Landing

It's now 9:25 and after two hours of false starts the kids seem to have finally fallen asleep. We have been back in Italy since Monday afternoon and I had hoped that rising at 8 and having no nap to speak of during the day would be incentive enough to make Livia fall asleep immediately. And in fact, initially that was the case, I read the kids their story, gave kisses all around and both of them rolled over and went to sleep. For five blissful minutes I sit on the couch, reading my old copy of "Anne of Green Gables" brought back from the States and enjoy the silence. The the doorbell rings, it's Lorenzo bearing pizza. Giulio comes running out of his bedroom like a shot yelling "Daddy! Daddy!" and Livia starts sceaming like she just got smacked. In the end I have no choice but to let the kids hang around and say hello to Daddy, Livia's face breaking out in a huge smile at the sight of her papa' even though there are still tears on her face. I feel like Hillary Clinton on the campaign trail whenever her husband shows up. All the savvy and know-how gone and forgotten as people crawl over each other trying to shake Bill's hand. I was the one who get the night lights right, took away the "scary" pillow, gave my best rendition of "Baby Mine", and all for me only to have to do it all over again in a moment. If he wasn't bearing dinner I would be more hostile, but as my pizza marinara (with just a little tomato sauce) smells pretty awesome I decide to let it slide. The kids are coaxed back to bed, but then, within minutes Giulio is up again, padding down the hall to talk about how his bed seems scary and setting Livia off again too. Another rendition of "Baby Mine", another discussion about how Giulio's light blue IKEA bed spread with a bubble pattern is the happiest, non-scariest thing around, and how I wish I had one just like it before they are out again. Or so I think. I hear the pitter-patter of little feet, groaning inwardly wait for Giulio to stick his little head round the doorway. "Mommy? My toys are scary." Livia yells out again from the next room. Sigh.
In all due respect they are doing rather well, coming all this way, re-adjusting to being back home. Livia obviously doesn't remember much about the apartment, though she does remember her Daddy. And Giulio? He's the happiest I have seen him in ages, agreeable, co-operative for the most part, and loving being re-united with Thomas the Tank Engine. It also reminds me that this, here, Italy, is their home, and that my home, Cincinnati, is not. They like the States, like the pools, the museum, and the zoo, love the grandparents and the Oreos, but here in Italy is where they belong. For me it always takes a bit of adjustment, though this time I only cried once and that was after unpacking four suitcases and rotating the children's winter/summer wardrobes on only three hours sleep. While sweating profusely. Maybe I was just missing the air conditioning.
The flight over went suprisingly well. Cincinnati-New York had its' usual awfulness, Giulio whining and squirming in his seat, Livia not quite standing but refusing to sit on my lap and squawking, me not daring to look at the teenager at the window seat on the other side of Giulio for fear of what he might say, and then a miracle: both kids fall asleep about half an hour before landing in New York. Peace. I listen to the flight attendant seated in the kitchen space behind me complain about last week when she was called back to do another flight when they were already technically on lay-over when the call came through, and stare down at Livia asleep against my chest, her mouth open.
At JFK we book it over to the gate from where our plane to Milan will leave, even though we have over an hour and a half, I'm hoping to nab the bulkhead before someone else does. The place is swarming with Italians, most wearing newly purchased sweatshirts or sneakers. It seems that they have put the Milan gate and the Rome gate right next to each other, though the change in accents you hear just by moving five feet to the left or right is startling. The gate desk is empty so I walk up to a guy wearing a tie standing by the walkway entrance and ask about who I need to speak to about the possibility of getting the bulkhead seats, especially the ones with the little crib that latches onto the wall for the baby. For once in my life I have asked the right question to the right guy, the guy with the authority and computer codes to unlock these seats and within moments he has handed over new boarding passes and sent me on my way. I cannot believe my luck, and try to walk away while still kow towing before him on both knees.
I go stand over in one corner of the waiting area and take in the view of largely young, corporate Italy with disposable incomes waiting to fly back to Milan. I know these people, I mean, I don't really know them, but I teach people just like them back at home. People who are in life long engagements with their partners, yet still live at home with their parents, waiting for the time to present itself for when it will be right to get married. In the meantime, their company job covers their car payment and leaves a lot of money left over for trips to places like California, Bali, and biking tours through Northern Europe. Lorenzo, who always felt it was important to save money, never revelled much in this lifestyle before meeting me, a policeman's salary really can't take you to Bali more than once, but sometimes I wonder what it would have been like it we had waited 10 years before saddling ourselves with two kids and a mortgage. Then I think of flying with a pre-schooler and a baby to America and back when I am 38 and realize that perhaps I have really done what is best for me and my life.
We eventually board the plane, and it is 3/4 full of Italians, all jolly and happy about going home and eating well again and showing off the crazy deal they got on a pair of Nike Shocks. I find that the heavens have blessed us again by having us share our seats with an Italian named Davide, young, friendly, and who apparently really likes children. I'm initially weirded out. Why is he being so nice to Giulio? What does he want? I realize that my two months in America has made me paranoid about men and small children and that actually this guy Davide is just acting how most men in Italy act around young children: outgoing and attentive. It is also clear that he loves speaking in English to Giulio, even trying to read "A Baby Sister for Frances" to him when Livia is demanding all my attention. At one point during the flight I compliment him, asking if he has kids of his own.
"No."
"Nieces or nephews?"
"No. I have a girlfriend."
"Oh, and SHE wants to have kids someday?"
He nods. It seems a strange logic, is he taking parenting classes or something? Whatever the reason it is nice to be next to someone who doesn't mind when Giulio's feet kick him in the leg. Giulio, aided by Benedryl sleeps until I wake him up when we land.
We finally stumble off the plane in Milan, me staying loudly upbeat to Giulio (Oh look! A moving sidewalk!) so he won't have a meltdown but he seems to know that Lorenzo is nearby, or maybe because I keep saying that Daddy is nearby but at any rate he is in a fantastic mood as we get on line at immigration. My phone rings, it's Lorenzo.
"What line are you on?" he asks.
"I'm on the non-EU line."
"Claire, just use your Italian ID card and go through the other line."
I should explain that I have dual citizenship, American and British, and I'm actually in Italy legally as a British-European Union citizen. (Thanks, Mom!) My ID card in Italy also lists me as British, and you can use an ID card when travelling between EU countries instead of a passport. But I didn't think that would work just then.
"Lorenzo, how am I going to do that? They will never let me in with just the ID card. And what about the kids? All I have is their US passports."
"The kids have Italian names. Trust me." He says and hangs up.
I look around. The line I'm in is stopped dead, the EU line is practically empty. I fish out my ID card and move Giulio and the stroller towards the booth where a police officer meets me at the doorway.
"Passports, Madame?"
I hand him the ID card which he looks at and then asks to see my British passport and I have to tell him that I only have my American one with me.
"Well then, you will have to go through the other line. Maybe someone will let you cut ahead, since you have children."
I stand there for a second, trying to ignore the stares from the other non-EU passengers who are surely thinking, "Whose this @#$hole who tried to jump the line?" when I see Lorenzo standing over by the baggage carousel on the other side of the glass. I wave. He sees me, and I try to mouth to him "They won't let me though, I'll have to go around, this is all your fault." He nods and comes closer and calls something out to another officer who has just taken the place of the one who negged me. "That's my wife." I hear Lorenzo say. The officer looks at me and gestures me over. "Prego, Signora." (I wonder what the other passengers are thinking now.) He quickly stamps our passports, bam, bam, bam, and we are through. Giulio races up to Lorenzo who I see has tears in his eyes. We are together. Back in Italy.