Rebooting

Saying "Buonjourno" to some dumb habits

Dear Readers:

I’m in Italy. I’ve been staying in a little apartment in a very small town on the Amalfi Coast for the last three weeks.

I promise not to subject you to a travelogue, because A) I don’t want to remind you of those dreadful slideshows you might have had to watch as a child…

… and B) Honestly, there are experiences — many experiences — that I chose to keep to myself. I am greedy in that way. I hoard some of my best memories and store them in my imaginary vintage Louis Vuitton suitcase.

I leave my hometown every February for three or four weeks. I’ve done this for many years, and February is to blame, because in our family — if you’re going to pass away, you’re going to do it in February.

Regular readers (you’re all regular readers, amirite?) know that I’ve had a bit of a time lately. Our family has experienced tough losses this winter. And yes, February is to blame.

And so I’ve left my snowbound and griefbound hometown to nurse my memories and my wounds elsewhere.

Over the years I’ve spent these February walkabout weeks in many different locations in the United States. But this is the first time I’ve traveled across the ocean for my walkabout, and I’ve chosen to spend this time in the sort of place I feel most comfortable in.

I like small places. The village where I’m staying is small and very quiet. It has that off-season vibe I remember from the off-season months I lived on an island, many years ago.

This a beautiful place. It’s a spectacularly beautiful place.

[The view from my little apartment, I kid you not.]

The people here are very nice. At least I think they’re very nice. They might simply be glad to see me because I am the only tourist in town. Plus, they mainly speak to me in Italian, so I have to make all sorts of assumptions about what they are saying.

Every year when I take my walkabout, I try to give myself something of a re-set.

One year I tried a strict Keto regimen (in New Orleans, and yes — what was I thinking?), and another year I remember committing to the Whole 30 Diet, also in New Orleans.

This only proves that I am a very slow learner.

Eventually, I realized that trying to retrain my eating habits while spending my time away, oftentimes in places that have wonderful food, was just stupid.

And so one year I taught myself to play the ukulele.

Last year I taught myself to do the “Running Man.”

Quirky, I know. But hey — this is my world, and I’m the only person who has to live in it.

This year I’ve spent an entire month climbing hundreds of stone stairs up to my mountainside apartment and back down again (more on that later). I’ve been wandering around, looking around, and — because I neither speak nor understand Italian — I’m more or less living in my head.

Italians do so many things well. And one thing they seem exceedingly good at, in my opinion, is how they spend their time.