Life's journeys: Language, culture, communication

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With a heavy heart – and body

Ciao, we’re back. I didn’t want to come back. Had no choice. Italy seduces me every time, and one of these days I am going to cave in and move there. For good.

Until then, if there’s one conclusion that can be drawn from our little Italian stint (apart from the fact that I ABSOLUTELY LOVE Italy – did I mention that?), it’s that I’m fat. Fat, fat, fat. By my own standards, I am horrifyingly fat. I have seen myself in a bathing suit, and – trust me – it’s not pretty. I am so fat that I have my own field of gravity.  I am so fat that I generate tidal waves and they banished me from Venice for fear of actually sinking the place. I am so fat that when I laugh, my cheeks cover my eyes completely and I have to stand still lest I run somebody over. I am so fat the neighbors have asked me to move  – they were tired of living in my shadow.  I am so fat that when I rollick in the waves at Jesolo, there is a tsunami in Costa Rica.  I am so fat that my left and right hip are in two different time zones. I am so fat I am allowed to travel only at night, in a special convoy, with gyrating lights on each end.

See, that’s why I haven’t bought any new clothes lately. I was afraid I’d cause a global shortage of textiles. I had some cereal for breakfast and the price of wheat exploded.

My son, on the other hand, is thin. By my standards, he is frighteningly thin – bones poking out of his skin everywhere. He is so thin, he doesn’t even cast a shadow. All that money spent on his swimming lessons? A waste. He doesn’t need to swim to stay afloat. He is so thin, he remains perched on the surface of all fluids like one of those mosquitoes, simply due to capillary forces.

Now I ask you, is that just? We threw at him everything Italy has to offer in terms of culinary accomplishments. He barely touches the crust around the pizza and won’t even look at profiteroles. Not my case. Not my case at all. Minestrone, antipasti, primi piatti, secondi piatti, pizze, dolci, I love them all with a passion.

So there you have it. Now you see why I had to leave Italy with a heavy heart – and body.

(Don’t worry. There’s more about the actual trip too. Just testing your patience. It’s supposed to be a virtue – or so I heard… :-)) Talk to you soon about the Italian sun, beach, Venice, Padua, etc.)


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