For Italians the re-entry is undoubtedly weeks away. For me the reentry is approaching like a souped-up Honda in The Fast and The Furious Part 42.
America is apparently conspiring with my adopted country in order to make the re-entry as seamless as possible.
My slack-jawed fascination with television has all but disappeared ( in fact I am pretty sure I am missing The Real Housewives of NJ as I write this--but no worries, it will be on again at 10:00. Whew.); I have eaten my fill of all my well-missed American food, both real and junk; I once again know Target's inventory like the back of my hand and the novelty of running errands and being able to find the items for which I am looking has lost its novelty.
The four songs on the radio vying for title of Summer Anthem 2013 make my head ache and the one tune that I can almost tolerate is loathed by my son.
And I found the throw pillows for which I have been searching and now I need to reunite with my couch in order to complete the picture. Unfortunately I do not have room in our suitcases for said throw pillows ( I have bought every extra-soft toothbrush, lone type of vitamins that don't make me nauseous, and my favorite brand of eye make-up remover in the tri-state area), so I packed a box and prepared to ship it overseas.
"Would you like a price quote?" asked the woman behind the counter.
"No," said I, "I just want to ship it."
"You probably want a price quote," another woman chimed in.
"No, I just want to ship it."
She punched some buttons. And then some more. She asked if I was shipping to a business and I said I was shipping to a residence. More buttons were pushed.
"It will cost $500.00 to ship this box to Rome," the woman said hesitantly.
"Okay," I replied, absently searching through my bag. "Wait, 500 dollars?!?"
And the moral of this lesson is that while I may be satisfied that I enjoyed every minute of my summer vacation, I have to remember to leave behind not only the American things with which I am sated, but also any expectations of American ease and efficiency. Because it's Italy or bust, baby.