Homecoming

It is 4:30. I am a terrible sleeper. Since getting a divorce, I rarely sleep through the night. I was a great sleeper once. Tim used to joke I was like a doll that you tilted back and my eyes closed and I was fast asleep until my alarm jolted me out of sleep 8-9 hours later.

Now, in my “new” life, it is rare that I go to sleep before one and many nights I wake at 3 or 4 to chat with Justin or Heather across the ocean for an hour or so before I sleep and wake again at 6:30 am. As if sleep has become a symbol of the complacency that led me to an unhappy marriage, I feel myself fight it. Even now, I should be sleeping, instead, I find myself waiting for the sun to rise over Opera, to enjoy my last morning coffee on my balcony. Other than perhaps looking like I have aged ten years since getting divorced, I haven’t noticed any ill effects from little sleep, though Justin might say I am not good at crossword puzzles at 4 am nor political discussions. But, I am not sure I was ever good at those things anyway.

So, I lie here on a bed that has no sheets and moments ago I was trying to sleep on pillows that were found on chairs in the living room. Tonight, my sleep is interrupted by nightmares. Nightmares about Greene, which I know is just manifesting ridiculous emotions and really just telling me how grateful I am for the year I have had and that I am naturally nervous to step back into my old life. Wondering and hoping the people who loved me before, will still love the changed Rebecca that emerges today from the small plane that will land in Edwin Link Airport.

As Amy and I took one last bike trip around our path, I thought about the blog entry I needed to write, about the path. The bike path of Opera might be my favorite place here in Italy. For no other reason that it provides moments of what only could be called pure joy.

It is a path I ride to work and on good days I am wearing high heels and skirts. On late days, sometimes the skirts are hiked up to borderline obscene levels because I don’t have time to put “riding” pants on. It is a path I walk with Amy on in Sleepy Hollow foggy nights where we scream at fellow runners who seem to appear instantaneously out of the fog.

It is a path where giggling and accidents converge into the days of deciding whether you like the Alps to glow pink or whether you would rather see the sun to illuminate the dew and mist filled trees and fields.



There were no Alps tonight, it was 11 pm and it was time to say goodbye to our little town of Opera. I have spent all week moving my worldly belongings, packed in black plastic bags to my new apartment in the city of Milan. So after, eating an entire pizza at Centrale, Amy and I decided we needed to have one last bike ride around our path. Discussion, as always, came easy as we giggled about our favorite memories of the path. Amy finally appeased me and let me ride on the back of “Dutch” while she pedaled around Opera, as long as I promised not to lean nor scream, both things I should probably never promise. After gaining about five new mosquito bites, we finally headed home with smiles on our faces. Knowing it is time to go home for a while, but also knowing we have a very real place here in Italy and that right now, in this moment, we undoubtedly belong here.

I can't wait to see all you! I am coming HOME!