Un Anno
Reaching the one-year mark in Verona
Happy Veronaversary!
There’s no big party, no special dinner reservations. In fact, we won’t even be at home. But that’s the beauty of it. We’re spending the weekend at Lago di Garda in the lake house of Italian friends we didn’t have a year ago.
One year ago, surrounded by nine suitcases, we slept on the floor of an empty apartment with no kitchen or appliances. The adrenaline rush of new daily stimuli sustained us through those first three months of cooking meals on a camp stove and washing dishes in the bathroom sink until our IKEA shipment arrived.
A year later, the houseplants, home bar, and half-full bookshelves announce that someone lives here. The walls are still mostly bare as we slowly build a new art collection, though the record cabinet now has at least enough vinyl to spin through a dinner party. The pantry’s well-used baking pans and pasta-making tools evince an active kitchen. In the cantina (basement), there are Christmas decorations and a burgeoning DIY wine cellar resting at proper temp. We’ve all braved the dentist once, whooped it up at middle school parties twice, and dragged our dog to the groomers a bunch. We did it.
But struggles remain, principally in the language. In fact, just since that first paragraph, Lake plans changed because of a WhatsApp confirmation lost in translation. Colpa mia. My fault. At least I’m learning the many different ways to say, “I’m sorry1.”
And then there’s the time difference. Superficially, it makes watching World Cup harder, but it’s a profound impediment to getting moods and modes aligned in transatlantic conversation. Those post-midnight calls to share bliss after a show hit different when the East Coast is just finishing work or Western Europe is just stirring awake. Whether it’s a good news attaboy or bad news condolences, they lose pop and gravitas when delivered half a day after the fact. It’s even harder being nine hours ahead of my Oregon kin, but we’re committed to staying close.
Then there’s the quotidian. Relationships aren’t always rooted in proximity, but many germinate because they were watered with the frequency of daily contact. Gone are the touch-points I relished in Richmond from living in a city of small businesses, local events, and weekly happenings. They’ve got all of that in Verona, but it’s not Derek behind the bar, Bill and Karen on the porch, nor Chastity wrapping up cupcakes at her bakery, or Donnie and Megan pushing a stroller down the block. I miss the good fortune of running into people I adore.
Holidays are hard, too. This past Fourth of July was complicated for lots of reasons and I took a long solo bike ride to process feelings about America and missing out on fireworks and a joint with Mamma, hot dogs and a single-malt with Pop. Just then, along Verona’s 40+km piste ciclabile (bike path) to Lago di Garda, I got a flat. As luck would have it, my buco nella gomma (hole in the tire) happened right in front of BiciGrill San Vito, a community hub in Bussolengo for cyclists and Pelota-Minitennis2. The kind staff fixed me up like a Formula 1 pitstop and wouldn't let me pay for the help or the new tube. Juiced with glee, I called my parents for an Independence Day check-in. My mother answered in tears and shared fresh tragedy. We’d lost another family member to schizophrenia, the second fortysomething female first-cousin dead in eight months.
If you see me in linen and a straw Borsolino hat journaling over a caffè coretto and you’re tempted to presume that I’ve traded the toils of America for Italy’s dolce vita, remember that I’m writing my cousin’s obituary. I didn’t come here to escape problems or turn a blind eye. Life isn’t easier here, just Italian-er. And those nuances nourish me to face challenges with less stress, more vitality, no car, and better bread. Other related themes I’m living by: less convenient, more content. Less position, more present.
And then there are my kids. American Father’s Day is just another Sunday in Veneto, though it was anything but for me. We rode bikes around il Lago and ended up drinking bubbly on a boat with an ebullient German foosball magnate and his delightful Romanian mistress. Piña Coladas, disco, swimming—it took that much sunny fun to evaporate a fraction of the deep longing to inhale all of my children’s scents. By the time I put my head to pillow, I’d recommitted to working harder toward plane tickets for family. Yesterday, in fact, I booked my eldest son a one-way ticket.
As for there’s work, a year in, my earnings are down but creativity and community contributions are up. I’ve adopted new currency and new metrics for success: if it’s good for humanity and the family, impact on the checkbook is less important.
My role with Doppio Diploma is about expanding education:
My role with Soluzioni Travel is about building bridges:
We’re in the early stages, but my first travel clients arrived today! A couple from the States has their first big break from children in 14 years. I designed a 9-day fuga romantica (romantic getaway). Private boat tour around il Lago and another in a Venetian gondola. Two nights in Toscana. Tortellini cooking class in a village that perfected it. Personalized winery visits, luxe hotels and spa, culture and dining. I’m proud to share discoveries and local knowledge: go to Vini Columbo and ask for Stefano … get your focaccia and taralli from Verena and her husband … grab flowers from Nunzia, coffee from Andrea, and panini from Renato.
The timing feels prescient. Did you catch this week’s New York Times?
I dig seeing Veneto get some ink spilt in its name as I continue tumbling into love with Verona and Northern Italia. Check out the cover photo—that’s Ponte Pietra crossing the Adige which passes before the bell tower of Il Duomo di Verona, a seven-minute walk from my place. I finished a 10k in front of it yesterday.
To spread the gospel of Italia, I’ve created new channels on Insta, YouTube, and Substack. I’ll still be posting personal stories here, ci mancherebbe (of course!), but I’m transitioning my Verona/Veneto/Italian travel content to its own space:
May I present
Letters From Verona!
As a thank you for your support, I invite all L’Avventura readers to enjoy a lifetime free subscription. (Click HERE)
Tony Robbins famously said, “Most people overestimate what they can do in a year and underestimate what they can do in a decade.” I still agree, but man oh man, that was one helluva year. What will life look like in July 2027? July 2036? I dunno, but L’Avventura continues and I hope everyone knows that you don’t have to wait until January 1 to start your next adventure.
T+ 365 days.
“Scusami” for minor slips, “Mi dispiace” for genuine regret, “Ti chiedo perdono” for begging forgiveness.
Pickleball started in 1965 on Bainbridge Island, Washington. Palota Minitennis, another compact, sociable paddle-and-net game, was invented three years and 8,700km later right here in San Vito on a converted bocce ball court in 1968. Players use a palla di gomma cava (10cm diameter hollow rubber ball). https://palota-minitennis.it
I understand. I'm six years O-US now. My country feels like a distant moon. But I am happy to be where I am... in Italy!
Creeping up on a year in Palermo. It ain’t Verona and my wine cellar is floating somewhere in the dream palace, but we aren’t “back there” and university is going well! Congrats on everything, Jason!