Trials and tribulations of an expat stuck in her home country–

I have to be strong so that he can be weak.  Well, at least that’s the long and short of it.  He’d rather not be here either.  But we’ve just done the back and forth so many times.  Had it ever worked out, we would have stayed.  Honestly, had he never asked me to go with him to Tenerife in 2009, we still would probably be in Italy.  Well, I would.  Maybe it would all be different…

I hate it here.  And so does he.  I fled South Florida when I was 15.  First New York.  Then Italy.  Then Tenerife with him in 2009.  Then back to Florida.  Then back to Italy in 2011.  Then back here for the past 3 years.

Wow, 3 years.  I suppose I had never really written down that fact.  It’s horrible.  3 years in this Inferno.  We’re trying to be responsible.  And, I mean, there are many factors.  The problems my husband has had that have caused us to flee back an forth.  Searching for emotional support from his family.  My father’s age and illness.  I don’t want to be here.  But I’m afraid to leave…for his sake.

My father is the most interesting man in the world – you know, like the commercial.  Except better.  He’s the most important person in the world to me.  He’s my best friend.  He’s, well, my father.  And I suppose I’m daddy’s little girl.  Except it’s not exactly like that.  But, somehow, it is.

Pero’ che non darei per stare in Italia.  La libertà che mi sento là.  Nessuno che mi controlla, non ho nessuno a cui rispondere.  Se voglio scappare, scappo…quello che mi voglio fare mi faccio.

Amici.  Veri amici.  Amici come non ho mai potuto fare nel mio paese.  Gente che mi capisce.  Gente che mi vuole bene da morire.  La gente che mi si difende come anche io a loro.  Il vero volere bene.  Non esiste l’amicizia in questo paese del *****.  Non esiste la fiducia ne la lealtà.

Qua

stiamo morendo

lentamente —

L’ispirazione.  Dio come mi ispira l’Italia.  L’arte, l’atmosfera, le persone, le feste, la famiglia, da mangiare…il caffe.  Mi faccio un caffe ogni dieci metri.  Scendi e per strada tutti che ti conoscono, tutti che ti salutano.

I suppose I’m feeling rather melancholy.  I don’t know.  Vedo le foto sulle pagine delle persone che stanno o che appena sono state in Italia e mi ingelosisco a bestia.  Vorrei contattarli, chiedergli, “Please, take me with you…!”  Persone sconosciute.

Those of you 
currently or recently in Italy
have no idea 
how veramente lucky
you are–

We came back here with the idea that, at least in this country, we’d be able to make enough money to, somehow, live life as we pleased.  And, yet again, we are failing miserably.  Sure, with me starting “my profession” soon, hopefully we should be a bit more comfortable.  But, with the path that I have chosen, we have to spend money to make money.  And, regardless, this place is Hell.  Well-off or otherwise.

Does it never end?

No, non finisce mai.

Per favore…portami via di qua, sto male…

Unhappily yours, 

Lola June 

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