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.