Wednesday, February 19, 2014
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Serendipity
Serendipity is a funny thing.
My daughter has a learning disability. She has Auditory Processing Disorder which causes her to hear and pronounce some words differently than the rest of us. When she was first acquiring language, the whole family thought her little verbal mishaps were cute. She had a special language. We encouraged her special words by adopting them as our own. Some examples of her lingua speciale – once she declared that “it certainly was froggy outside” (she meant foggy). She frequently asked for strawbellies and bluebellies instead of strawberries and blueberries. Our favorite phrase, however, was Purple John cheese which we all knew meant Parmesan cheese. We still call it Purple John on meatless Monday pasta night.
At the same time that my daughter began speaking in her own language, I was feeling like a fish out of water in my suburban town. I longed to live in a city again. To have access to art, museums and great restaurants.
You know the old adage . . . be careful what you wish for. My husband was offered a job – a really great job with a step up in responsibility and a global platform. The thing was, the job was in Modena Italy. We mulled it over, we analyzed the numbers, we discussed housing options and ultimately decided to go for it and move the family half way around the world.
As fate would have it, there is only one school in the entire region that offers some instruction in English. The town where the school is located was therefore our only option to live.
So, now we find ourselves doing exactly what I dreamed of and we are leaving the comfort of our Northern California suburb to embark on a family adventure to Parma, Italy – home of Purple John cheese.
Apparently the universe has a sense of humor.
My daughter has a learning disability. She has Auditory Processing Disorder which causes her to hear and pronounce some words differently than the rest of us. When she was first acquiring language, the whole family thought her little verbal mishaps were cute. She had a special language. We encouraged her special words by adopting them as our own. Some examples of her lingua speciale – once she declared that “it certainly was froggy outside” (she meant foggy). She frequently asked for strawbellies and bluebellies instead of strawberries and blueberries. Our favorite phrase, however, was Purple John cheese which we all knew meant Parmesan cheese. We still call it Purple John on meatless Monday pasta night.
At the same time that my daughter began speaking in her own language, I was feeling like a fish out of water in my suburban town. I longed to live in a city again. To have access to art, museums and great restaurants.
You know the old adage . . . be careful what you wish for. My husband was offered a job – a really great job with a step up in responsibility and a global platform. The thing was, the job was in Modena Italy. We mulled it over, we analyzed the numbers, we discussed housing options and ultimately decided to go for it and move the family half way around the world.
As fate would have it, there is only one school in the entire region that offers some instruction in English. The town where the school is located was therefore our only option to live.
So, now we find ourselves doing exactly what I dreamed of and we are leaving the comfort of our Northern California suburb to embark on a family adventure to Parma, Italy – home of Purple John cheese.
Apparently the universe has a sense of humor.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
I Swam Away to Purple John
I just re-read my first post from 2009. It took me 2 full years, but I did indeed swim away from my perfect island - smack into what one might metaphorically say are shark infested waters. Namely, the chaos of everyday life in Italy. It is a beautiful chaos, however, complete with prosecco, proscuitto and Parmesan cheese.
Let me back up a little. In 2009 I was living in suburban California. My family and I lived in what may well be one of the nicest, most pleasant places to live and raise kids on the planet. It is easy to live there. It is safe, friendly and offers a fantastic location, perfect weather and excellent schools. For me, though, it wasn't enough. I have always been a gypsy at heart and I wanted more challenge in my life. As the saying goes, "be careful what you wish for." An international move is not for the faint of heart.
So there I was in 2009 hoping to move internationally. Since my husband is the primary breadwinner, this involved getting him on board with my vision. We had casually talked about living abroad over the years. His plan was to move abroad when our children were grown and gone. He saw us spending our golden years traveling and touring the world. My vision was to take the kids with us; to broaden their worlds now; to have them learn another language; to assure them that they needn't be afraid to experience all that the world has to offer. So the question became, how to bring the two visions together?
I studied my options and evaluated the tools I had in my arsenal. What I arrived it was this: my husband is a first generation Polish American. In the eyes of Poland, he is a Polish citizen despite being born and raised in America. I encouraged him to apply for his dual citizenship. He may even tell you that I badgered him.
My argument went something like this: The world is becoming more global with every passing day. Once he had Polish citizenship (i.e. European Union benefits) then our children would also be Polish citizens with EU benefits. Armed with an international education, fluency in three languages and a comfort level of living in either the US or Europe, the world would be their oyster when they graduated from college. This move and experience would afford them more opportunities, more choices in the long run. These arguments were hard for him to deny. Eventually he acquiesced and applied for dual citizenship.
Next, I adhered to all the new age, Oprah fanfare and I simply willed it to happen. I envisioned an international move in my mind's eye. I meditated on it. I made a wish every time we went through a tunnel on our way to and from San Francisco. I posted a picture on my bulletin board of London. I had photo magnets of Paris superimposed with a Chinese fortune cookie insert that read "Follow Your Dreams." But most importantly, I researched international job offers for my husband and continually placed the ads in front of him. He may even tell you that I badgered him.
We evaluated a number of situations that arose over the two years but none of them were quite right. My husband was on board with my vision at this point but didn't want to move just for the sake of moving. It had to be the right job; the right living situation. We considered Barcelona, London, Grenoble. We decided to be patient. I turned it over to the universe.
And, then one day the right job and the right living situation did come along and va bene . . . here we are. It is September 2011 and we have moved from the suburban comfort of Pleasanton, California to Parma, Italy.
All right, so at this point you are probably thinking, that is all very interesting but why the Hell is this blog called Purple John?
When my daughter was a toddler and just learning to speak she frequently made up words that sounded similar to the adult versions. Quite often, she would repeat a word with her own twist on the pronunciation. For example, she would say strawbellies instead of strawberries; Eddie Murphy pizza instead of Papa Murphy's pizza. One of the words she transposed was Parmesan cheese. In her 3 year old mind Parmesan cheese was Purple John cheese. For years our family has been asking one another to pass the Purple John at the dinner table.
Imagine our surprise then when we realized we were moving to Parma, Italy - the birthplace of Purple John cheese. This was to be the first of many serendipitous twists and turns along our family's path.
Let me back up a little. In 2009 I was living in suburban California. My family and I lived in what may well be one of the nicest, most pleasant places to live and raise kids on the planet. It is easy to live there. It is safe, friendly and offers a fantastic location, perfect weather and excellent schools. For me, though, it wasn't enough. I have always been a gypsy at heart and I wanted more challenge in my life. As the saying goes, "be careful what you wish for." An international move is not for the faint of heart.
So there I was in 2009 hoping to move internationally. Since my husband is the primary breadwinner, this involved getting him on board with my vision. We had casually talked about living abroad over the years. His plan was to move abroad when our children were grown and gone. He saw us spending our golden years traveling and touring the world. My vision was to take the kids with us; to broaden their worlds now; to have them learn another language; to assure them that they needn't be afraid to experience all that the world has to offer. So the question became, how to bring the two visions together?
I studied my options and evaluated the tools I had in my arsenal. What I arrived it was this: my husband is a first generation Polish American. In the eyes of Poland, he is a Polish citizen despite being born and raised in America. I encouraged him to apply for his dual citizenship. He may even tell you that I badgered him.
My argument went something like this: The world is becoming more global with every passing day. Once he had Polish citizenship (i.e. European Union benefits) then our children would also be Polish citizens with EU benefits. Armed with an international education, fluency in three languages and a comfort level of living in either the US or Europe, the world would be their oyster when they graduated from college. This move and experience would afford them more opportunities, more choices in the long run. These arguments were hard for him to deny. Eventually he acquiesced and applied for dual citizenship.
Next, I adhered to all the new age, Oprah fanfare and I simply willed it to happen. I envisioned an international move in my mind's eye. I meditated on it. I made a wish every time we went through a tunnel on our way to and from San Francisco. I posted a picture on my bulletin board of London. I had photo magnets of Paris superimposed with a Chinese fortune cookie insert that read "Follow Your Dreams." But most importantly, I researched international job offers for my husband and continually placed the ads in front of him. He may even tell you that I badgered him.
We evaluated a number of situations that arose over the two years but none of them were quite right. My husband was on board with my vision at this point but didn't want to move just for the sake of moving. It had to be the right job; the right living situation. We considered Barcelona, London, Grenoble. We decided to be patient. I turned it over to the universe.
And, then one day the right job and the right living situation did come along and va bene . . . here we are. It is September 2011 and we have moved from the suburban comfort of Pleasanton, California to Parma, Italy.
All right, so at this point you are probably thinking, that is all very interesting but why the Hell is this blog called Purple John?
When my daughter was a toddler and just learning to speak she frequently made up words that sounded similar to the adult versions. Quite often, she would repeat a word with her own twist on the pronunciation. For example, she would say strawbellies instead of strawberries; Eddie Murphy pizza instead of Papa Murphy's pizza. One of the words she transposed was Parmesan cheese. In her 3 year old mind Parmesan cheese was Purple John cheese. For years our family has been asking one another to pass the Purple John at the dinner table.
Imagine our surprise then when we realized we were moving to Parma, Italy - the birthplace of Purple John cheese. This was to be the first of many serendipitous twists and turns along our family's path.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
My Island - Slowly Losing My Mind In The Most Pleasant Place on Earth
I live in what one acquaintance referred to as a "ridiculously cute town." Another friend said it looked like a town from a Disney movie.
It is clean, safe, the schools are excellent, and there are many parks and greenbelts. We have an old fashioned downtown complete with parades featuring kids, dogs and a group of old men who don oversized pants and call themselves the Balloon Brigade.
The weather is damn near perfect and we can get to the beach, the mountains, wine country, rivers, and lakes within a few hours. We are surrounded by nature's majestic beauty but we are also a mere 40 minutes by public transportation from San Francisco. They even play pleasant Muzak at the gas station. So given all the wonderment that my town offers, I can't help but wonder why I feel that I am slowly losing my mind living in one of the most pleasant places on Earth?
Loads of people assure me on a regular basis that "this is the best place to live." They tell me that they do not wish to ever live anywhere else and hope to live here until they die.
I sigh, bite the inside of my cheek and quiet the voice in my head that wonders why I don't feel the same way.
I realized that I am losing my mind because suburban bliss was depleting my gypsy sense of adventure. I agree that our town offers many wonderful benefits, but I don't share the majority view that this is to be my final town, my end of days. My gypsy spirit is waning under the reality of working full time, raising 2 kids and being a wife. While my life is very enjoyable, I am missing the energy that exploration has always provided me. I need to fuel my curiosity.
Living in a perfect place also makes me feel a bit guilty. I feel guilty that I am restless when I have so much. But stronger than the guilt, is the belief that I want more than the trappings of perfection for my children's lives. I want my children to know that the world is made up of countless amazing places, cultures, people, art, food. I want them to see and experience the underbelly of life - the poverty, trash and homelessness that one sees in a city - because if they never see these things, they will never know that these things are problems that our world faces. If they don't see these things, they will never know humanity and how to face a problem head on. If they don't see these things, they may not learn compassion. If they don't see that their suburban world is an anomaly and that most people do not live as they do, then they may not appreciate their own good fortune. I want my children to learn that you don't have to be afraid of someone or some culture or some religion that is different than theirs. I want them to be citizens of the world.
I have been pacing my island of suburban perfection for months. I think it's time for a swim.
It is clean, safe, the schools are excellent, and there are many parks and greenbelts. We have an old fashioned downtown complete with parades featuring kids, dogs and a group of old men who don oversized pants and call themselves the Balloon Brigade.
The weather is damn near perfect and we can get to the beach, the mountains, wine country, rivers, and lakes within a few hours. We are surrounded by nature's majestic beauty but we are also a mere 40 minutes by public transportation from San Francisco. They even play pleasant Muzak at the gas station. So given all the wonderment that my town offers, I can't help but wonder why I feel that I am slowly losing my mind living in one of the most pleasant places on Earth?
Loads of people assure me on a regular basis that "this is the best place to live." They tell me that they do not wish to ever live anywhere else and hope to live here until they die.
I sigh, bite the inside of my cheek and quiet the voice in my head that wonders why I don't feel the same way.
I realized that I am losing my mind because suburban bliss was depleting my gypsy sense of adventure. I agree that our town offers many wonderful benefits, but I don't share the majority view that this is to be my final town, my end of days. My gypsy spirit is waning under the reality of working full time, raising 2 kids and being a wife. While my life is very enjoyable, I am missing the energy that exploration has always provided me. I need to fuel my curiosity.
Living in a perfect place also makes me feel a bit guilty. I feel guilty that I am restless when I have so much. But stronger than the guilt, is the belief that I want more than the trappings of perfection for my children's lives. I want my children to know that the world is made up of countless amazing places, cultures, people, art, food. I want them to see and experience the underbelly of life - the poverty, trash and homelessness that one sees in a city - because if they never see these things, they will never know that these things are problems that our world faces. If they don't see these things, they will never know humanity and how to face a problem head on. If they don't see these things, they may not learn compassion. If they don't see that their suburban world is an anomaly and that most people do not live as they do, then they may not appreciate their own good fortune. I want my children to learn that you don't have to be afraid of someone or some culture or some religion that is different than theirs. I want them to be citizens of the world.
I have been pacing my island of suburban perfection for months. I think it's time for a swim.
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