It’s been a few days in the land of the Cheesesteak and I’m acclimating nicely. By that I mean that I have yet to stab anyone with a pencil. Being home offers its perks – the family time, the food, the increased blood pressure. Then there is the comfort of being at home, which makes me feel about ten-years-old.

I have slipped into my family’s summer routine. There is camp and work and little trips. I do my part to help out and otherwise stay out of the way. My family and I get along great – until we don’t. Fortunately, I have a room of my own. So, when the fam stresses me out, I can go to this room and, hypothetically, lie facedown into a pillow and scream curse words until I fall asleep. This works well and not only because I am usually awakened by my mother calling me into whatever meal is appropriate to that time of day.  

I have slipped into my own routine here. I get up early, write, walk, work out, drink coffee, eat Grape Nuts, sprint to the toilet. In the unbearably hot Langhorne afternoons, I retreat to my cooled room for work and reading. When I have control of the living room TV, it is playing a show in which a bad British person is murdered by other bad British people and some other less bad British people try to figure out who did what and why.

It seems that everyone around here is doing their part to help me feel at home. They are too loud and they invade your privacy. A man broke the sacrosanct bubble of quietude at a bank’s ATM vestibule by shouting complaints into his phone while standing two feet behind me. It made for a disconcerting transaction on my part. In the Czech Republic, that man may seriously have been arrested. A woman at the next table in a diner yesterday overheard our conversation and commented – at length – in a personal way that didn’t relate to what we’d said at all. Despite enough free tables to run a speed dating night, minutes later a man and woman sat directly next to us on the other side and proceeded to have the loudest conversation in the history of the world.

These things stressed me out, proving with surprise that I have a little more of the Czechs in me than I thought possible. But I crunched my toes and prayed for a car to drive through the window. Instead, we paid our check a few minutes later and I was home on my pillow until Mom woke me up for third lunch.

Whenever I go to Italy, I have pictures in my head of what it’s going to consist of: warm, sun, pasta, and pizza so good that it could take the place of a meaningful relationship.

The problem is, I forget about the little frustrating things that Italy means too. Things move slowly at times, time is a rumor, and public transport schedules run on astrological forecasting. In restaurants, food moves faster than drinks. Waiters are usually pleasant but seem to need a lot of breaks in between tasks. They can be seen at a table breathing deeply in between the aperitivo and the first plate rounds.

Sure, the Italian lifestyle is known for being slowed down and easy. But if you are, hypothetically, a stressed-out type, a guy who loves nothing more than making schedules and then sticking to them, well, the la dolce vita can be a bit of a strain.

I spend the first day in Italy trying to make sense of the waiters’ strategy. So far, it seems to very attentively get us through the door and get a drink in front of us. Then, they bring us a little snack to keep us there (which works really well. Catching flies/honey). Then they disappear for a while as we try to divine liquid from the bottom of the glass and trying to catch the eye of a person wearing a uniform. Any uniform. It’s as though he wants us to want him. I would be annoyed if it weren’t so effective.

I know it’s my issue. Relaxation and I are like fourth cousins. I never see him and only on the rare occasions when I do am I reminded of how much I love him. It takes a while for me to unwind, even in Italy, where the very atmosphere tells you that you might as well chill out because nothing is going to happen very quickly anyway. Nevertheless, I move and think like I have things to do. When, in reality, my To Do list consist of these things: wake up, drink, eat, walk over there, find more food, maybe get tipsy, sleep.

It’s when I give myself over to la dolce vita that I will find some joy. It takes a while. I walk too fast and up hills, too. Burke is annoyed with my inability to chill. I look up bus schedules and metro stops. I am keenly aware of how long it takes me to get from one place to another. We walk up a huge hill to a city square and I do it like the Bataan Death March.

But then, something clicks on the third day. We drink beers at lunch and then head back to our apartment to sleep for a few hours. When I wake up, I walk to the local store for some supplies. No, I mosey. Yes, mosey. And then, I mosey back. We take our time. If we don’t do things, then it’s OK. We have a drink at a local pizzeria and order two pizzas to go. By the time they arrive, I have forgotten that I had ordered pizzas to begin with.

I slip into this wonderful state of mind and bliss for the remainder of our time in Genoa. So, about four more days. Four days of shrugging off bus schedules. Four days of not planning dinner. Four days of drinking in the afternoon and then taking a guilt-free nap. Four days of no email or work.

When I wake up in a mild panic on Sunday, I know the game is up. We have a train to catch and then another train. Tomorrow night we have a flight. Even if I enjoy myself to the fullest in Bergamo (today’s destination), I know that la dolce vita for me is a thing of the past. I clean our kitchen and check for things hiding in the bathroom. We walk out the door, my legs forcing me to move more slowly than usual when running for a bus. What I wouldn’t give for an aperitivo right now.

Milan Central Station is a madhouse. If you have been to a train station in an Italian city, you know this is redundant. The status quo of a train station in Italy is madhouse. We get on the train, miraculously find a couple of seats. We sit. In 1 hour and fifty-three minutes, we’ll be in Genoa. We sit. A Polish family sits across from us – man, woman, child curl up on two seats. We all do the obligatory nod. We sit.

Since I was a kid, I have loved trains. Not in a Sheldon Cooper way – I don’t know train numbers or which train rode the Chicago–New York line in 1976. But I have always loved being on a train. I took a train downtown for high school. It’s the chugging forward, the quiet persistence of a train. It moves quickly at times, other times it just ekes around a corner towards its destination. Nevertheless, it moves, it gets you there. It’s mostly quiet and mostly boring. Perfect.

As much as there’s a distinctly pleasant feeling when a train is moving, there’s a distinctly unsettling feeling when a train isn’t moving. Trains are large pieces of metal. And when one is sitting still when it should (according to the schedule) be moving, you feel that it will never move again.

Such is the situation in Milan (where we still sit). 2:23 becomes 2:33 and then 2:43 and I would have made more progress towards Genoa if I had gotten out and walked to the end of the platform. People mosey on and off the train. This tells me (an avidly obsessive time and schedule keeper, a bad thing to be when it comes to Italian transportation) that we are not moving anytime soon.

At 3:02 our train lurches a little to the right and makes a slow crawl out of the station. I heave out a sigh of relief. This relief lasted until we arrived at the next town, where we sat for another thirty or so minutes. Again, people mosey in and out of the train as if it’s the middle room of a pub. A pub I would make wealthy beyond their wildest dreams at this moment.

We are packing for a weeklong holiday. With a mild obsession for organization and an adoration of lists that borders on kink, packing has traditionally been one of my favorite activities. Then there’s the fact that packing is the act of preparing. Not just preparing, but preparing to go somewhere. I like those things. When I finish packing, I will close my bag. When I open the bag again, barring any unforeseen airport shenanigans, I will do so on a bed in a hotel in a place whose restaurants have a wholly different cuisine, whose language sports different idioms, and whose residents enjoy a completely different cultural-neighborly rivalry.

It was excitement embodied in a menial task.

But at some point, almost without me noticing, I got a bit older. This reality began rearing its head in my packing. Packing used to be straightforward: underwear, socks, pants. Now it’s my good underwear, compression socks, pants with elastic waistband. The number of creams, medicines both preventive and reactive, and things which provide comfort is rising with each year. As if Italy doesn’t have medication that can counteract the effects of a headache or an upset stomach. In effect, I try to bring my home with me abroad.

Today, as I pack, creams and digestants are the least of my problem. What I have noticed is that the pants I am planning on bringing with me are nearly perfect. They are light, cool, perfect for walking. The waistband is elastic and therefore flexible to the whimsical approach I plan on taking towards gelato and anything that includes the word ‘crema’. But the pockets are short and don’t provide the protection one wants when touring a city. And since while traveling my pockets must also house a passport, this doesn’t bode well. These are the pants I am bringing. But this pocket is problematic. I sit down and consider my options.

In 1991 two German hikers in the Ötztal Alps on the border between Austria and Italy came across something extraordinary and disturbing: a dead body. They reported it immediately. Due to storms, authorities couldn’t get back to the body for a few days. But when they did, they realized the body was not a tourist or a mountain climber come to a bad accident. In fact, the body was about 5,000 years old.

It was Burke’s birthday. She is blurm-bling-years-old and so a day of enjoyment was called for to celebrate this inauspicious number and event. The idea was: zoo, cake, burger, cake, air conditioning.

The pluses with a summer birthday are clear. Your range of activity is way open. You can drink outside, go outside, walk outside, play outside. When you’re an October birthday like me, your range of places to drink are limited to: a pub.

As far as I am concerned, the problem with a summer birthday is the heat. But this doesn’t seem to be a problem for the summer-born people. Those people born in summer seem A-okay with the sun activities. They enjoy the feeling of baking shoulders and prefer their beverages to be consumed in the al fresco. The summer people are like human charging ports, a day in the sun energizes them and allows them to glow warmly and happily. They are psychopaths.  

I am an autumn-born person. My idea of fun is avoiding the sun at all costs. I drink my beverages indoors and with a wall or even a few walls between me and the orb of discomfort. Most of my shots are quietly dedicated to the fact that I live in a place which the sun avoids for six months of the year. I get a charge from the shade.   

But it is not my birthday, it is Burke’s. And she has decided on the zoo.

It should be mentioned that I am for this plan in theory. I like walking, animals, and beer and hotdogs. All of these things can be found or done at the zoo. But in practice, and as an autumn-born, what I really want is to hide in my coolish flat for this hot day and watch movies. Maybe we could just let me hang out at home, eat, drink, and watch 30 Rock while animals pass by the flat and watch me. I would be OK with this. Nevertheless, when it’s your partner’s birthday, pitching these fanciful (read: stupid) ideas are not an option. Also not an option is going along with the plan and being miserable. You have to sell it. You have to be into it. I shower. I practice my smile. I remember there will be beer and elephants and my smile becomes genuine.