I cleared customs in Germany, which was both very helpful and a little disappointing when upon collecting my bags in Rome I realized I had no long wait ahead of me, but would get no passport stamp from Italy.

Instead of waiting an hour for a customs official too preoccupied with his cell phone and cigarette to even look up and see if my face matched my passport like last year, I rolled my bag off the carousel and straight out into the throngs of waiting drivers.

If that horde wasn’t a metaphora per la vita, I’ve never seen one. An almost imaginary barrier held back the men calling over each other for a fare and just past the desperation, stood the wall of confident men who already have a name. I found the one holding mine on a sign and followed him to my air-conditioned car.

There’s a man at home holding my name, too, and I realize this is not a solo journey. I wouldn’t be here without him.  I’m not here without him.  He’s in mio coure and on mio mente.

I was working on hour 30 without sleep, so that I was able to locate a supermarket and will my legs to take me to it is all I need to call my arrival a success.   I shopped simple and had a rather crude caprese salad for dinner.  I’m happy to report that tomatoes still taste as magical as I remember.  I’d forgotten that even the black pepper in Europe is better than what is available at home.  My olive oil tastes like earth – the way it should.  Mozzarella di bufala is sold here the way I buy yarn at home – in 100 gram balls.

I did my dishes and fell into bed for a four hour nap.  I woke up around 10pm, made myself a snack of blackberries and Prosecco and played some music. I think I’m going to get used to this.