Another Italian Experience

My wife and I just returned from a trip to Italy-- our fourth. We have visited many places, but none capture us like Italia. We've learned the language some. We know the roads. We've plotted ways to escape-- to live there for months at a time. But two things struck me on this most recent trip.

First, last Tuesday, on our way to catch a train from Montevarchi to Florence, we passed by thousands of Italians-- all on their way to work. Unless your last name is Hilton, no matter where you go, the entire world-- works. This was our moment to enjoy life without the stress of daily labor. Next week, it is someone else's turn.

Second, while we Americans love to drench ourselves in our heritgage-- we are still, well, American. My grandmother was born in Ephin, Co. Roscommon, Ireland. She was an authentic Irish-American. In reality though, I am not. I am American-Irish. My wife has a similar experience. Her grandfather left Europe as a teenager, and worked most of his life in the United States. After retirement, he returned to the Tyrol-- a beautiful region in the Austrian/Italian Alps. It is his final resting place. His grandchildren and great-grandchildren carry-on the family name, in an American way.

After spending eight days in Europe, celebrating with family (eleven others joined us for hiking and sightseeing), eating pasta and cheese, drinking the occassional glass of wine, and meeting new friends-- I have returned home contemplating my connection with Italy-- and craving something else, something uniquely American.

So I made a peanut butter & jelly, banana & chocolate syrup sandwich.

It's always good to go. But it's always good to come home.