The Beginning--L'inizio

It's difficult to decide where to start writing.  The thoughts of each day seem like they could fill a novel.  We are learning the language, the culture, the history, the lay of the land, the customs, the transportation, and then simple things like how to use the gas stove and the washing machine (not at the same time as the hair dryer), or even get out the front door of our apartment building.  There is so much to absorb, and I am a sopping wet sponge right now.
I've always prided myself on being able to express what I'm feeling through words, but here each and every thought and emotion is entangled with the rest.  I'm
elated
hectic
desperate
calm
in awe
tired
confused
overwhelmed
joyous
lost
right at home

I'm sitting on our balcony.  A cool breeze races across my skin, raising pleasant goosebumps.  Terra cotta roofs frame the sprawling hillside, brick buildings the color of sand and earth and the dark silhouettes of trees dotted with specks of light.  Above, an airplane twinkles its way steadily on.  The sky has darkened to a rich, black blue.  It is beautiful here.

Even my own hands and feet seem out of place here.  My familiar palms and fingers, these wrinkles and folds and shadows can't possibly be here in this strange and amazing land of ancient stone walls and shuttered windows.  It must be some particularly vivid and long dream.  Everything is surreal:
The landscape can't be more than a picture, a clever wallpaper.  Rolling hills, patchwork fields, villas and cottages, a glimpse of sea in the distance.  I feel like I have to reach out and touch them to prove their existence, but they're beyond my grasp.  They remain an illusion.
Sunday I saw a juggling act in the piazza.  The music was Green Day, and I wondered if anyone there even understood the lyrics.  The man on stage spouted words too quickly to understand.  The crowd laughed and applauded.  His shadow moved across the red backdrop like a separate entity.
The other day it rained here.  It was strange, walking down the street of this foreign place and hearing the sounds of home.  Rain pattered down and cars whirred and rumbled by on wet streets, sounds that I associate so strongly with Oregon, with home, and around me rose tall Italian apartment buildings with tile roofs and balconies at every window, forlorn and forgotten laundry still hanging out to dry.

At the same time, it feels so perfect to be walking down these streets, up and down these slopes.  I don't know if it is Italy or just living abroad, but here seems to encapsulate every part of the human soul.  I feel so isolated, yet so connected.  It is so foreign, yet so much like home.  I already love this place, and yet still a part of me despises it.