rugged handsomeness of his features all seem to illuminate the kindness and earnestness that undoubtedly reside within him.

His name is Francesco, and he owns Parma, a small but well stocked grocery store. The shelves are lined with an assortment of culinary treats, ranging from truffle sauce to cioccolata amara, dust collecting on their labels. The storefront boast a wide range of meats and cheeses, most hailing from Italy, others still encased in the wrapping of their former home countries. Walls intersect with stairways, aisles overlap with main walkways and the smell of pure, salty meat lingers overhead.

Francesco mostly stands behind the miniature checkout counter, engaging with locals and smiling at tidbits of gossip. His white apron is impeccable, never graced with a stain or blemish. He is never scurrilous nor is he bad tempered—he waves from the stoop to passersby and listens when one complains about the new cold front that has overtaken the city.

I like to think about his home life, his world outside of the hectic walls of Parma. Does he have a wife? A family? Are his shirts as impeccable at home as they are in the store? Does he eat the fresh and wholesome ingredients that Parma displays? I like to picture him, whistling softly under his breath, stirring a sauce for a daughter or son, commenting on their trivial yet exceedingly important troubles at school.

I’ve only seen him once in the outside world. I was walking home from the gym, my sneakers in hand, when I glanced further up the descending escalator to see Francesco and a very pretty woman conversing. As the opposing escalator reached my section I saw that the woman was yelling and gesturing loudly with her hands, throwing them up in disagreement. He saw me looking at them and smiled a broad smile. With a simple shrug of his shoulders, the argument ended and kisses ensued.

I like to think of Italy as a picture book of faces. Throughout the course of a day, one is constantly inundated with images by brief encounters with others. Stoic faces, aging smiles, exultant exclamations, line my thoughts and dreams of Italy, each circulating back to support a theory, or elucidating a pleasant or unpleasant experience.

It is as if the characters of Italy will forever inhabit my thoughts and reminiscences, changing the way that I view the world and people in it.

Like the snapshots from the pages it seems as if the aspects and characters from history have come to life. The old man who’s leathered hands grip a cane tightly as he makes his way through the heaving crowd. The strict faced, tight-lipped policemen who roam the alleys with their clubs bouncing sternly in their hands. The gypsies, although fearsome, gleam through the street with their eccentric colors and gaudy cups, musically jingling their cherished change.

~

To prove my loyalty to Francesco and his trendy store, I visit Parma everyday. Sometimes I purchase tomatoes and fresh Mozzarella di Buffola, for a quick Insalata Caprese. Other times I just buy some tea or chocolates, allowing myself to try and speak Italian with my favorite head grocer.

Our conversations don’t consist of much, seeing as how my Italian is rather limited. But we understand each other on an emotional level, and on a level of basic necessity: food. He flits through the store, loading his arms with crackers, sugar, flour, casually and discreetly adding to your shopping list.

The store is always swarming. Women with their babies attached to their hips, teenagers calling out for a panino, confused American students, aimlessly wandering the maze like aisles of the store.

But his face is never changing. Even when the harsh wind of Perugia seems to lock everyone inside, the rains casting a dreary spell over the city, Francesco always seems to be smiling.

Someone once wrote, “Diversity is not about how we differ. Diversity is about embracing one another's uniqueness.” Obviously this person has never taken an aerobics class in Italy.

Having just permanently lowered my self-esteem and forever branded myself with the label “loser”, I can ardently say that I will never embrace the innately strange movement and dance routines that embody the Italian aerobics class.

To begin with, I showed up to class somewhat nervous. I have never been proficient with any type sidestepping or touch-ball-changing. Nor am I very gifted when it comes to coordination. But putting those disadvantages aside, I do have a good sense of humor about me and generally don’t give up easily. But as they say, never speak too soon.

There were only 5 of us. Four Italian women and one awkward American. First let me elaborate on the dress code of the aerobics class, which I certainly didn’t know about and unquestionably don’t ever hope to reproduce on myself. The women all wore close to nothing: Sports bras with no support, shorts that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination (including underwear color) and pounds and pounds of makeup. I don’t mean to generalize here—I do not want to claim that all Italian women dress this way, but apparently my aerobics class attracted a special breed of ladies.

Now for the teacher--complete in spandex shorts that were so short it appeared as if he was wearing nothing under his t-shirt (maybe he was a Scot at heart). He was all that one could ever hope for in an aerobics instructor. You know, the energetic type that make you feel guilty for taking an extra sip of water, the type that sing the lyrics loudly into the microphone, the type that seem to carry out every task with ease and expect you to as well.

The class began easily enough—some arms raises and knee bends, nothing too out of the ordinary. But then the shit hit the fan. The instructor began by demonstrating this enthralling new dance he created (he’s speaking solely in Italian—another debilitating factor) and wanted everyone in the class to try it. It was rumored to have done wonders for the thighs.

Having blocked it from my memory, I can only recall tidbits of the intricate dance: spinning in circles, arms raised overhead, pausing midst motion sickness to salsa left and salsa right, marching up and down to the beat, smiling broadly. I made it about two spins before I began to feel ill and completely out of my element.

I gave the instructor a pained look, something along the lines of “Please help me” and got no sympathy. It was as if the shorts were cutting off the circulation to his heart, disabling him from feeling any type of empathy for this confused American. The only sign of recognition that I received from this stern little man was the phrase “Va Bene?” which means something like “Is it good?” “Going well?” He constantly and condescendingly shouted this across the room at me, already knowing the answer to his question. No, it wasn’t going well.

So after many unapologetic shrugs from my instructor and many stomach lurches from my tummy, I decided that I needed to leave and that I would never be coming back. I stacked my step loudly and ran out of there, never looking back at my shame that surely still resides in that dance studio.

I have found my future career. It’s not in writing, it’s surely not acting and it isn’t becoming the future apprentice of my girl, Ina Garten. Oh no, it’s none of those mid-level careers. Instead I have found my future calling in something much more elegant and complicated, something that requires true talent and devotion: the creation of dog food.

I was in the grocery store a few days ago and decided to try my hand at the challenge that I posed to myself—making a meal out of four main ingredients. At first I was very confident that I would be able to choose something monumental—that my creation would be worthy of the Food Network. That my trained hands (ha!) would be able to graze the shelves and shelves of food, carefully selecting ingredients that would make a veritable feast, worthy of Ina’s recognition.

Well. For reasons unbeknownst to me, I chose the following ingredients: Rice, Kidney Beans, Chicken Broth and Mushrooms. I think in my mind I was feeling sick of Italian food and nostalgic for my momma’s soup. But I’m not sure how that insatiable longing for soup translated into these incompatible ingredients. I should have stuck with pasta.

So, I trudged home, believing that what I held in my bag would create a delectable soup, something that would dissolve the cold front that has just settled into the hills of Perugia.

First things first. I could tell there was something off in my decision when I opened the can of beans. They smelled like the Alpo dog food and Meaty Bones that we used to feed to our dogs Amos and Bailey. I know this smell for two reasons: 1.) I liked to be the one to feed the dogs. 2.) I also liked to eat the Meaty Bones and sniff the Alpo dog food.

I know this is truly disturbing and disgusting for you to read, but think of how appalled I was when I realized that my nose, senses and memory unconsciously directed me back down dogfood lane. It was a disheartening moment for me.

I think at the time, the combination of my hungry belly and desire to create something inherently good overcame the niggling voice in the back of my mind—telling me to throw out the beans.

In another pan I sautéed the mushrooms in tandem with adding chicken broth to the simmering beans. I then poured the rice and water into the pot, threw in the mushroom and a bay leaf and left my Alpo to bake.

Despite my efforts to improve the dish (salt, pepper, rosemary, etc.), the meal reminded me of those shameful evenings in which I was caught behind my grandmother’s curtains, shoveling dog bones into my mouth.

With one taste of that hideous creation, it was swiftly tossed into the trash. I have no idea what I am doing in this complicated world of cooking.

Trial Two: Beer Battered Deep Fried Chicken. Wish me luck.

Problems with Pie

I constantly feel like I walk out of the Coop (Italian grocery stores) with nothing checked off my shopping list. I go in with elaborate lists, with dreams of roasted vegetables, of homemade Pommes Frites, of Boeuf Bourguignon, of Pesto Pea Soup. But, unsurprisingly, the stores seemed ill equipped for the American taste buds, the impoverished college bellies.

But I did manage to satiate my longing for autumnal charms by making a pie. The recipe comes from Gourmet (shit, do I have to now say “came from”? Sorry Ruth!) and was a Pear and Butterscotch Pie. In all honesty, the pie was relatively easy to make, even in the kitchen from hell, and it tasted very similar to apple pie.

When making anything I’ve never made before, I tend to get a little over zealous and misread the directions. Over the years I’ve added 3 tablespoons of baking soda as opposed to 3 teaspoons, or baked for 2 hours instead of 1. In this case, the case of the Pear and Butterscotch Pie, I needed to make a pie dough and opted for my favorite lady in cooking, INA. The recipe calls for 6-8 teaspoons of water and of course, being the culinary novitiate that I am, I read 6-8 cups.

For those of you that know pie dough—there really isn’t much water involved (thanks Mom for the clarification). I immediately felt skeptical about the copious amount of water after the third cup (it had started to look like the gruel from Oliver Twist) and reached for my phone to call my Alison Bennie.

“Honey no! It’s not 6 to 8 cups. It’s 6 to eight tablespoons.”—Oh. Oops. So, I remade the pie dough—possibly with a little more intensity, now that I felt foolish for thinking I could breeze through a recipe I’ve never made on my own. The pie turned out well—beautiful toasted and tasting of Shelburne Farms, my favorite apple orchard in Vermont.

Anyways—back to the barren grocery store. I can’t find anything. It must be that most of the vegetables that I am craving are seasonal (avacados, broccoli and carrots?) and that I still can’t read any of the names that are, of course, in Italian. So—I’ve decided to try and test my skills (as if trying to make a pie dough out of 6 cups of water wasn’t stimulating enough). The next time and every time after I go into the Coop, I will select four ingredients and make something out of them.

When I say four ingredients I’m excluding spices, butter, oil, etc. It seems impossible and honestly unappetizing to make something out of solely four ingredients (I’m not thinking sandwiches and appetizers). Although—I do remember seeing a book in some dirty college student house that boasted the fact that all the recipes were made with only four ingredients. Gross.

So yes. That’s the challenge for the next few weeks.