31 Jul Getting Uncomfortable

Since our arrival to Umbria, my husband has lovingly nicknamed me “The Mosquito Killer.” 

Armed with a spray bottle of vinegar in one hand and repellent in the other, I tip-toe around the apartment each night before bed. Eyes squinted, nose scrunched, I stare up at the ceilings. Could they be hiding in the 200-year-old tree trunk support beams? Are they perched in the crevices of the stone walls?

I scratch the raised, red bumps on my arms and continue to scour until I’ve examined every inch of this ground floor farmhouse. From the bed, Luke sings the song “Psycho Killer” by The Talking Heads—replacing the word “psycho” with “mozzie.” 

Once I’m convinced we’re safe, I turn on the fan and slip under the sheets. There’s no air conditioning here, so the fan serves as both a cooling agent and bug deterrent. 

This has been my nightly routine since Luke and I both got eaten alive our first night—before we requested a fan, or understood the practicalities of living in the Italian countryside in summer. 

I’ve been dreaming of living in a farmhouse in Italy for years. In fact, last October, Luke and I made an offer on a two-story estate in Piedmont, built in the 1700s and owned by a man named Dante who sold apples for a living. The property had been in his family for generations, but he was getting too old to keep up the land; and somehow I had convinced myself that I was the woman for the job. 

I had imagined getting up with the sun, flinging open the green shutters to watch the morning light wash over the rows of wine grapes that I would proudly tend to after having my espresso and cornetto on the front porch. I’d wear overalls and a large-brimmed straw hat and would spend hours gingerly patting down the soil and tasting the delicious fruits of my labor—smiling widely as the grapes filled my mouth with sweet juice. 

During the heat of the day, Luke and I would enjoy renovating the house: chipping away at the old bathroom tile and clearing out the old chicken coop. We’d hang fairy lights in the cellar and set up a dining room among the wine bottles. This is where we’d entertain guests—serving them plates of handmade pasta and roasted vegetables from our garden. 

I basically thought that buying an old house in Italy would magically turn me into Diane Lane from “Under the Tuscan Sun,” and I could live out the rest of my days as the leading lady of my own romantic comedy. This is no surprise, really; I couldn’t count the amount of times I watched that movie during the pandemic—often the only remedy for feeling “stuck” during the varying degrees of lockdowns. 

Now, in retrospect, it’s probably for the best that someone else bought that property. I have absolutely no business being a farmer. And I’m learning day by day, mosquito bite by mosquito bite, that I might not be cut out for country life.

I cried when sharing this realization with my therapist yesterday. “I feel so lost right now,” I said, through waves of tears. 

“But isn’t that the point?” he asked. “Isn’t the whole purpose of this year to know yourself better? The only way to do that is to get uncomfortable with yourself.” 

This discomfort, of course, is much more than a lack of air conditioning or having to wage war against mosquitos. It’s realizing that, starting next month, I won’t have a steady paycheck for the first time since I graduated college 17 years ago. I don’t have a routine or a job to go to every day. There’s no place to call home. The only community I have at the moment is my husband and my dog. 

In some ways, this is so freeing; but in others, it’s scary as hell. I tell myself each day that this is just the beginning of this year off. I have time to figure things out. Plus, even “Under the Tuscan Sun” started off with Diane Lane in tears. Sure, hers weren’t over mosquitos, but still. We all have to start somewhere.