La Scatola

There are few things more fabulous than hard copy mail. 

An envelope in the letterbox is as equally ace as a whole chocolate cake, one fork, and a bottle of full-bodied red á la pajamas. 

So imagine my disposition the other evening when my doorman rang saying there was a FOUR-FOOT package downstairs with my name on it!!! I immediately slipped into my furry mules, flew down then back up the steps of my building, wrapped my chubby fingers around the most accessible sharp object I could score, and tore into the fleshy cardboard with the same primal fervor I recall having 4am Christmas day, 1989.

To highlight just how enormous this box was, I kindly instructed my friend to take a dip inside:

(I would say she obliged, but she's so inspired as an individual that my request instead  manifested as a potent source of pleasure.)

So anyway, the external box was enormous. And inside the enormous box lay another, smaller, medium-sized box...

and then a smaller one...

and still a smaller one...

I may be more greedy than I am an environmentalist, but who really cares when the outcome is the same- an exponentially decayed enthusiasm with each progressively more modest parcel.

Whatever.


I finally reached the penultimate and eventually the ultimate scatola, and this is what I found:

A tiny, glass pastry holder; the same height and width of any quotidian ruler. 


How's that for anticlimax?

I shouldn't be complaining because I actually really like this thingy. In fact, I was the one who purchased it. But because I had ordered it over THREE MONTHS AGO, and because it arrived in a box suitable for a PIANO, I felt in this moment, entirely mislead. 

I guess I will conclude this impressively boring story by saying that the Italian Post is no more transparent than Italian bureaucracy, that they are both unapologetically slow, and that by convention, they mutually dictate the use of excessive amounts of paper that ultimately ends up in someone's trash.

Upswinging

I think my last post summarized quite well the state of desperation I had found myself in recent months. But just to substantiate the sentiment, I'll share an image of what may have been the most festive thing I laid eyes on since December:

I'm pleased to share that after all those exams and all that herpes, things appear to be on the upswing.  Life began taking a turn for the better in late February when Giulio got confused about the date of our anniversary and came bearing a TOWER of orchids. I  really didn't have the heart to tell him he was in fact six months in advance:

Not long after, I received a hand-delivered care package which (among other nuggets of joy) included FOUR BOXES of chocolate and a bottle of really real deal tequila. I don't mind my  own transparency- consider the secret to unlocking my heart officially out:

The following weekend, Giulio and I capitalized on an expiring Smartbox - a "welcome to Italy" gift from our overly generous family friends. The Smartbox comes in all different flavors; our particular deal provided refuge at Castello dal Pozzo on Lake Maggiore for the weekend. Aside from the stunning architecture, gardens, and vistas positioned perfectly over the water, the package also included a liberal wine flight featuring regional Piemontese delights, naturally distinguishing itself as the unmissable highlight of our weekend:

AND THEN WE WENT TO ROME!! We left immediately following my cardiology exam late last week, bursting through the hallways of the university in slow motion, recklessly tossing papers up into the sky to the tune of Alice Cooper's School's  Out (which I insist was not  exclusively limited to the contents of my own mind). I can't remember the last time I felt so serene. 

We booked our tickets to Italy's capital months ago, initially with an impetus driven only by the Rome leg of Mumford and Son's most recent tour. But as a matter of very fortunate happenstance, this past weekend also coincided with the new Pope's first mass, the Rome marathon, and the ever important Ireland vs Italy rugby match which Italy happened to win for the first time in history. This was all of course amplified by the fact that it was St. Patty's Day weekend, so all very loud and great fun. 

Although we didn't make it to the stadium for the rugby match, we incidentally stumbled upon Ireland doing their pre-game séance in the park. You couldnt possibly imagine a set of calves so imperative:

We spent most of our days strolling around the city and marveling at any average street corner, each exceedingly more charming than the last. Rome is so obscenely beautiful that in some recondite way, you almost sense yourself being punished:

The worst complaint I could manage to file was that the city wasn't flawlessly unsullied by graffiti. But even still, a Roman's tagging takes a decidedly more jovial approach than the Milanese:

"HO SCORATO IO!" ..........("I FARTED")

And of course, our tried and trusted, sweetly sentimental Mummy and Sons delivered as supremely as they did the first day we were acquainted, which also happens to be the first day I laid eyes on Giulio (and for which it is still, not our anniversary.)