Why, oh Why?

I suppose at some point, someone may ask me why it is I want to go to Italy. Though no one has up until this point, I think I'll just answer it in preparation of the inevitable.

I want to see Europe. I want to walk the mountains of Austria and see where my Oma spent her childhood. I want to sip Beaujolais and eat croissant on the Seine, see the Louvre on any given Sunday, and see the fashion of Paris. I want to eat Swiss chocolate from the factory, see where Louis Vuitton assembles his bags, and see whether or not Croatia really is the most beautiful place in the continent. I want to take a sleeper train and wake up in a new country. I want the greenery and the concrete; the gardens and the architecture. I want to do it all and not feel like I have to go home in eight days. I wan tot see it all while I'm young and vibrant and malleable enough to accept it in all its glory.

I have family in Italy who have not only reached out to me and communicate with me relatively frequently, but who have also offered to host me for a time. They are gracious and wonderful and I can't wait to meet them in person like the rest of my family did last summer.

Lastly, I want to learn the language. I want to communicate with my grandparents in their native tongue, not only now, but when time starts to rob them of their English speaking ability. I want to be bilingual, to be proud that the seed my family planted and fostered sprouted successfully.

My mother asked why my Italian heritage seems to hold so much more merit than the Austrian in me. My answer to her was simple: it was the Italian culture that I learned. I cooked with my Nonna and Nonno, learned the recipes, and understood that food like this could be eaten everyday. The language was spoken openly, songs sang so much I still remember them, and stories told of wonderful memories spent in the Old Country.

Alternatively and unfortunately, though my mother, Aunt Erika, and Oma all speak German, it was hardly ever uttered in our homes. Schnitzel was only cooked on VERY special occasions and stories centred around the worst memories of the Old Country. I don't recall one song or one really happy childhood memory.

However, I do fondly remember the apple strudel my Oma made with such care and skill. Because her memory has, for the most part, abandoned her, I decided to learn how to make strudel to keep that incredibly rich Austrian tradition alive. There was a time in my house that I made about ten strudels in a month, each one better than the last. It was tedious and difficult, but so rewarding and quite delicious. I also always put sugar in my salad dressing, just like Oma did, preferring it to the potent oil and vinegar so popular with the Italians. In fact, my "famous" salad dressing is usually rich with strawberry jam --definitely inspired by the Austrian in me.

I've spent the last two months lazing around Korea. It's high time now to begin preparations for the next phase. Let the work begin!

Oh, Martina's mother, Maria (my Nonno's sister, Santa's daughter), has a friend who teaches at the International School in Genova. How amazing is that?