Move in, ship out.

I never thought that anything could have been more chaotic than the two days that the movers packed up all our earthly belongings and put them in crates bound for Italy. But then again; everything's more caotic in Italy. The entire move-in process was typical italian. The delivery date was pushed back. And then pushed back again. But when the day finally arrived - it started surprisingly optimistic. I looked out my window at 9:00 and saw a bunch of smoking italian movers outside the gates to our apartment building. But alas, there was no truck. The movers yelled up something in italian and circled their hands around and around. Our portiera (doorman) yelled up and translated: "parking problems". Of course the movers wouldn't plan ahead and reserve a section of the road in order to parrallel park. That would be too efficient. Instead, around and around the block went the large truck, dodging small euro-cars while the movers yelled and threw their arms at anyone who looked like they were walking to their cars to leave. Finding one spot outside our apartment is tough. Finding three in a row for a moving truck to pull in takes a small miracle. The Pope must have woke up around 10:00, because that's when they finally found a spot large enough to pull in.

The second day started much like the first, with italians either not learning or not caring about the first day's parking delay. Then came the boxes. They came, and came, and came. Kate and I didn't know we owned so much stuff. Only their "face man" knew English. Whenever we heard a crash or bang, he was always the person who came running. The movers were nice and respectful - having the charm only a hard working, middle-class italian can have (author's note: a hard working middle-class italian has multo cafe' and smoke breaks). As with every move - some things broke. Other things that you wish broke didn't. But in the end everything went surprisingly smooth. Although the Embassy pays for the moving company to unpack the boxes and take away the extra packing material, the italians initially fought back. But Kate held their feet to the fire. At one point it looked like the kitchen exploded. I couldn't even walk in it, and every inch of counter space was covered with plates, silverwear, bowls, tuperware, and appliances. The floors were covered with half-opened boxes, and packing material. Kate and an italian kid that looked to be in college were unpacking. Neither spoke eachother's language and there was a lot of hand pointing. We worked our tails off. By the end of the second day (with help from my mom who was visiting) we unpacked most everything. Our house was finally turning into a home. No more echos through the marbled halls or broken ikea rental furniture. It was something we would enjoy for a whopping three days - until I left for an extended work trip to the middle east and kate left for the U.S. for eight weeks. But when we eventually come home - we can at least come home.

For the plane ride out here Reid was given a tiny pirate ship lego set from Grandma.  The legos were a success - they kept Reid entertained for a while on the plane.  We knew that half would be lost in the cracks of the seat, or the bowels of the plane.  And it's been over two months from then - so there's probably a third of the original amount of legos.  But that didn't stop my little engineer.  Unbeknownst to Kate and I he worked and worked on that pitiful little collection of legos this afternoon.  After an hour he came into the living room with a big smile on his face.  "Look guys, I made a pirate ship".  It was astounding.  Every piece was used, and it really did look like a little boat.  To go along with the Pirate Ship he had the 'dock', which was his friend 'Rocky'.  Rocky is his pet rock we made him when none of the other kids at the park spoke English, and we didn't have any new toys for him to play with.  (Reid's not the only one that gets resourceful).  Looking at his ghetto pirate ship and pet rock, Reid taught me a lesson on contentment (something God has been teaching us since we've moved here).  Just shows you God can use anyone to teach anything.

America's Largest Export

In the past two months I've traveled to 5 countries on two different continents.  No matter where I travel, one constant remains the same - American music plays in the background.  Ironically, this is especially true if the country primarily doesn't speak English.  While transiting the airport in Paris I was in the business class lounge, and Nelly Furtado was over the loud speaker.  In the Congo no one spoke English (they all spoke French).  I was staying in the Membling Hotel. The lobby sported a combination of Michael Jackson and Miles Davis.

Living in Italy Kate and I often say the most frustrating thing is the language barrier.  Once you leave the tourist district, no one speaks English.  Yet, every taxi car plays American pop.  In Bucharest, Romania the gruff taxi cab driver only spoke enough English to have a short, polite conversation.  But he knew every word to Miley Cyrus' (i.e. Hanna Montana's) "Party in the U.S.A." that played over the radio.

My favorite example was in Salzburg, Austria.  For dinner I went to this local joint where I had to brush up on my German to order the goulash  and venison schnitzel.  I was the only tourist in the restaurant, and received the dirty looks to prove it.  Everyone was speaking German, and the music playing in the background was a mix of Celine Dion, LL Cool J, Dusty Springfield's son of a Preacher Man, and a country song about buying a Mercedes Benz.  

If America's largest export is its culture via Hollywood's music and movie industry, I have to wonder if we're putting our best foot forward.