It’s hard work coming home. I should be used to it. And I am. But it doesn’t make the reality of dealing with time and distance and missing people and food and life any less traumatic. I envy all of you who manage to get ‘home’ (the idea is so relative) from a stint in Italy in one piece. Happily even. You know who you are. You write about your love of both places. The one you live in and the one you’d chose if you ever had to. And I’m full of admiration.
For me, I get the small but not insignificant consolation of knowing I made the most of every minute I was there. Savouring it all. Running out of time even though the days were long. Doing lots, knowing I’d have time to write about it later. At least until the incredible heat swept through in the last couple of weeks. But even then I couldn’t sit still for long. I was in Italy. And I had a party to go to.