Today is the day.

Today is July 30th.

Today is the day several months revolved around: the day I would leave Italy again.

I've blogged a lot about my life decisions, revelations, and changes here, so I figured why not add a few more? And so the story begins:

My Fulbright year could be defined in many ways, but as I reflected the most fitting word is "challenge," be it referring to both the stand taller with a puffed chest type and the "am-I-ever-going-to-get-through-this?" moments. There was challenge everywhere. Challenge in my work. Challenge in my personal life. Challenge in my path to know myself. Challenge in living on another continent. I realized, maybe later than some or just in a different way, that growing up is hard. There are lots of things to do, many more than could ever be done in one lifetime, and so with that comes priorities and hard life choices. And that became my biggest challenge.

Among the series of challenges I fell into or created for myself, I started to doubt the plans I had set. Who knows why, but it was like a slow developing bacteria. A serious talk with a friend, a family member, or an acquaintance now and then grew in number and emotion. Soon attacks came more frequently and were stronger. My resolve strengthened and imploded on itself so often that I started to doubt my whole person and that, above all, made me unhappy. The only thing I could gather was that something had to change. So I took off the cruise control and pulled off the road to look at the map. My route had to change.

So then in May I emailed the professor at Western Washington University and informed her that I would no longer be attending the Experimental Psychology program. It was one of the hardest decisions I've made to date because it meant saying goodbye to something I still found interest in, but just wasn't a priority. The fear of making the "wrong" decision filled me with anxiety because WWU was an atmosphere and a setting that I wanted, that I had worked towards. Alas, I had found in my reflection more of a desire to add to community planning or policy change than I did to grow within an academic environment. Some work here in Florence with a conference called Diversi. E Allora? (Different. So what?) really enlightened that area inside my consciousness.

After that, I realized that I had to get to work. I have student loans to pay, after all. Which brings us to another more humiliating thing to admit: after all of this time, my project still isn't done. I got lost in theory. I made my life harder. I stumbled over my ideas and got discouraged instead of cleaning them up. I wanted so much and then didn't know how to ask for help. I could skip out of town or buckle down and make things work. In reflection I realized how much I had learned reading and not, interviewing and not, writing and not. This time with some real help from Gabriele--the person who knows best how to give it to me straight... in the nicest way possible, I recognized how much of a shame to my experience and a general disappointment to myself it would be to not complete a project. Plus I would feel so much better citing things I had learned from a finished product at job interviews.

And so today is the day I didn't leave Italy again. At least for now.

If there is a purgatory, this is it.

Today I went to the post office. I've talked a lot about the post office because it's a place no one really visits while being here for a short period of time, and, well, they are really Italian. At my particular branch you enter and take a number from one of three sections (finances, where you pay bills among other things signified with the letter "A"; banking, because the Italian post office also has a bank system, which have the letter "F"; and sending, for, you know, doing normal post office things, which is accompanied by the letter "P"). When I usually go, it's always a toss up what I'm going to find, but I'm usually pretty sure it's going to be a wait. If I'm both lucky and go at really unpopular times like early during lunch time or Friday evening, I usually only have to wait for 15 minutes. Tops I've been there for 45+ minutes before being called. Trips usually lean more towards the side of eternity than not. Usually I bring a book or my journal. Often I tweet. Anything to pass the time.

Today I went around 6pm. I'd never been there at that hour and thought I'd pass by. If there were too many people, I figured I'd head there tomorrow. I scan the room and find about 5 people waiting. I go to take a number. Of course there was a choice to make. Do I take an A for the bill I had to pay, or a P for the letter I had to send? Most times I take both, but I started with A244 and found that on the list of numbers recently called my number there was A243 making mine next up. I sat myself down without getting a second number. At least the place is one of the few here that has good air conditioning. People, it's hot here.

Anyway, the time stamp on my ticket was 17:55/5:55. Around 18:15/6:15 some girl jumps toward an open counter to ask if any A's will be called. P134. P135. P136. The woman sitting next to me had P137. She came in at 17:52/5:52. Apparently in this office they mostly pull numbers by order of arrival, but that's not always the case. Certain counters have certain functions. They can do it all, but they don't. Then there are people who jump the line. Why? Because they have something "urgent" or they just have a "quick question" that turns into being helped. After all, we are still in Italy.

So finally at 18:23/6:23 my number is called. Everyone with an A number behind me is saying "Finally, we're moving." I offer my bill to pay and ask if I can also get a stamp. She said of course. I take out my cash and she asks me if I'm paying my 75 euro water bill in cash or using a bank card. I tried once using the bank card, but apparently they discriminate about that, too. I didn't have this tiny design on the back so I had to withdraw from the ATM outside. "Cash," I reply.

In the meantime, a man walks up and asks if he can have the bag. "All of it?" she whispers. "Yes, I'll take all of it." He isn't an official. I don't know who he is. The woman goes in the back room, comes back with a medium sized shopping bag from a retail store. They start talking about lawyers and contracts. I white noise them because I don't want to be privy to any information I shouldn't be. Six minutes pass in this hushed conversation. The man walks away.

The woman returns to my aid, printing out the postage for the letter. I wrote down the address exactly as my friend had given it to me. Apparently I missed something he didn't write.

The woman asked me, "This is going to Holland, right?"
"No," I said quietly, trying not to avert the other clients, "it's going to Afghanistan."
"What?"
I clear my voice and raise it half a decibel. "This letter is for a soldier in Afghanistan."
"But the state isn't written!" she exclaims.
"Va bene. Okay. I can write it. Or I can just take it back and ask him again. Either way."

Maybe she didn't hear that last part. I'm not sure what happened, but the next thing I know this woman he got up and went to the two other women with clients and is "asking" what she should do. But really this asking is more like complaining. And she's doing it very loudly. I can feel everyone's eyes on me. Especially the other A's. My cheeks get hot. Despite the cool atmosphere, sweat starts to appear on my hands. A real Italian would have turned to someone nearby and pleaded their case. I can't even turn around to face the A's. I purposely don't pay attention to the words they are saying, a skill I now realize that I have clearly perfected. I hate that Italians seek to publicly shame, but it's part of their way. Especially postal workers. I think it's a job requirement.

After another two minutes in which her colleagues scream their advice and commiserate with her about just how impossible it is to send a letter without a state, she explains to me that this letter cannot, in fact, be sent if the state to which it is being sent is not known.

"But I know where it's going. It's going to Afghanistan."
"Oh." She pauses. "And this address in the corner of the letter is yours?" she says while pointing to the address of the street around the corner, followed by "Firenze, Italia."
"Sì." I say. "That is me."
"Ah, well, we didn't understand each other."

Yeah, something like that...