Traveling to the Moon & Back

“That’s one small step for (a) man, one giant leap for mankind.” -Neil Armstrong

There are only a few times in ones life when an event happens that captures the attention of the world. When something so big occurs the Earth seems to stop for a just a moment. Forty years ago today everyone across the globe gathered in front of their televisions to watch the impossible become reality. On this day in history man landed on the moon and eyes of the world were watching.

My husband was just a young boy growing up in a small Italian town back then. He was fascinated by the “race for space” and day-dreamed about space travel. In the house where he grew up you can still find a picture that he drew, as a child, in chalk on the garage wall. It is drawing of both an American flag and a Russian flag planted on the face of the moon. When I asked him why he didn’t draw the Italian flag, he explained simply that Italy wasn’t part of the race; even at a young age he understood that. But what he couldn’t understand was why America and Russia couldn’t simply share the moon?

It was early in the morning in Italy when the astronauts first walked on the moon. By then my future husband was fast asleep. But he was able to witness Apollo 11 landing on the moon, which had happened several hours earlier. An Italian journalist on television was on the phone with a second Italian journalist reporting live from Cape Canaveral. As Apollo 11 landed on the moon the reporters translated what was being said by NASA. My husband watched along with the rest of the world as history was being made.


By the time I was born man had been traveling into space for the greater part of the decade. As I grew up in the eighties it was no longer big news when spaceships rocketed off for a mission. It seemed to be a normal thing. I recall a school trip to a planetarium where we watched a slide about how life would be in the future. We were told that one day we would all travel into space as tourists and that there would even be space stations where everyday people could go to live and work. With all of the space travel my generation was exposed to, walking around on the moon didn’t seem to be that big of a deal. However, in these few weeks leading up to the 40Th anniversary of the moon landing there have been many shows about the subject on both Italian and American television. It gave me the opportunity to see the moon landing from a new perspective. To see what the technology was back then and what a remarkable accomplishment it was when man touched the surface of the moon for the first time.

As Neil Armstrong took his first steps, he took them not as an American but as a human. What he did was a great accomplishment for mankind. It surpassed cultural and religious differences. It didn’t matter who you were or where you came from, it was an exciting moment in the history of the human race. Everyone across the globe celebrated as mankind ventured out into new territory. It opened the minds of millions and made us all think about the possibilities of what we could accomplish as a people.

Forty years later and we are still waiting for that giant space station where we will all go to live and work. However, there have been a few lucky tourists who have paid to travel into space. Who knows? Maybe one day future generations will travel to the moon for summer vacations.

Found

As we drove down the neighbour hood street, just a block from our home, I spotted it. A shadowy figure of a cat scampering across the street. My heart skipped a beat and a flicker of hope ignited which was quickly extinguished by my brain. In the four months that Baracca, a homeless cat who had been mooching off of my husband for years, had gone missing I had had many false sightings. Any time I spotted a cat sleeping in the sun or dashing across a courtyard, I thought I had spotted Baracca. Of course I was always wrong and left disappointed, but I couldn't stop myself from continuing to hope.

I watched the cat run behind a parked a car and squinted my eyes in an effort to make out the details.

"It isn't him," my husband said, knowing already what I was thinking.

But something inside of me told me to double check. I was sure it wasn't him either, but I also knew that if I didn't check I would spend the rest of day wondering if it had been our cat. By stopping, I could confirm that the latest Baracca sighting was false.

"Stop the car," I ordered as I unbuckled the seat belt.

"It isn't him, " the Italian repeated. "There is a cat that looks just like Baracca who lives right around the corner."

"I don't care. Stop the car anyway," I insisted.

My husband, an extremely patient man, pulled over with me opening the door before the car had come to a complete stop. The cat, still hiding behind the parked car, watched me with a cautious look, ready to run at a moment's notice.

From a distance it looked like our cat, but up close I was stunned to find that he had an uncanny resemblance to our cat: same color of fur, same tattered ears, same bent whisker. The cat kept his distance from me, not an ounce of recognition in his bright, yellow eyes.

"It's him!" I yelled to the Italian who was waiting in the car, the driver side window rolled down. "It's him! It's him!"

The Italian turned off the car, got out and walked over. Hope filled my heart as tears filled my eyes. After months of worrying and wondering, was it possible that our cat was safe and sound? And right in our own neighborhood?

"It's not him," the Italian said as he walked toward the cat. The cat, uneasy about all of the attention, walked to the back of the parked car in effort to keep a safe distance.

"It's him, " I argued. "I'd know that rotten cat anywhere."

The Italian held his hand down, calling to the cat who refused to move from his position which cause me to believe that I had been mistaken. Baracca had always come to us when we called him. For nine years he had been coming to our house for his daily free meals. In that time, he learned to trust us; even being brave enough to enter our home once in a while. This cat hiding behind the car looked as if he had never seen us before.

We stared at the cat, repeatedly calling him but he just sat, staring back. Always moving farther from us if we tried to approach. Then, when the attention had become too much, the cat ran away seeking the safety of a fenced-in yard. Rather then running away entirely, the cat turned around and walked back towards us before sitting down inside of the yard. It was as if he knew we couldn't get in.

We stared at him from the sidewalk, still unsure if it was him for certain. And then it happened. The cat spoke to us. He called out with the saddest excuse for a "meow" that we had ever heard and in that instant, we knew he was our cat. We used to joke that Baracca had never been taught to meow. Often the cat would open his mouth and not a single sound would come out. When he did manage to get out a sound, it was always a high pitched, sad little screech.

After being missing for four months, Baracca had been found. I wanted to scoop him up and give the old flea bag a big hug. I wanted to take him home and give him a proper meal. I wanted to scratch him behind his years and tell him how much we had missed. Instead, I was forced to watch him from a distance. Was it possible he had forgotten us after all of these years? Had he left on purpose or had something happened to him and he couldn't remember his way home?

When it became clear that Baracca wasn't going to let us get near him, the Italian climbed back into the car and turned it on. I stayed staring at my found cat, sad that he didn't seem to remember me.

"Let's go home," the Italian called from the car. I took one last look at the cat, blew him and kiss and turned to walk towards the car. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the cat get up and make a move toward me. I stopped walking and turned back suddenly. As if on cue, the cat sat back down quickly. I called him a few more times, but he just stared back at me blankly.

"Have you ever heard of kitty amnesia?" I asked the Italian as we drove back home. The Italian smiled. "After all these years he just doesn't come to our home any more? I don't get it."

"Cats have no loyalties," the Italian explained, in an attempt to make me feel better about being abandoned by our cat.

"That cat is a jerk!" I said with a giggle.

"Yes he is." the Italian agreed.

And though Baracca might be a jerk, he is alive; not just alive but well. It was quite clear that our old vagabond cat hadn't been missing any meals. I still watch outside, hoping that as the weather warms up he might just go for long walk and find his way back home.

Wishing You The Best in 2009

It was Queen Elizabeth who said "1992 is not a year on which I shall look back with undiluted pleasure". I feel the same about 2008.

There were some great moments this past year, the best being the time spent with my parents when they visited us in Italy. We made some wonderful memories while traveling to Rome, Florence, and Venice.

Unfortunately, I will always remember 2008 for one thing and one thing only; it was the year we lost Roscoe. A beloved cat, a friend, a companion, a keeper of secrets, a heart mender, a smile maker, he was all of these and so much more. The hole in my heart, left in his absence, will never go away.



Aside from losing Roscoe, we also lost another friend. For more years then I have lived here a dirty, tattered feral cat has come to our home where my husband lovingly fed him. In fact, we have several stray cats who visit our home for daily meals. Just one month after Roscoe died one of our stray cats, named Baracca after the great Italian WWI pilot, came up missing. As a stray male, it wasn't unusual for him to disappear from time to time. But as the days turned into weeks, I started to worry. Several months later and there has been no sighting him. I wonder and worry about him still. Hoping he will return to us, but knowing in my heart that he will not.

Even though it has been a rough year, there is a part of me that isn't ready to see it come to close. In some strange way I feel that by moving ahead into the new year, we are leaving Roscoe and Baracca behind.

2008 is not a year on which I shall look back with undiluted pleasure and so I will look ahead in hopes that the new year will bring with it better times.

Wishing you all much love, happiness and good fortune in the new year.

Happy Thanksgiving

The table is set. The candles are lit. Walter, our 15 pound Thanksgiving turkey, is resting quietly in the oven. The only things missing are my American family and our friends. My family is here with me, deep inside my heart and in my thoughts. Our friends will be arriving any minute now.

Where ever you are, how ever you celebrate..

wishing you a wonderful Thanksgiving filled with love and laughter.

Buona festa!

Searching for Turkey

I walked into the local butcher shop feeling sightly nervous. Several years ago, at this same shop, I had asked for a seven pound turkey and walked away with a bird that has become the stuff of expatriate folklore . I was worried about history repeating itself, but I had no other choice.

"It is too late to order a small turkey for Thursday?" I asked almost certain that he would tell me it was too late, as the other butchers had.

"What size turkey do you need?," he asked.

"Six kilos. Seven at the absolute most," I said while experiencing deja vu. I had told him the same thing several years ago and ended up with a 42 pound bird.

The butcher picked up the phone and made a call. I was prepared to serve turkey breast at our Thanksgiving feast, but now it seemed that there might be hope for an entire bird.

After chatting in dialect for a few minutes, the butcher hung up the phone.

"At this time on Thursday, your bird will be ready," he told me with a smile.

I thanked him and left the shop, happy to have found a turkey at last. However I know too well, that just because I asked for a 13 pound turkey doesn't necessarily mean that I will get a 13 pound turkey.

All I can do is hope that Carlos doesn't have a son. I guess I will find out tomorrow if he does.

Carlos (18 kilos)

42 pounds of manly, Italian, Thanksgiving turkey

More about Carlos here and here

Window Peepers

I have been a terrible blogger. When I first started my blog, I filled my days with writing posts and reading other blogs. But in this past year I have been failing miserably at my blogging ditties. Perhaps it is because my time has been filled with other things. Or Perhaps it it because I just haven't felt like writing.

I assure you that things are well and that my happy-ever-after is still happy. I am still traveling around Italy, meeting interesting people, experiencing wonderful things, and loving living here. The Italian is well. We are happy and healthy. And other than the loss of Roscoe, life has been kind to us.

While absent from the blog world it seems I have missed a lot. Just the other day I opened up Niki's blog, an expatriate living along the Amafli coast, to see what she has been up to. I was shocked when I saw that her blog "The Life I Chose" had been deleted. In it's place was the simple the title "Not the Life I Chose". I was shocked. What had happened to Niki? Was she okay? Did she return to the UK? Was her love affair with Italy over? Was her family alright?

It got me thinking about this whole blog thing and how much we really know, or don't know, about the people who write.

As a reader, I felt concerned and disappointed all in one. It was if the writer had closed the book before finishing the story. I wanted a conclusion, an explanation, or at least to know that Nicki and her family are okay.

As a writer I understood. Something had happened that was so big Nicki had closed the blog which she so enjoyed writing. A million reasons for what might have happened swirled around in my head, none of them would I have cared to write about had it happened to me. And this is what got me thinking...

By writing about what is going on in our lives gives readers the impression that they know us personally. But I can assure you that most of us do not reveal everything to our readers; I can tell you that I surely don't. No one wants to read about the terrible things that happen in our lives. They don't want to hear about illness, tragedy or death. No one is interested in the arguments that rise from time to time in a marriage, the boring hum drum of every day (like going to the grocery store, cleaning the house or shoveling cat poo) or the minute details that make up life.

When we write on our blogs, we reveal only what we wish our readers to see. For the reader it may be a bit like window peeping except that we, the writers, leave the curtains open and lights on in only in the rooms which we wish you see. The rest of our house is closed to the public. And though there are a few Bloggers out there who seem to share everything with the world, I would be willing to bet that there are always window of the house that are kept closed to readers.

Through a little Blogger research, I was able to find out that thankfully Nicki and her family are indeed well. I won't write about her reasons for leaving the blog world because I feel that when and if she wants the world to know, she will write about it.

And for you other bloggers out there, I am interested in hearing your thoughts. Do you leave all the lights on for your readers? Or do you keep some of the rooms of your life private?

*Niki, if you happen to read this send me an email. I would love to keep in touch with you!

Four Years On

Two months ago the Italian and I headed to the Cinedream theater in the outskirts of Faenza to catch a movie. As we walked our usual path through the parking lot, I noticed something I had never seen before. Something so beautiful, something so amazing, that it stopped me dead in my tracks. It was a sign which read "Mc Donald's 2 minuti". Its brilliant white background and golden arches sparkled in the light of the moon.

"Mc Donald's? Two minutes ahead?" I said out loud, not believing what I was seeing. Never had I lived so close to Mc Donald's, not since moving to Italy. Could Christmas have come early this year?

But then a funny thing happened. We saw the movie and left Faenza without ever checking out the new Mc Donald's. A week later we drove by it on our way into town, only to see the brand new Mc Donald's complete with a packed parking lot and a line at the drive through longer than the Mississippi River. We didn't stop.

Weeks turned into months and still I hadn't dragged the Italian to Mc Donald's. At last one night a group of our friends, who were meeting us for a movie, suggested we meet at Mc Donald's for a quick meal before the show. Knowing they were "sacrificing" themselves for my happiness, I told them that I would be just as content with plate a pasta if they would prefer to go elsewhere. But their minds were set on taking me to Mc Donald's and so we went.

I giggled to myself as we sat on the new stools covered with fake leather. As I munched on my chicken sandwich and french fries I couldn't help but think how much I have changed in the years since my move to Italy. The old Cyndi would have jumped at the chance to eat greasy, American comfort food as she struggled to over come her culture shock. The old Cyndi would have pleaded for the Italian to take her to the new Mc Donald's until the Italian would have begged her "no more"! But in the years I have been here, I have found myself adapting well to my Italian life and needing the things from America less.

My kitchen is empty of marshmallows, peanut butter and Kraft Mac n' Cheese; things I imported (or begged my family to send) in those first few years in Italy. And though I still enjoy the occasional peanut butter cup, I no longer find myself pining away for them when I have none.

Toady marks the four year anniversary of when I touched down in Italy and started my new life here. Four years which have been filled with endless happiness and a touch of sorrow. I have been heartbroken since Roscoe's death, but today I miss him even more. I keep thinking about the journey that the three of us (Roscoe, Opus and I) made together. How we left our lives in America for a new one in Italy. I can still remember how much I worried about the boys as we traveled across an ocean to be with the man I love. And I still remember how happy and relived I was when I found them next to the luggage carousal after landing in Milan. Roscoe had some sort of goop on his nose that looked like harden toothpaste, though I am sure he didn't brush his teeth during the trip. I never did figure out what it was, not even when I lovingly washed off his little pink nose.

(Me, Opus and Roscoe leaving America
at Chicago's O'Hare International Airport)

Last week I met an American tourist who was amazed to learn that I live in Italy. "How can you stand living here?" she kept repeating over and over, referring to the bureaucratic red tape and slower Italian life style. For me now, the question will never be "how can I live here". The question for me now is "how can I not"?

I will always love and miss America, but Italy is home.

The Big Day

After what feel like ten years of election coverage, the big election day is almost here. This blog has never been (nor will ever be) a political blog, so I won't share my thoughts with you on who I think is right for the job (or less wrong is more like it). What I can tell you is that the American election has been big news over here in Italy with many of my friends asking about the election process or wanting to know my views on the candidates. It has been fun seeing everyone so excited about what is going on in my home country.

Today happens to be the fourth anniversary of when I left America and moved to Italy. As if I weren't feeling homesick enough, watching the excitement over election day has made me wish even more that I could back in America to be a part of it.

No matter who wins or looses, this has been a historical election with either the first African American as the president or the first woman as the vice predident. I can't wait to see how it all turns out.

Now get out there and vote America! And remember, the world is watching....

All Souls Day

"No heaven will not ever Heaven be;
Unless my cats are there to welcome me." ~ Anonymous

Italy in Indy

Just this afternoon, as I spent a few mindless hours surfing the net, I managed to come across a website all about Indianapolis. Feeling a bit homesick I clicked through photo gallery, looking at photos of a city had I come to love. Memories began to flood my mind:the concerts I had attended on the lawn of White River, the nights spent club hopping with friends, dinners out at my favorite restaurants. How many times I had I watched the sun rise at "The Circle" after a long night shift on the ambulance? How many times had a driven to and from work on the highway that passes by the city center and how many times did I admire the beautiful skyline? More than I could count. I started feeling homesick and suddenly had the urge to book a flight to Indiana ASAP. Then I came across a photo that made smile. There on the canal, in downtown Indianapolis, was a gondola complete with a gondolier dressed in a striped shirt. I couldn't help but giggle.

Since my move to Italy, faux gondoliers had arrived in Indy ready to take giddy tourist out for a spin on the canals of the Cirlce City. I clicked on the website of the company offering the gondola rides and was shocked to see the price. A half hour ride cost no less than $150!

I pictured myself in Indianapolis watching the gondolas on the Not-so-grand Canal. For sure the sight would have made me feel homesick for Italy. That is the thing about being an expatriate, no matter where you are there is always some place you miss.

On the upside, in just 2 hours time I can be in Venice riding around in a REAL gondola. And for the same price a gondola ride in Indy, I will have the beauty and enchantment of Venice surrounding me.

Life is good!

A New Month

A new month has arrived. I felt this might be a good time to get back to blogging. To say that our home isn't the same without Roscoe feels like the understatement of the year. He was such a happy, fun loving cat who constantly made me laugh. He was a wonderful companion and a true friend. At last I can look at his photos without bursting into tears. However, I have cried everyday since his passing. They say that time heels all wounds, but they also say absences makes the heart grow fonder. How can it be both? I miss Roscoe more every day. Time heals all wounds? It feels more like time has its finger stuck in my wound, ripping it open even wider.

I have friends and family who are going through terrible times right now. People who have problems much greater than a pet that has passed away. At times I feel guilty for feeling so awful because my cat died. I know I should count my blessing and be thankful for all that I have.
Other times I don't feel so guiltyy. After all, grief is grief isn't it? Whether you are grieving the loss of a loved one, the loss of a relationship, the loss of job or the loss of a pet. In that moment of crushing grief, is the pain not the same? We all grieve for the unwanted change in our lives. We grieve for what was, what would have been, and what will be no more. We grieve for the life that we knew and for the life that no longer exists.


Some may say that it is strange to grieve so deeply over a family pet, while others will read this and understand just how deep my pain runs. We open our homes to these sweet animals and in turn, we open up our hearts to them. We care for them, love them, play with them, cherish them and yes, we even talk to them. When they are no longer here, it leaves a gaping hole. A hole that I know will never be filled again.

Life marches on with or without me. The season is changing whether I want it to or not. Just this morning I awoke in a haze. The kind that comes with a restless night of strange, broken dreams. The sun peered into my bedroom, peaking from behind the gray clouds which covered the morning sky. The Italian had already left for work while Opus was curled up next to me, his paw stretched out across my shoulder. For a moment my mind was foggy, I wasn't even sure what day it was. Then I heard a familiar sound, muffled popping sounds carried by wind. From that sound I understood that it was Thursday; in the fall Thursday is the day the hunters are permitted to hunt in the morning. Instantly I thought of Roscoe and how much he hated the sounds of the hunters guns or any sudden, loud noise. He would always scamper under the bed until it was late morning when the hunters returned home.

The sounds of the hunters guns are a clear sign that fall is underway in Italy.


Outside the leaves are just starting to turn color. The kids have gone back to school. The velvet peaches of late summer have been replaced by golden apples and sweet pears at the farmer's roadside stand.

The season is changing.

Life marches on and so must we.

Our Roscoe Is Gone

We are devastated. Our sweet little Roscoe went over the rainbow bridge early yesterday morning. He put up a good fight with his strong little heart, but in the end he his heart gave out and death came to gently take him away. We are heart broken beyond words. Having Opus and Roscoe with me is like having a living, breathing part of my old, American life here in Italy.

Roscoe, we will love you forever and keep you close in our hearts....