These days have been a mix of marvel and unease. The unease comes from the continuous question as to how I will manage to stay here. And the marvel comes from everything else. My routine is something that comforts me and excites me. Every little thing becomes spectacular; the ordinary things more than the changes. Buying a bus ticket and catching the bus. Grocery shopping for the freshest of foods and imagining a menu. Picking up a word here, a phrase there. Watching out of the store window as my work-neighbors go about their own daily routines. Becoming part of the landscape instead of just passing through it.

It’s true that the shopkeepers and barmen become more friendly after a customer has established a presence, a loyalty. I have little conversations here and there with Italians that work in my neighborhood, or the places I frequent. “Ciao! Come va? Dove sei stata?” Hi! How’s it going? Where have you been? I tell them that I went to the States for two weeks, that now I’m back and I have a job. They are excited for me, as it has been a shared burden, a familiar story that jobs are hard to come by. We chat, little words and phrases that have become familiar, filling the gaps in the bustling world.

I ride my bike everywhere I can, which grows into a wider arena as I become more familiar with the way the streets work, and I accept how close I often am to complete disaster. When I don’t take my bici, I am on foot, or navigating buses. I am often in very close contact with many strangers, all pushing and wedging their way through to their destination. I have offered my bus seat to many a Signora and have accidentally fallen into just as many, when the buses screech to a halt and then take off, as if chased by their own demons.

When I work, I spend many long hours in the company of my thoughts. The season begins slowly, and many days I encounter no more than 3 customers in over 9 hours. I bring an arsenal of books, magazines, crosswords and my journal, all stuffed into a bulging backpack. I often bring my lunch, sometimes fitting it into my bag, other times settling for an extra bag carried in the basket of my bike. If I don’t bring lunch, I wander over to the little paninoteca or gelateria/caffe’ located a short space from my building. I get sandwiches on good, crusty bread with prosciutto crudo or porchetta and a crumbling cheese. I snack on sundried tomatoes (pomodori secchi) and bread, the thick oil dripping down my chin and into puddles at my feet. It can’t be helped. Nor would I want it to be. Sometimes I will make the short jaunt across the street for a coffee and a little pastry filled with chocolate, or a gelato, ice cold and haunting.

When not consumed by thoughts of these treasures that lay so close to me, I read books or write. I sit and watch the world go by, captivated by how extraordinary the day to day can be. The sun, when out, hits the wall across from my doorway and yo-yos up and down it throughout the day, tempting me to wander a little further from the entrance of my little cave. Tour groups pass by constantly and I am so happy that I can be here, that I know the shopkeepers’ names and they mine. That I am not just passing through, but living an ordinary existence in a not so ordinary place.

The other night I drank wine with my housemates and we regaled each other with stories of ex-boyfriends and talked frankly about sex and our lives. A conversation held in a language other than my native tongue, but nonetheless shared by all women. We are not so different after all. We laughed at our apartment which is literally falling apart. An earthquake-like crash and some of the kitchen cabinets were on the floor, having pulled themselves out of the wall in a bid for freedom. The mold never ceases, never surrenders and I have become accustomed to the black, fuzzy squatter in our midst. A small price to pay. We spend time together, talking, drinking and laughing in the kitchen which is the worst room of all. But we spend most of our time together in that space. We all cook at the same time in the evenings and talk about our days. It seems that a kitchen is the most interesting, welcoming place in the world. We create, we fulfill urges and desires and we fill the space with echoes of life.

This morning I wake up in the mood to spread some joy. It spills over in my days and nights and I want to share it. I stuff 5 tangerines into a little bag, along with some chocolates. I rush out of the house, down the grand stairs of our building and grab my bike. I go around the corner to buy a bus ticket because I know they will be closed when I finish work. I backtrack only a little to buy a bunch of narcissus flowers. Then I head over to pick up the keys for work. I drop off the tangerines and chocolates with the funny men that greet me each morning and bid me farewell each night. They hand me the keys, we exchange a few jokes and well-wishes for the day, “Buona giornata, buon lavoro”, we say. Have a good day, and good work.

I cycle back to my place of business to begin opening for the day. I take a moment after the alarm has been deactivated to run over to the paninoteca and deliver the bunch of narcissus. The charming couple that owns and works the shop look at me in wonder. “Come mai?” they ask. They want to know what it is for. “Perche e’ venerdi’ I tell them. It’s Friday. Flowers don’t need a reason, I think. And so Friday will work, though I could have said anything. Because you are kind. Because the sun is out. Because we are alive and in Italy and we are speaking a language that you could speak in your sleep and yet I have to work very hard at it. But we are speaking and sharing a little piece of earth, so why not brighten it with the vibrant yellow of a narcissus?

As this day continues to fade, and I continue to smile at strangers and tickle my imagination with possibilities for dinner, I remember to be grateful. Problems are always here in Italy, nagging and fighting for attention, and yet, it doesn’t matter. I can let problems be. I know they are there. And they don’t make me as angry anymore. It’s life, and it’s hard and it’s good and it’s always worth the fight. To be in a place that ignites the joy of the mundane, that reminds me to be here in the world following my heart every day is the reason I don’t give up and go back. Why I keep fighting. It’s a hard thing to tell someone in passing conversation. And so I’ll put it here instead, a reminder to those disillusioned and to myself why we are here.