England. I've missed you.
Italy wants me gone. Of that I am sure. The sun no longer blazes on my back as I stand in samey school courtyard after samey school courtyard, shouting out body parts and prepositions and trying not to confuse Marco one with Marco two with Marco three. Shout out FRANCESCA! FEDERICO! and GIANLUCA! in any enclosed space in Northern Italy and damn. You got yourself an English camp. My sailor tan is already fading and summer is over. School has recommenced, and the cobblestones of my final destination, Cremona, are lined with surley looking high school students in messy rows, backcombed hair and English-language sloganed tee shirts just begging for a funny look or wrong glance so that they have the excuse they are looking for.
The past four or five months have stories in every nook and cranny. But I need a little time to digest it all. I have watched Italy bloom from quiet May-time spring to a claustrophobic heat that pushed up both my temperature and my patience, and now the stolen moments of romance and craziness and quiet and sadness and ecstasy, encountered by way of training weeks and DreamerSchools and London trips and drama workshops are ebbing away to make room for September's end- a time that I think no matter how old you get feels like a new start because with the sun behind you there's no choice but to look forward. Which is exactly what the last guy I slept with told me when he was behind me, too. DON'T LOOK AT ME. EYES FORWARD. CALL ME MARILYN. SAAAAAAAY IT!
I have only two days of teaching left. I've spent 114 in the country. Those 114 days, if condensed down and bastardized for my own viewing memory, would probably look like this:
I graciously thank you Italy, for all of the gelato and rib-elbowing and men. But it really is time for me to go. Ciao. For now.