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

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?