When my plane landed at Fiumicino Airport in Rome, I was still freaking out. What have I done? I got laid off from my music biz job (no surprise there), so after a week or two of watching cable TV, I knew I had to do something. Late one night, after searching the internet for a cheap ticket, I clicked "buy ticket now" on a travel sight and screamed with anticipation. With that single click, I booked a ticket to go to Italy for three months. I felt pretty empty inside those days, and I guess I needed to run away from my life. I didn’t want to think about concerts and ticket buys for awhile. And my personal life, well if that wasn’t something to run away from, I didn’t know what was.

So there I was at the airport. My favorite cousin Mario picked me up, and I was embarrassed at how rusty my Italian had become. He began asking me simple questions, and all I could do was stutter, "Si" and "No." The drive to my small town in Abruzzo took about two hours, and the highway weaved around and through beautiful mountains. To me, Abruzzo is the most beautiful place on earth. There are two small cities in the region, and the rest is comprised of small hillside and valley towns and farms. The mountains are close to the beaches. My entire extended family lives there, and I feel at home there. It’s as different from New York as you can get, and I’m just as comfortable in both places. Slowly my panic attacks were dissipating, as the car made its way through the curved roads. We turned on the road that led to my town. The town itself is in the middle of a national park, and it is nestled in forests and mountains, almost making it look like it could be in the Pacific Northwest. Almost. My plan was to stay with my family in this town, then travel from there. When we arrived, all my relatives rushed out to kiss me. Why did I even hesitate to come here, I thought, as I hugged everyone. We ate a huge meal of fresh Italian food, and I crawled into bed.

I slept about 14 hours. The aunt I was staying with was working; she owned a women’s clothing store that was across the street from her house. I took a shower, got dressed and went outside. Everyone stopped and stared at me. I should have been used to this by now; it was my third time here. I went in my aunt’s store, and she shrieked. "Your legs!" I looked down at my legs.

I had on a denim skirt and flat shoes. "What?" I asked.

"I’ve never seen legs so white! Quick! Go sit in the sun!"

I laughed, thinking she was kidding.

She began to push me towards the door. "Go, go in the sun!

I looked at her strangely, and walked towards the bar for an espresso. I passed a few people, and they all stared at my legs. I became paranoid, and began having trouble walking. I saw my favorite uncle. Needing some reassurance, I walked towards him. But as I approached him, even his eyes drifted to my legs. "Oh my god! You need to get some sun on those legs. Do you want to go to the beach tomorrow? I can take you."

This is getting a bit annoying, I thought. After all, both of my parents were born in this town. I can’t be the whitest person here. But as I looked around, I realized that I was about 10 shades whiter than anyone around me. The eyes of strangers were drifting to my legs. I went back inside the house.

Coming from New York, where no one will leave their apartments without sunscreen, it was odd to cause a scandal because of the color of my legs. You’d think I had a tattoo of a dragon the length of my thigh. I was really out of place those first few days. There was a heat wave, and although my town was in the mountains, the sun was strong. I didn’t own a pair of open-toed shoes, because of a strong foot phobia. I had sunscreen for my face and body, and most of my clothes were black. Every time I tried to put on sunscreen, a relative would yell at me, "The sun is good for you!" Hmph, I thought. They can’t change me. I began to carry sunscreen in my purse and applied it liberally when no one was looking. I couldn’t handle the sun. Day after day, it seemed to mock me. I got lightheaded after a half hour outside. My shoes were giving me blisters, and my aunts and uncles yelled at me for wearing regular shoes in this heat. They yelled at me for being too white. They yelled at me for not eating enough. And just when I thought I couldn’t take it anymore, the townsfolk chimed in. After getting used to me, they became a bit brazen. Every old lady, on her way to the butcher or to church, would rest a withered hand on my white arm, and tell me I was too white. "Go to the beach!" they’d tell me.

It was hard to leave the house after the pranzo, the dinner-like lunch that is common over there; the sun was too strong in the afternoon. I got accustomed to eating huge amounts of food and then taking a nap. Soon, I found myself in a shoe store. Looking down at my white feet in open-toed shoes was too much, but my poor feet couldn’t take it any more. I was worried more about comfort than sticking to my old ways. Every day after that, I wore my new summer shoes with skirts. My skin began to tan despite the secret applications of sunscreen. Since no one spoke English, my Italian got stronger and stronger every day. I was even cracking jokes. I began to consume large amounts of food; I couldn’t believe how good everything was. Gone were thoughts of taking classes at the gym. I put on noticeable weight the first three weeks and liked my new shape. I woke up one day and stared at myself in the mirror. A real transformation took place. The woman looking back at me was a real Italian woman. Tan, shapely and dressed as if she was about to walk down a dirt road. My friends at home wouldn’t have recognized me. Life here became second nature to me. I’d cook and write, take walks and talk to the townsfolk. And I began to do a lot of thinking. Did I even want to go back to New York? Life here was simple, but was that a bad thing? Most of the food we ate was homegrown. No home or business had air conditioning. Businesses closed during the afternoons so that people could cook, and sleep. The only form of entertainment was listening to friends play old Italian songs on an acoustic guitar in the piazza. New York could wait awhile….

To be continued….