Gelato bellisimo on the Upper West Side

Well, I never thought I'd admit it, but there is a new gelato place on 76th and Broadway called GROM, for the owner, apparently a roman franchise. The gelato is AS good as the best I've tasted in Italy. Truly.
Here's the link. There was a line half a block long tonight, on a Tuesday night, but it was worth it. Go. Wait. Enjoy. Get the medium sized cup. The small is ridiculous.


Good day today. Got a check up, blood pressure down (110/70), strength up, mood up--all because of two months in Italy! I wish I could do it every year. I would be a happier person.
Buona notte!
Paola

I must be back in my ordinary routine...

because I have very little to blog about today. Does this mean my post-trip happiness is wearing off? It has been a week and two days since my return. I don't feel quite as elated. Is there a way to hold on to this open, expansive, optimistic feeling I have? Is it possible to have that feeling in everyday life? I need to be able to distill the things that felt best about the trip and tap into those habits here. More easy-goingness. Less scheduling. More alone time. More exercise. More art. Better food. Healthier food. Looking at the world with fresh eyes (the way you do when you live in a new place). I can do those things! Now, if only I could sleep til 10 every day and go to bed at 2 am. On a positive note: I got to tuck my nephews in tonight! None of THAT in Italy.
Buona notte!
Paola

Babies, babies everywhere, and not a drop to...

Would you believe the man is this photograph was once a wildly carousing BACHELOR? That's what love and marriage does to you!
This is my firend Gregg, and I spent a lovely Hamptons weekend at the rented home of him and his wife Sheri, along with some extended family. I think I've been pretty good about not posting any baby pics on this blog so far, considering that upwards of 10 close friends of mine have had first babies in the past two years. Forty-three is the new twenty-three, at least when it comes to babies. I feel compelled to do a baby tally in my circle:
Lisa: twin boys
Pam: preggers
Diana: gave birth last week
Noreen: son
MP: son
Laura K.: son
David B.: son
plus 11 other people at SELF magazine (that number is growing, along with the bellies around me).
Bunoa notte
Paola

Do you BELIEVE this is Queens?

Believe it! This is the kitchen and back garden of SELF's lovely director of copy, Wendy, who was nice enough to invite a few of us for lunch and wine (her husband works at a wine magazine, so that is a very good thing!) The two of them have managed to create a bucolic, Hamptonesque retreat (without the snootiness) in Forest Hills, Queens, complete with vegetable patch and a "cabin" transformed from a former garage. Proof that Queens in underrated as a borough.

So, I got through my first week at work, post Italia. I am very tired, but still have the wide, expansive happy feeling that I got off the plane with. Now I just have to figure out how find time to do my book and exercise!!!! (And maybe go on some dates. Maybe.)
Buona notte!
Paola

A waterbug the size of a baby shoe

Yes, I was on the phone when one crawled along my kitchen wall and disappeared behind the stove. It truly was as large as a small mouse. Guess it's time for the exterminator--one thing that didn't happen while I was in Italy.

There are some things you just need a man for:

1) To kill a giant waterbug
2) To put large boxes and suitcases on the top shelf of the closet
3) To get things down from that closet
4) To change high-off-the-ground light bulbs
5) To trouble shoot computer problems and often get them right!

Ah, it is still a sexist world out there. But I am lacking in many typically testosterone-fueled traits, including spatial relations (I have the worst sense of direction of anyone I know or have ever met) and upper body strength. (I have strong glutes, an estrogen-fueled trait). What can I do? I just wish there was someone available to kill this grotesquely huge waterbug!

Amore
Paola

Not in Rome and still at home

Well, I'm managing to emerge from my process of reimmersion long enough to update this blog, of which I've become quite fond. So. Transformation. I have a different view on transformation since I've been home for a scant three days. Though I didn't feel as if I was changing in any way while I was in Rome (other than becoming more adept at map reading), now that I'm back in NYC and at work, I feel altered in a wonderful way, more expansive, more relaxed, more aware of what I love about NYC, about the people I work with. It is so nice to be able to live in a paradise-like city such as Rome for several months, and not feeling sad upon returning. I like my life, my apartment (especially my apartment compared to the plaster-dust-covered, chipped-crockery and stained comforter filled miniscule flat in Trastevere. I feel as if I'm living in the lap of luxury, with all my things around me.

I also feel so happy to be at work--the fact that the people at SELF enabled me to go on this fantastic trip makes me feel very grateful (a key factor in happiness, research shows) and overflowing with good will. And I got such a warm welcome--hugs, kisses, beautiful flowers--it felt wonderful. Because they let me go, I was able to come back feeling fulfilled and rested and happily ready to bust my butt for them, in the best possible way.

In case this is becoming annoyingly Pollyanna-ish, I will try to strike a lighter note with the following reflections:

Differences between Rome and NYC:
1) NYers stand on subway platforms obsessively checking their CrackBerry's, emailing their bosses. Italians stand on subway platforms obsessing checing their cell phones for text messages about where to meet for a coffee.

2) NYers are scheduled to the gills, several weeks in advance. I was most guilty of this. Italians tend to play socializing more by ear, inviting each other to "stop by for a coffee some time" or issue a dinner invite at the last minute. It helped me feel a bit looser and hopefully will help me refrain a bit from planning every minute of my time.

3) The strawberries in Italy are small and sweet; the strawberries in NYC are large and tasteless.

4) Coffee, restaurants, bottled water are all cheaper in Manhattan than in Rome, all thanks to the Euro.

5) You will never see an Italian man wearing khaki shorts and sneakers with sweat socks. No. Not done.

6) You will never see an Italian women doing errands on a Saturday in sweats, with unbrushed hair and no makeup. Or in khaki shorts and sneakers. Schlumpy-ness reigns on the Upper West Side!

One big lesson I learned: The most gratifying, fantastic thing about this whole experience was asking for a leave--something that was going to inconvenience my coworkers--and actually get it. Asking for things is very difficult for me, especially when someone might be inconvenienced, and that has really gotten me into trouble in romantic relationships. (Translation--I turn into something just short of a doormat.) This has taught me a lesson, in a tangible way, that sometimes, when you ask for things, you get them, because the people around you want to help you feel good or support you. I hope it makes it easier for me to identify what I want and ask for it in love, and in life.

Buona notte!
Paola, at home, tho not in Rome. (I'm not sure I can drop my Italian moniker. Thoughts?