Last weekend we caught a train to Florence.
Whenever we leave Perugia, I try to imagine what it will feel like the last time we pull away from the station and watch the walls of the city shrink in the distance. Sometimes I think I’ll be ready to leave.
Like when the hot water doesn’t work.
Or when the space inside this apartment gets so cramped that I want to scream, “Go outside and play!” (but can’t because there isn’t a backyard; there’s not even a park nearby).
Or when Tom tells me some of the discouraging comments his teachers say to him.
I’m 100% positive that I wouldn’t want to live here permanently. Our life is rooted deep back home. It is where we belong. It’s who we are. It’s where we are truly understood (literally). So I guess twelve months is the right amount of time.
However, I’m not ready to go yet. I want to be ready to go. I hope I will be ready to go. But I’m just not ready, and June seems right around the corner.
When we leave, I wonder if it will be unbearably sad. I wonder how we are going to say goodbye. Of course we can visit Perugia again, but when we part, we permanently say goodbye to this apartment, to these neighbors, to this experience. We will permanently say goodbye to the details of our daily life. (When I think about that, my stomach hurts.)
Italy is good. I love the ancient stone walls, the churches filled with candles on every corner, the pecorino cheese and the Umbrian sausage.
I love having everything right outside our front door. I love not driving.
I’m going to miss it. I will miss speaking Italian. I will miss living downtown surrounded by city life. I will miss evening walks, cobblestones and aqueducts.
I’m even going to miss the bell towers constantly ringing outside our bedroom window.
I will miss the sound of an Italian police siren and the 89 steep steps leading to our front door
and really good espresso
and being able to just catch a train to Florence for a couple days.
This is where I want to be right now. In Italy. Not forever, but for the next three months.