Pasta la Vista, Baby

Some thoughts on fear, family, armageddon, and my magnificent Italian adventure.

The night before we left for Italy, my husband Joe paused from packing and asked, “What’s the first thing you’re going to do when we get there?”

I should probably add here that our youngest daughter, Sasha, is currently living in Milan. When I pitched the idea of swapping Christmas gifts this year for a family trip to Italy, it was a unanimous yes-fest.

I replied without even thinking. “Smell Sasha’s neck.”

The delicious neck is in the front.

“You’re weird AF, you know that, right?” Joe replied. [Empty-nest moms, kindly explain to my husband in the comments how not weird AF I am for that answer please and thank you.]

“This is news to you?” I joked.

“Okay, after you smell Sasha’s neck,” Joe pressed, “what are you most excited to do?”

“Not cook.” Again, it was a knee-jerk response that required a grand total of zero seconds of consideration. “And not just the not-cooking part—that’s actually the least awful bit—but I’m especially excited about the not thinking about what to cook and the not shopping for what to cook and the not wondering who will or won’t like what I am thinking about cooking and the what time should the cooking commence and has it been a reasonable amount of time since I thought about cooking this last? and OMG now we have to clean all this sh*t up. The mental-emotional break from that is worth the [insert sum that could buy you a 2012 Honda Accord with less than 100K miles and an aftermarket Bluetooth stereo upgrade] we’re dropping on this trip.”

“Wow,” was all Joe could say. You *might* think that after twenty-seven years of relentless blissful togetherness, my husband would have come to expect answers like this from his beloved bride, but you’d be wrong.

It turned out, not cooking for nearly two solid weeks was in fact glorious. Do you know what else was glorious? Being away from the post-election social media meltdowns on this side of the pond and the divisive, MSM fear-mongering headlines and the angry (or arrogant) predictions of the inferno (or utopia) the next four years was certain to bring. It was as if—gasp!—the world had the audacity to continue to turn, even though a convicted felon was about to take America’s reins and hand over control of the public health sector to an anti-vaxxer with a brain worm!

What we got to experience instead was a world that wasn’t filtered through talking heads and Instagram snippets. We busied ourselves with the profoundly human task of existing; with the guiltless consuming of delicious food *that someone else shopped for and cooked and cleaned up!* and the navigating of public transit in a foreign language and awkward attempts to communicate across cultures. We ate, we walked, we drank, we shopped, we laughed until our sides ached, and then we walked some more, which of course made us hungry all over again. I only looked at my watch if we were meeting up at a certain time and checked email once a day at most. I read three—maybe four—of the eighty-nine substacks I subscribe to the entire time. I was fully present, intent on savoring every moment and morsel. And that is exactly what I did.

10/10 recommend.

My whole heart in a single snapshot.

I’ve been to Europe many times, but something about this trip was different. In the past when I’ve traveled abroad, I’ve had the sense that I should apologize for being from the US, and at the very least try to be especially demure and definitely not make a fuss and maybe not finish my entire meal, lest I reinforce the stereotype of the loud, obnoxious, gluttonous American. (My husband has friends—Californians, mind you—who ironed Canadian flags onto their gear before backpacking across Europe, just to be safe.) For some reason, I didn’t get that vibe this time at all. On the contrary, I experienced a genuine sense of welcome everywhere we went. I felt safe, even in the busiest of city centers and the most desolate of train stations, despite the chorus of Attenzione ai borseggiatori—beware of pickpockets—blaring over the loudspeakers. I felt happy and whole and unburdened by what has been (sorry) and utterly, overwhelmingly hashtag-blessed.

*My family is funny.

The last four years have taken a toll. It’s hard to stay Pollyanna-positive when you’re tumbling down the deepest, darkest rabbit holes of corruption and collusion and tyranny and genocide and human trafficking and pure, unabashed evil day in and day out. A doomsayer might even start to believe this is it, Revelation is upon us! And perhaps it is. Or perhaps it isn’t. After all, humans have been obsessed with biblical end times for roughly two millennia—and this glass-overflowing girl would like to point out that so far we’ve been wrong every single time.

Literally the day we were leaving the states, our looney-toons “leader”—only 49 days to go!—gave Ukraine the thumbs-up to use long-range American weapons inside Russia. Was I insane to be heading to Europe during WWIII’s unofficial ribbon-cutting ceremony? But Sasha was already in Italy. Her sister was in California, and Joe and I were in Texas. If nuclear annihilation were in fact on the week’s agenda, I’d want nothing more than to be together. Plus, the housesitter was paid, my bags were packed, our long-term parking was secured, and I’d explained to the cats that I’d be back before they could fully plot my demise. I wasn’t about to let possible armageddon ruin my family bonding fantasies.

As all of this was actually going through my mind, I thought of an essay I love that Dr. Pierre Kory and I included in The War on Ivermectin known as “How Are We to Live in an Atomic Age?” Although it was written by CS Lewis in 1948, it’s just as apropos today. It’s become my personal “what’s the point of being afraid, anyway?” mantra. Maybe it will speak to you, too.

“In one way we think a great deal too much of the atomic bomb. ‘How are we to live in an atomic age?’ I am tempted to reply: ‘Why, as you would have lived in the sixteenth century when the plague visited London almost every year, or as you would have lived in a Viking age when raiders from Scandinavia might land and cut your throat any night; or indeed, as you are already living in an age of cancer, an age of syphilis, an age of paralysis, an age of air raids, an age of railway accidents, an age of motor accidents.’

In other words, do not let us begin by exaggerating the novelty of our situation. Believe me, dear sir or madam, you and all whom you love were already sentenced to death before the atomic bomb was invented: and quite a high percentage of us were going to die in unpleasant ways. We had, indeed, one very great advantage over our ancestors—anesthetics; but we have that still. It is perfectly ridiculous to go about whimpering and drawing long faces because the scientists have added one more chance of painful and premature death to a world which already bristled with such chances and in which death itself was not a chance at all, but a certainty.

This is the first point to be made: and the first action to be taken is to pull ourselves together. If we are all going to be destroyed by an atomic bomb, let that bomb when it comes find us doing sensible and human things—praying, working, teaching, reading, listening to music, bathing the children, playing tennis, chatting to our friends over a pint and a game of darts—not huddled together like frightened sheep and thinking about bombs. They may break our bodies (a microbe can do that) but they need not dominate our minds.”

So we went. And the world didn’t end. And it was worth every penny, panic attack, and lost hour of sleep and then some.

*Planning to wrap up a bunch of memories to stick under that tree*

Thank you for your patience while I went out and got myself good and grounded. I didn’t realize how badly I needed that. I’m happy to report that I am refreshed, rejuvenated, and ready to dive back into the cesspool of world events that need to be skewered, satirized, or otherwise unpacked for the sake of sanity and laughter. I hope everyone had a wonderful and equally memorable Thanksgiving and that you’ll forgive me for this slightly sappy stack. I’ll be bringing all the snark from here on out.

Tell me about the wondrous ways you spent your holiday or something you’re thankful for in the comments. :)

I hear Yankee Doodle Soup makes a lovely holiday gift. ;)