I’m about to tell you a story that I’ve been trying to tell you for several months. Pull up a chair, kiddos, it may be kinda long. (Note, the title of this post comes from one of my favorite poems. You can read it here. It’s number 18.)
My initial reaction, when all of this went down, was to rush to write about it- to dump the story here. But that wasn’t the right approach, especially since I realized that I hadn’t actually spoken about any of the players in this story on this blog. So I’ll start from the beginning.
In September, 2013, we moved into our house here in Vicenza. I could write a research essay about the mind-numbing process of securing housing in this town, but I’ll spare you the details and simply say this: it wasn’t fun. At all. We considered ourselves lucky because we found a home very near to where my husband would be working. Since we didn’t have a car at the time, this was an incredible boon for us. He could ride his bike to work, we were right on the bus line, and there was a small grocery store on the next block. Score! Future explorations showed us how fantastic our neighborhood actually is. I can easily walk to three grocery stores, several small cafes, a few bars, a bakery, a post office, a toy store, a dry cleaner, a thrift shop… The list is quite long. It probably took us two months to discover the restaurant which would become our second home- Mayflower. Continue reading