Cloudy with a 100% Chance of Smiles

It feels great to be up in the air again, to watch the clouds, for a short period of time from above--rather than below; to see the world--the most beautiful canvas that there is just full of opportunity for growth and life.

A lot of people don't like to fly in planes. I love it. It's the one time I can disappear and enjoy a brand new outlook--a new view--a new perspective. It's one of the few times I can disconnect from all outside wires of communication--and access only myself.

Solsbury Hill comes on my iPod, and I smile. I love this--this freedom--this beautiful-eye-opening freedom.

I close my eyes, "my heart going boom, boom, boom." I've been to this place before, THIS place, way up high. Not just when I am literally in a plane, but every-time I close my eyes and get lost in my favorite place.

I've always had an obsession with the sky. When I was young, the trim to my room was the blue sky and clouds. I didn't want it any other way. I was stubborn. In 7th grade sewing class, when we were asked to buy patterns for the pillows we'd later be making, I chose the fabric at the store that had a sky print. When people ask me if I could have any power in the world--that's easy--flying.

I close my eyes, and I am on a cloud. It's simple and soft. I use it like Aladdin's magic carpet, until I want a new view--Then I just pop on over to another cloud. I float over New York City, and then somehow teleport myself to my hometown--and time travel to when I was in high school. I watch my mother out in the yard-and see my friends and me playing sports at the high school.

I breathe it in. I breathe it all in.

I feel myself smile, and then I let out a little laugh. I feel my eyes twitch. I am present, but yet so far gone. This is what it means to go to my favorite place in the entire world--to feel present--and away...to know that this place, this amazing ride through the sky is simply one ME moment away-that I can take off any time I want.

I come back to myself and where I am. This time I am lucky enough that when I open my eyes--I am still up in the sky--still up above the clouds--still smiling.

Going Home

Thank God for the county lines that welcome you back in
When you were dying to get out...

And when you’re lost out in this crazy world
You got somewhere to go and get found
Thank God for hometowns

-Carrie Underwood

-July 2009

Disregard our TEXT typos here: "we're" and "too" (Darn iPhones :) )

I'm a New Yorker. Both my parents were born and raised in New York. Both my brother and my sister attended colleges in New York State. And now here I am living and working in New York City. It was clearly meant to be my home--one day. But for so many years leading up to now, home was somewhere else--it was a little town in Pennsylvania called Bethlehem--It was where I played baseball on the little league field, struck out boys from the pitcher's mound, and scored runs by sliding into home plate.

It where I bought and ate penny candy with my best friend on the pavement playground--which I later scraped my knees on (why are there pavement playgrounds by the way?). It was where I wore my heart on my sleeve for nearly hundreds to thousands of sporting events over 10 years. 

It was where I learned to swim.

It was where I had my first sleepover.

It was where I experienced my first bully--and overcame that bully.

It was where I got my first detention (Hehe).

It was where I went trick-or-treating.

It was where I experienced the loss of a loved one for the first time.

It was where I learned to ride my bike and to drive a car.

It was where I ate apple turnovers with my mom and drank giant glasses of milk over quiet conversation. It was where I tubed down the creek and laughed all day long.

It was where I went on my first date, snuck out past a curfew, and shared my first kiss. 

It was where I played man hunt, capture the flag, and hide-and-go-seek. 

It was where I learned to ice skate and rollerblade--where I learned to fall down--and get back up.

 It was where I met my four best friends who taught me about life and love and happiness. It was where I grew up--even if I grew out. It was where I learned to live. It was--and forever will be my hometown.

Often, with the hustle and bustle of NYC, it's easy to lose touch with "home" to forget to call a grandparent--to forget to text your best friend back, to mindlessly lose sense of time in all possible ways. New York City is, of course, the city that never sleeps--so each day begins to blend into the next, AND before you know it, it's been two months--three months--six months--a year since you've reached out--even to one of your best friends in the entire world.

This past weekend, I was reminded why my friends are so amazing--why my HOMETOWN is so amazing. Without fail, I can return to to Bethlehem, PA and be welcomed back in as if I never left. Without fail, my best friends and I can pick up where we left off--and never look back. Without fail, I can sit poolside with a best friend who I haven't seen in nearly six months, or who had a real conversation with in a year or two--and cry and laugh and smile and feel more connected than ever. 

Without fail--my hometown can always serve as home. Even if I've made a home somewhere else.

"I always find another piece of me
Walking down these old familiar streets /

Thank God for hometowns
And all the love that makes them go round
Thank God for the county lines that welcome you back in
When you were dying to get out
Thank God for Church pews
And all the faces that won’t forget you
And when you’re lost out in this crazy world
You got somewhere to go and get found
Thank God for hometowns
Thank God for hometowns"

-Carrie Underwood

Who is that woman I see...staring back at me?

A puddle, a mirror, and glass windows at night all have one thing in common: When you look into them, you see

yourself…your physical self at least. When you look into a cappuccino, you see foam. But not this morning. This morning when I looked into my final cappuccino of 2011, I saw a reflection of memories and moments of 365 days of laughter, of tears, of smiles, of joys, of sadness—365 days of life—365 days of Me.

Many people will say that you are a man or a woman when you hit 18—that you have suddenly gone from being a teenager to a well-mannered adult who should be treated like one. Girls and boys are now used as terms to describe children, and man and woman are words that now describe you or your friend.

But I don’t think I really considered myself grown up—I don’t think I really considered the reflection I saw to be a woman—as opposed to a girl—until this year—until I really felt as though I grew up.

Over the course of the year, I made a grown-up decision to return to the states as my wallet grew thinner and my ambition expanded. I beat bouts of anxiety and downward excitement with conversation and coffee. I defeated dismal days of dread with an optimistic outlook. And I challenged myself beyond belief.

I made family a priority.

I kept my best friends--the best friends in the entire world.

I made new friends.

I found a family of comradery in a world full of comedy.

I discovered that the city is lonely til you reach out and make it not so lonely.

I learned that people here will support you as you unconditionally support them, and that giving a lot, means receiving a lot more.

I forged a friendship with several inspirational mentors who I never struggled to let criticize and push me towards my goals and my dreams.

I released those from my life that were creating a negative film over my perspectives and I made my own decisions.

I reconnected with those that I had lost touch with days, months, years ago; who once were a large part of my life, but had since been lost due to distance and time.

I kept in touch with those that I left just over a year ago to tackle my trembling fear that I would never return to Italy.

I let people in.

And I let me…know me. I smiled. I laughed. I cried. I joked. I stumbled. I stood.

And in the foam of this beautiful and delightful fragile cappuccino…I reflect. And I think “Looking pretty good Libs…Looking pretty great.”

Here’s to 2011…and Here’s to 2012—a year of excitement.

I can sleep when I make it...

"It gets exhausting doesn't it?"

"What?"

"Trying to make it... you know...putting all your money, your effort, all of it into one thing?"

"But I love it...every second of it--I have to..."

It's just another day in New York City. There's another girl, with another notebook, writing next to another coffee shop window.

There's another guy strumming another guitar in another subway tunnel.

There's another person trying to make it--exhausting their funds, their energy, but never exhausting their dreams--never waking up to a world full of nightmares.

It's a city that sparkles with ambition and that shines with desire. It's a city of magic, a city of passion, a city that never exhausts. It's a city of dreamers. It truly is a city that never sleeps.

"So you don't get exhausted of it...ever?

"No...I can sleep when I make it"

#On911

#On911 I was 13 and confused. Our teachers were told to turn off their televisions, keep us away from the computers and go about the day as if nothing had happened. But something had happened. Something big. Something called a terrorist attack.

I didn't know what that meant. To me monsters and bad guys wore capes and battled Spiderman and Batman. They weren't REAL people. They were cartoons, movie characters, and fictional reads. Maybe I was naive, or maybe it was the first time I realized that the Joker could actually exist, that the Green Goblin was out there--that it didn't take super powers, that it just took a dark heart.

Today marks the 10th anniversary of the attacks on our country. That means today marks the day when my blog matches nearly every other Americans blog in telling the story of 9/11, in unmasking the villain of Osama Bin Laden, in laying out feelings and memories of that day.

It's exactly ten years later and I don't understand it much more than I did when I was 13. To me, it's still a graphic novel: Good vs evil, evil hurts good, good seeks revenge, good kills evil, evil somehow still exists.

What I do know, believe, and understand is that the lives of too many were lost that day--too many people just going to work, too many who had just said goodbye to their husbands and wives and kissed their kids on the forehead, too many who were just making a subway transfer, too many who were just sticking to routine--too many who had just boarded a plane for a get-a-way, too many who were silent heros, too many who were innocent. #TooMany.

Today we remember those people. We remember the tragedy. And we remember our pride. May those memories and this feeling of pride continue on September 12, on September 13, and every day there after. Togetherness is something I do understand.

"Your show mattered--It's what got me here"- A "Reel" Story

I started this blog over a year ago with an intention of following the "reel" in New York City. My blog often features posts about real-life struggles, inspiring moments, and comical outbursts. This post is a return to the root of the blog, as I returned to the "reel" world yesterday to get a glimpse at what I one day too hope to be a huge part of: the fictional television world.

If I had been on my A-game yesterday when I had a few minutes of opportunity to speak with Hilarie Burton, I think I may have told her that the show One Tree Hill, of which she was a major character on, made all the difference in the direction and path I chose.

Realizing how difficult it is to write story-lines, continue story-lines, and cut story-lines when necessary, I fell in love with the television show. I often thought to myself, "Where do Mark Schwahn and his writers get it from? Who granted them this gift?" And it inspired me to want to write--a lot. And then it inspired me to want to write for television and film a lot. And then it became clear to me that despite many people's beliefs that television can hurt the mind--it was really the only thing that directed me in the path that I wanted to go.

I only hope that I can create a story-line that people cherish and love as much as Peyton and Lucas--or a story-line as epic as the romance between Nathan and Haley, or a conflict so endearing as the one between father and sons.

While I didn't use any cheesy renditions of quotes from One Tree Hill, I did have the chance to speak with Burton, while she was taking a break from the White Collar set. We talked about her production company, how difficult it is to walk in heels, New York City, Wilmington, NC where I recently visited, and the eye candy she gets to work with. It was one of those chances to speak to someone that you really don't want to blow by losing your cool.

Fortunately, I had met the production manager who introduced us during rehearsal and he and I were able to chat about the industry, where it's been and where it's going. We were also able to discuss White Collar, how the shoots differ from other shoots, and how much shooting is left for this season. Like many days last year, when I checked out the sets of Law and Order SVU and Gossip Girl, it made a great learning experience--and again, only got me much more excited about the path that I have chosen and intend to continue on for a long time.

The Anatomy of 8 Million Dreamers

Every now and then a song speaks to us–and it speaks for us. It captures exactly what our hearts are feeling but are unable to say. It brings a tear to our eye, a smile to our face and a memory to our soul. It touches us, and we feel it with every ounce of our flesh that covers our body. And even though we know it wasn’t written for us, we know it doesn’t matter, that we can feel anything we want to feel when we hear it–as if it was written by our own hearts.

Every time I hear or listen to a song about New York City, my heart flutters. It doesn’t matter that I didn’t grow up here–or that I didn’t experience the trials and tribulations–the crime or the craziness–the soot or the sadness. All that matters is every time I hear a song about New York, I am reminded of the rush I feel each time I sit in Grand Central, or of the flood of excitement I have, each time I meet a new person, or of the disdain I have for the work day commutes (Ha), and, lastly, of course I am reminded of the passion and love I have for each nook and cranny in this city.

Each day that I was in Italy, I called New York City my home–and it’s no wonder–I have never felt more home than in the moments I have spent sitting in the subway trains; or in the moments that I have spent chatting over coffee at my favorite shop (Bourbon–14th street and 5th); or in the moments that I’ve spent on the Brooklyn Bridge; or in the seconds that I have spent in dodging tourists in Times Square. I have never felt more on top of the world than in the moments I stare out my 26th floor work window at the dazzling skyscrapers that reflect off of one one another in the night time glow. And I have never felt more relieved, relaxed, or comforted than in the moments I have spent with the friends that I have found, the talent that I have encountered, and the family that I have made here.

You know, they say if you let something go and it comes back–then you know it’s real love…well I left for a bit, three months…and I came back. In fact, it was nearly hours after I heard Empire State of Mind (II), by Alicia Keys, for the first time, that I made my decision to come home, months earlier than I had planned.

Like songs–I want this video to have captured what I feel each time I walk down an alley way–a street–or a set of subway stairs as well as what I feel each time I see or meet a stranger or watch a talented street performer. I wanted this video to play out like all the songs I hear that cause a tear to shed or a smile to cross my face each time I hear it, and think of this city. I wanted this video to speak what was on my heart while looking into the hearts of others–I wanted this video to dissect the anatomy of the dreamers that live in this city–that breathe this city–that love this city. Because really–if they can make it here–they can make it anywhere. I hope you enjoy:

There's No Place Like Home

Opening Red Ruby Scene, Follow the Yellowbrick Road and Closing scene are all part of the original Wizard of Oz. Using in accordance with Fair Use.

Suzy Sellout-- Far from your "Ordinary Sell Out"

Sell Out: Someone who betrays a cause for personal advancement.

Suzy Sellout: Exactly the opposite. A talented, passionate, singer-songwriter living in New York City; a motivated and driven performer; a star.

"I don't have any idea what I am doing, I don't have any idea where I am going, I don't have anything but my heart, and what i know in my heart to be right--I've gotta fight the good fight--and someday when I am ready--I'll be alright...I'll be alright."

-"I Have No Idea"-Suzy Sellout

It has been less than a year since I was fortunate enough to meet a young New York City singer, songwriter, and artist who refers to herself and her band as Suzy Sellout. The young woman, however, sometimes rides solo, and can be heard everywhere from small nooks and crannies, to coffee and drink houses, to spaces as big as the Empire State Building and the Duplex (March 29th).

If you've heard her at a show, you may know her as Kathrine Becker. If you haven't heard her at a show: it won't be too long until you do. Kathrine, who has just released her first single on iTunes "I Have No Idea," is making big footprints as she takes a childhood talent and hobby and goes from her living room to the stage, performing original and inspiring music.

As a native Californian, Kathrine moved to New York several years ago to continue working on her musical career. It is clear that she has taken her music to another level, even in just the short time that I have known her.

When I first met Kathrine, it was only for an hour at a Tapas bar in downtown Manhattan. It was her birthday and a friend of mine had invited me to tag along to drop by for a drink. Nearly, immediately, I could see a unique and bubbling soul full of passion, motivation, and drive toward a dream.

Soon after, I had the pleasure of sitting down in a studio with a few others and watching Kathrine record her three song CD (out now). Each of the songs play like a silhouette to anyone's ears. It was the first time that I had ever heard Kathrine perform, but I knew it wouldn't be the final time I let her music grace my eardrums. As I left the studio, I found myself singing her songs in my head over and over again--feeling inspired by her songs--skipping a long the city streets beneath the city skyline to her melodies.

It has been less than eleven months since I first listened to Kathrine in the studio that day, and it is clear that Kathrine's music has only elevated in those eleven short months. Upon arriving home from Italy, I had the opportunity to watch Kathrine perform at the Empire State Building for a half-time show at a Superbowl Party, and then again, recently, at the Waltz-Astoria in Astoria, Queens. As she sang out to a crowded basement, followed by the more recent crowded coffee house space, I was instantly reminded why I love Kathrine's music so much--why I constantly return to it on Myspace, and why I have always felt so close to it: Because it's personal, and it's real, and it has a story: Her story--yes--but a story we can all look at and say "A part of me feels that way too." Her music connects. She connects.

As she sang the song "I Have No Idea," (which you should know has been deemed the graduation song of 2011) at her more recent show , tears formed in my eyes. Listening to her song, feelings of being lost in the big city, in the big world came to light--but as she sang, it was impossible to avoid humming along with her as these lyrics flowed brilliantly from her vocal chords: "I'll be alright, I'll be alright," because no matter the struggles or turbulence this life offers, how far we are taken from home, from family, from friends, it's important to remember that we will be alright--at least in our hearts.

Kathrine concluded her recent show with new material, a song called Rat Race, in which Kathrine sings about going from desk job, to the big time: but I don't think she'll have to wait the eight months she sings about...or raps about. I think it will be very soon that we hear the lovely and wonderful Kathrine Becker taking over our sound waves.

Check out Kathrine at the Duplex this coming Tuesday, March 29th.

Also check out Kathrine's music at www.myspace.com/suzysellout

And then head over to iTunes and purchase the Suzy Sellout song on iTunes: "I Have No Idea"

Don't worry--the feeling is mutual

They are a couple They sit across from me, their legs each crossed over their other one, their hands on their own laps, and their scarves wrapped tightly around their necks to avoid the winter dangers of cold, frost bite, and New York City wind. But their scarves cannot hide them or protect them from a cold heart—one that doesn’t understand their ways—doesn’t understand why they might want to be together—doesn’t understand what they are feeling for one another—doesn’t understand what love truly is.

He sits one row of seats down from them with a baseball cap and an oversized coat. His headphones hang around his neck, and he is thin. He mutters under his breath about the two men sitting across from me. His voice grows louder about how God has created life and the way we are supposed to live it. He is colder than the brisk air that is outside. A tear begins to fall away from my eye.

Cut to two subway rides earlier in the day.

She is in a rush. She is wearing ugg boots, a black jacket, and a bitter taste on a day that should highlight all the love in the world. An f-bomb flies out of her mouth that probably shouldn’t echo down the subway steps but it does. No-not that f-bomb. Another F-bomb—one that carries much more offense, at this point, one that would probably sting the two men who later sat across from me later in the day, more painfully than a bee who has just sharpened up.

“Faggots!”

I hear her yell. But I don’t see who she is yelling at. Too short, and the steps are too packed, I assume she is yelling at two men who are either holding hands, getting in her way, or who may be dressed in your less than stereotypical male way.

It is the first time, in New York City, I have witnessed such hate—such coldness—such awfulness twice in one day. It is the first time that I have ever truly wanted to yell at a stranger, slap them across their face, and knock some sense back into them.

Everyone has their preferences.

Everyone has their choice for love.

It is not up to us to decide who can love who and who will love who and who is supposed to love who. We are just supposed to love—and have enough of that love to go around for everyone who matters—everyone who needs love—and everything that deserves…love. We may not agree—and it may not be the way we choose our lives, but that doesn’t mean that our way has to be the way that someone else chooses to live theirs.

I often hear this saying thrown around.

“When did you decide to tell your parents you were straight?”

You probably never had to decide, because it’s always been the “accepted” form of living. You probably never had to say, “Hey Mom—I’m straight—hope you are okay with that.” “Hey Dad—Your baby boy grew up loving women…Is that okay?!”

But you DID have to decide how you treated other people your whole life. You DID have to decide what to say in public—and what to keep to yourself. You DID decide to judge.

And in my judgment—the haters, the ones who yell the harsh obscenities at the ones that live a life unlike their own—you need to be loved right now—to be loved for all the hate you have within you—to cure that hate—so you to can see that love can exist in every shape and form—between every gender—between man and woman—man and man—woman and woman—between a lover and a hater…You may not want to live your life like the gay man or woman sitting a cart seat away from you on the train—and you may not want to live your life like the men holding hands walking slowly in front of you on Valentine’s Day…but I can assure you, no one wants to live a life like you—full of hatred and misunderstanding.

At least the feeling is mutual.

Frolicking in Fields of Farewells

L-O-V-E…Four letters. Four simple letters. Two consonants. two vowels. Four letters. I’ve learned a lot about love these past 6 months. I’ve learned a lot about love for people, for words, for places, for things, for memories, for food, for coffee, for myself. I’ve learned that leaving means realizing how much love you carry for a person, a place, or things. And I’ve learned that leaving also means opening your heart to be filled with more love for places, people, and things, even when you have to say goodbye to people, places, and things—even when you have to start leaving people, places, and things behind.

I’ve learned from good friends, that we can’t hold everyone we meet in our hands—or in our lifestyle. We can just keep them in our hearts—bury them deep within the vessels and hope our constant breathing keeps them breathing too…keeps them alive in at least some part of us.

I’ve learned that we can’t expect everyone to stay—and we can’t expect ourselves to stay. I’ve learned that some people do truly come into our lives for a short period of time to leave a mark and then leave very quickly. Some places are meant to feel our weight, take us in, wrap their arms around us like a big teddy bear, and hold us until we are ready to move on. Some things are meant to just have one short conversation with us—one chance to forever impact us—making them a part of us forever—making us a part of them forever.

I’ve learned that goodbyes are never easy…that they come at times that are both unexpected and expected…that they drive us to tears and that they make us worry about the future…that they complicate things—that they mean letting go of one thing in order to be greeted by something new, something completely different, something wonderful. And then soon later, another goodbye will take place. And you’ll move on—just like you did the last time—with tears in your mind—and love in your heart.

You can say goodbye, or see you later, in Italian, in a number of ways…Ciao, Arrivederci, A Presto, A Dopo, Buon giornata…You can wave, kiss on the cheek two times, or give one giant hug. Saying “goodbye” is never easy, and as I boarded my plane home from Rome just two days ago, I said goodbye to a number of things…to a number of people…to a number of places…to a number of cobblestones traveled…to a number of cappuccino drank…to a three month period of time lived in pure joy—I said goodbye to Italy, in every way shape and form. I gave her two kisses on the cheek, said a presto (see you soon), and gave her one giant hug, before waving goodbye from the emergency exit seat 30,000 feet above.

And then with tears in my eyes… I thought, “Hello…--Hello memories, hello good times traveling around the north, hello new inspirations, hello old friends, hello new friends, hello New York City, hello bright lights, red carpets, big dreams, hello reminders of the past, hello opportunity, hello accepting goodbye…hello to the next one.

.Hello life.

Why we keep in touch--Happy Holidays

A week ago, walking around Rome, I said to myself, “Thank goodness I have kept in touch with so many people in my life…For if it wasn’t for that, I wouldn’t have had a place to live in Rome for the month of December, I wouldn’t have made the connections here that I have made, and I wouldn’t have followed through with making a leap to another country.”

And then last night I received the two most wonderful Christmas gifts that were wrapped up in words as a Facebook notification. “Sam Ojih tagged you in a video” “Hannah Brencher posted a video on your wall.” Sam and Hannah are friends that I have made only recently—and when I say recently, I mean not within a year, but within the last six months. They are two people that I have shared passions and hopes and dreams with. They are people who aspired to go to New York City. They are people who I have come to love dearly, and they are the two people who have made my Christmas away from home even extra special this year…they are the two people who this week have made me realize why keeping in touch is so important, even if you haven’t known people for all that long.

They both left me words of encouragement, words of thankfulness, words of love for the holidays, words of memories, words of what I can only call gratefulness and wonderfulness. They left me messages that I will carry with me this holiday season and that I will be able to go back to endlessly. Their words won’t be taped up to the wall above my pillow—but rather taped to the wall of my Facebook for me to return to again and again. Their gifts are timeless.

And I think that’s what the holiday season is about—giving people something timeless, something they can go back to, something they can read or watch or see over and over again that will make them smile—or cry (tears of joy in this case). The holiday season may be built up in every place in the world around the chaos of Christmas festivals and gift exchanges, but I think it is about much more than that—much more than bows and ribbons—much more than candy canes and Old St. Nick—much more than the physical things that we can hold in our hands. It’s about what we can hold in our hearts and what we can put in the hearts of others. It’s about reaching out to someone whose hand we may not physically be able to curl our fingers between but who we can touch in some other way.

Maybe we haven’t spoken to a good friend in a year…two years…or five years. Maybe a sibling has gone astray—or we have lost the ability to get along with our parents, our exes, or our childhood enemies. But I can assure you that keeping in touch—or—getting back in touch—could be one of the best gifts you wrap up with your heart this year…It could get someone through a holiday…It could get someone through it all.

Di Dove Sei? (Where are you from?

“The city of big buildings and bright lights. The city that never sleeps. Good Old New York City,” I say cheerfully to the paper boy who has just asked me the most asked question of all, here in Italy, “Di dove sei,” (where are you from?).

I suddenly want to retract my statements, and put a “But I grew up in Pennsylvania, and lived there for a majority of my life.” But somehow saying New York City seems so much more fun and interesting, and it rolls off my tongue much more quickly and simply. I think deep inside, I truly believe I was meant to be a New Yorker my whole life, to be someone full of adventure and attitude, to be someone who could get through a crowded Times Square without slamming into a single person, to be someone who could walk from Astoria, Queens to lower Manhattan without wincing, to be a true city girl. I think I knew this the first time I came to Italy, when I realized how much I loved Rome and the big, nonstop city atmosphere. As an overwhelming person myself, an overwhelming place to live seems to be a perfect match. “I am from New York City,” I continue to think to myself.

But I am not, and it is crazy to me how nine months in New York City can make me believe I am. In four years of living in Rhode Island, I never once referred to it as my home, and I never once believed it was where I was from. And it never was where I was from.

I deserve a slap on my wrist for forgetting my roots when I told Giuseppe, my new favorite paper boy, who stands in Piazza Della Repubblica every morning, that I was from New York City.

I am a Pennsylvanian. I live near the Amish. I live an hour north of the cheese steak capital of the world. And I couldn’t be more proud of my family or friends that have come from there. But when you start traveling as many times as you buy new shoes, it gets more difficult to remember the last place you occupied, the last place that was your true home

So what makes somewhere HOME? Is it your family? Is it your friends? Is it where you grew up most of your life? Is it where you went to high school? Is it where you went to college? Is it your address? Is it where you have your bank statements set? Or is it where you feel most comfortable, most happy, most lovely, most simple. I want to believe that it’s where you feel most happy, most lovely, most simple. I want to believe that home is what you make it. I want to believe that when I am telling someone I am from New York City, that I am telling them really where I am from.

But I think New York City will soon be just a memory of where I am from. Because if home is really where the heart is, then I am starting to believe that Italy is my home—because I don’t think my heart will ever leave. So when the next Giuseppe asks where I am from, well I think I have a new answer. I am from Italy…and when that next Giuseppe looks at me like I have ten heads, I think I’ll laugh to myself and say, “I just need to say that in Italian next time.”

Like a Forever Stamp...

I wish suitcases were expandable. I wish that inside the pockets of each pair of pants that I have packed I could shrink a friend s mall enough to fit within. I wish that when I pulled out my shoes on the other side of the Atlantic that there’d be a little Jack in the shoe popping out, a friend who would say “Surprise, bet you didn’t know I could sulk up like a slinky.”

But I know that in this year, this decade, possibly this century, and most definitely this lifetime, that will not ever be possible. This is something I have to do on my own—this is something I want to do on my own.

In just a few hours, I will arrive at JFK, swipe my Passport through the scanner, drop my luggage onto the conveyor belt, brace myself for body scanners, sit in a terminal alone, and board a plane across the Atlantic. I will say goodbye to large sized coffees, most of my wardrobe, and all the best of friends. Ten hours later, I will walk off a plane into a land where the exit signs read “Uschita” and where Dunkin Donuts are replaced with local hole-in-the-wall shops. I will say hello to cappuccino con chocolate, beautiful romance languages, a months worth of wrinkled clothes, and a world filled with wonderful people that have stories to share. I will be home…I will be in Italy.

I use the word home to describe a place that I once lived for three months, a place that welcomed me with open arms, a place that granted me safety and security, a place that provided me with happiness.

Like a forever stamp placed carefully on the corner of a fresh letter to be mailed, the value of my love for Italy never seems to change. I have not gone a day since leaving Italy without thinking of the kindness of strangers, without dreaming of the cobblestone roads, without imagining the scent of the steam radiating from the wood burning ovens. I have not gone a day without missing Italy. I have not gone a day without missing home.

Returning to Italy means seeing old friends and making new ones. It means rediscovering nooks and crannies placed all over the wonderful cities that I once conquered. Most of all, it means returning to my significant other…that’s right…Italy and I are in a serious relationship, and while I have had my serious love affair with New York City, I think that Italy will forgive me. No—I know that Italy will forgive me. Despite my heart and mind wreaking of city subways and alleyways, Italy will embrace me the instant that I return, it will grasp me so hard that I will find it so very difficult to release myself from it’s pull 6, 7, 8 months down the line.

And while I’ll still carry a long distance relationship with New York City, I know that Italy will completely have my heart. I won’t look back—I’ll never look back.

I’ve talked of going back to Italy since December of 2008—when I first returned to the states—when I first forgot how to say “Thank You” and “Hello” and instead belted out “GRAZIE…” and “CIAO!”

And while this week has offered me some difficult challenges to overcome in the days leading up to my travels…I know that they were not meant to deter me. Rather, I believe they may have occurred in order to keep me busy—to keep my mind from questioning the next eight months of my life, to keep me from even thinking about cold feet.

But I almost broke down twice…I almost lost all hope for today coming and myself being prepared. But I am ready—I am ready….I am SOO ready. I’ll see you on the other side folks. I can’t fit you in my pockets…But won’t you join me?

I’ll take a cappuccino… how about you?

Occupation: Superhero

At my pre school graduation every single one of us was asked to tell the audience composed of parents, brothers, sisters, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and family friends what we planned to be when we grew up. The answers ranged from firefighters to doctors to lawyers to dentists. Why our pre-k teachers were asking us what we wanted to be when we were barely old enough to pronounce three syllable words really is beyond me, but nonetheless, I responded by saying I wanted to be the first female president. If I had known what that meant, when I was just a four year old, I probably would have said “Anything but the president.”

And if it were four years ago, I may have said “I want to be a sports broadcaster,” but now I know exactly what I want to be, and that is a superhero. I want to be able to save the world one great cause at a time. I want to impact someone who then in turn impacts someone else, which thus results in a continuous line of impact.

I want to provide the world with a kaleidoscope of viewpoints. I want to make a change.

I think part of me first realized this when a teacher once told me that I was going to change the world. This was soon after learning that my college field hockey program had been cut from the University of Rhode Island. At that point in my life, I had completely believed that sports were the only thing that mattered and that if sports didn’t exist then well, nothing else did either.

The other part of me realized how much I wanted to make a difference in the world when I was exchanging emails with a newly acquainted pen pal on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean. Instead of defining myself to him as an athlete or field hockey player, I told him that I was a writer and a traveler and that I had hoped to learn of new things of the places I was traveling, with his help, since he had traveled before as well. I wanted to learn more about the world so I could impact the world as it was impacting me.

In the last nine months, I have lived in New York City, wishing that I could help every homeless person to a piece of bread, and every child without an education to a simple math problem. I have lent my hand to people by opening the door for them even when they walked away without saying thank you, and I have given up my seat to strangers following a long day at work. I have made an effort to save the world one small task at a time, and at the end of the day I have felt both wonderful and inspired because of it. Since coming to New York, I have been changed. I may not have a full-time career just yet, but I know that putting the word superhero next to occupation is beginning to look more and more like the full-time job that I would like to take on.

And to be honest, while sports scores interest me on a “brain candy” level (as my tenth grade English teacher might refer to it)…saving the world just seems much more appealing.

Outsourced

Outsourced

With the economic crisis, it is very rare to walk through Manhattan, tell people that your degree is in communication with a focus on journalism, and then be told that you have chosen the perfect career path and that many jobs are opening up. The awful truth is that journalism is on its death bed, undergoing an agonizing execution in which it is kept breathing only because companies are willing to hire on the cheap. This either means that companies are hiring very few people to do many, many tasks at decent proficiency, rather than many talented crew members who can bring a wealth of knowledge in a variety of areas—or that companies are outsourcing.

According to USA Today, in 2008, MediaNews Group CEO Dean Singleton suggested that “papers should explore outsourcing in nearly every aspect of their operations.”

Well if news outlets are going to be outsourcing… then I have made an executive decision for myself…I am going to outsource myself. So with that, I bid adieu to New York City, to the United States, and I embark, in two months, on a trip to Italy in which I hope to first excel in a four week course that will grant me the certificate which makes me completely marketable as a teacher in Italy and to second: find a placement in Rome, the city that I considered to be my home for three months in 2008.

Things aren’t going to be easy. In fact, finding a placement may be very difficult seeing as the EU rules are very strict about who can and cannot work in Italy. However, life is not easy now: for instance, my apartment isn’t perfect—and I am not sure it will ever be a perfect apartment…I sleep on the floor, a dog sleeps in the kitchen next to me which makes my fan blow lovely dog scents my way each night, and the living space outside my room is small. In addition, I currently am unemployed—call it a casualty of the economy and recession, or just call it plain crappy. So leaving uneasy—to go to well…possibly more uneasy isn’t really scaring me away just yet. I am reminded by my peers and people I look up to that I am young and that this is the time to take chances and see the world, even if it doesn’t work out the way I planned. A good friend even noted not to worry that “America will always take me back.”

But with outsourcing my services and self to another country, I hope that I am able to make future contacts and employment opportunities past my hopeful year of employment as an English teacher. Seeing as I did not go to school to teach and how I am the oddball female of the family (My mother and sister are both English teachers…sheesh), it is my full determination to find a job internationally related to communications and media. So while America may always take me back—I am not sure coming back is what I hope to do.

The results of all this is that I may not live on more than a low income for many years of my life and I may not live in a big old mansion overlooking Lake Eerie or Lake Michigan, but I will be dedicating my life to living out what I want to do…in the places I want to do it. It’s time to make mistakes, and be happy with those mistakes…and with that I say: Bon Voyage.