Two lives, One Cara

Posting old thoughts written on Word:

Since the last time I wrote in this blog, I have arrived home from Milan for a 5 month “vacation” in Pittsburgh. I spent the last month of my Italian “soggiorno” painting murals in a Children’s Hospital, finding a new apartment, and saying goodbye to friends before my summer holiday.

My hometown is actually north of “da burgh” in a city called, Lalalalalala (I would like to remain a bit anonymous if possible). I know that I say that “I’m from Pittsburgh”, but everyone says that within a certain radius of the city. It is a small town that is actually incredibly run-down and anything but aesthetically pleasing; in fact, its decay and decline is almost poetic in nature; the city center, once the center of life and commerce in the 1950’s has become a ghost town with 95% of the stores vacant, standing as sad testaments to small-town days of community interaction and entertainment. The signs are faded, glass broken, and there are still dummies, some still with torn clothes draping off their plastic backs, eerily looking out into the empty streets. I look at these streets as wastelands of old days and old ideals, and I wonder who the Joe of “Joe’s Place” was or the people who played at the “Bingo Hall”. My town was rich in Italian immigration, and there are plenty of stories that I could recount, but I’ll save those for later.

I actually drove down to the city center to take pictures on two occasions; there is something about it that calls to me when I drive by to get to the bridge, the bridge that leads to actual recreational or consumer activity. However, I have a desire to veer away from my “daily tasks” to go and “document” these stupid old buildings; their architectural quarks, uncanny colors, faded designs, old signs, decay and geometry allures my artistic eye. What a waste…..more on this later. Anyways, my town is not pretty, fact.

It is a normal town with a middle class to low income population, and I have to say that worldliness is the last thing the town can brag about. It is a town of elderly people of a stronger generation, tending their small gardens or living in high-rise towers. It is a town with many churches from the immigrant days—mostly Italian and Polish, and those that are Catholic are closing due to lack of priests—thanks Pope Benedict for having such archaic views and not allowing women to become priests--It is a town that has no allure or attraction to young families wanting to raise their children, which makes it a hold out for those that remain that would wish for better days or development; in fact the only notable development is seemingly being dug downward into some kind of grave. Grave is harsh, but the people moving here aren’t certainly coming for recommended school districts or quality of life—they come for other reasons, you can imagine. It is a town of Pittsburgh sports fans and high school football games, chicken wings and traditional pizza places. It is a down-to earth town where the people with class know where they came from and don’t put on a fake façade. People work hard, and they are happy with simple things even if they can afford something extravagant, for the most part. It was a factory town, it was alive in another age, and now its residents live and work—and young people like me usually go out at night in Pittsburgh. You can take a poll and ask if any college graduates would ever want to move back, let alone start a life in this city—the question is nearly absurd to ask. You know.

However, I know this drab little city like the palm of my hand, as I pass Eatn’ Park, KFC, Arby’s, then Rite-Aid before I ascend the hill that I call home. This is my home, the center of my universe for most of my life, filled with all the people in the world that I love unconditionally—the center of Cara’s universe.

I live on a hill that can be considered a very “Leave It to Beaver” type of neighborhood, with trees, wide streets, and interlocking backyards and alley ways. I have two alleys that I call my “favorite”, but their ranking in my heart has battled over the years. They are both the same, but alley #1 has a greater slope and my grandparent’s backyard feeds out into it, and alley #2 is flatter and just pleasant to stroll down. I have to say that alley#1 was better for bikes, and obviously #2 is better on foot, and #2 was my favorite for a long time because there was a dog who scared me in the other alley. I think the dog is dead now, so they are even I guess. Anyways, its stupid, but I love these two places.

I live in a rather spacious normal tan house that my parents have lived in since they were married over 25 years ago. It was meant to be their starter home, but they had four children and added on a house-size addition to the posterior of the house instead. We have two large trees in our front yard, with little leaves that fall like snow in the fall—bitches to collect and scrape off of your car, and we have gone through about ten different colors of minivans since I was little. I really shouldn’t be giving you all of this information so quickly, too much information will kill my mystery, or would it?

I guess for all intensive purposes, I should mention that I have three siblings, Christa, Robert, and Alyssa. I am the oldest. I have an incredible family, and I am extremely fortunate for that.

Anyways, I will insert a story from tonight at this point:

July 29, 2009:

It rained today, all day. My friends visited, my high school swim coach and his wife, with their newborn baby, and I spent the day catching up with them. By dinner time, everyone arrived home from daily activities sleepy.

After a dinner of leftovers, I went the Dairy Queen with my sister, Christa. She asked me to accompany her there for an ice cream cone, and I really had little desire to leave the house. However, my other sister is working there tonight, and I couldn't resist the small outing even if I didn't want ice cream.

My grandfather owns this Diary Queen near our house, and most all of his nine grandchildren have worked at his store, aside from my brother and I because we chose to spend our high school days lifeguarding instead. Tonight, it was a family affair at the store because my sister and two cousins were busy working behind the counter, and it was cute to watch them working together. However, there was a long line of customers, and they all looked stressed; it turns out that they ran out of 5$ bills and fries, they were extremely busy, and the ceiling was dripping above their heads as the heavy rains had soaked some of the ceiling boards. Obviously there is a problem with the roof, and they called the DQ handy-man, my dad, up to the store to check out the situation. Meanwhile, Christa and I went to Rite-Aid and Arby's to break some 20$s for them. Christa, an ex-employee, dons an apron and begins helping out in the back making blizzards.

My Dad arrives with my Pap, and I keep Pap company as dad gets to work. My dad has slaved over that store since he was very young, and every Saturday and Sunday that I can remember, my dad has driven up to the Dairy Queen early in the morning to check-up on the place, clean, fix machines, etc. He is a banker by profession during the week, and he has basically taken over a lot of the responsibility for the store even though my grandfather still does as much as he can as the owner. It is a cute place, well-kept, and I have to say that it hasn’t changed since I was little—the same tables, exposed brick wall, picture frames hanging and colored tiffany-style lights. About the only thing that changes there is the new blizzard of the month.

I have been going there since I was little, not too frequently, but enough that we always stopped when we are in the Natty, as we call that town. Ironically, I didn’t like ice cream when I was little so I went there and ate the cones for several sad years of my life. Luckily that has changed drastically.
In any case, I went there tonight and I watched my whole family hard at work making ice cream treats for the long line, and my Pap got me a Coke even though I don’t care to drink pop. My dad was soaking wet on a latter trying to manage the wet ceiling tiles and catching water in plastic buckets—it wasn’t a pretty picture, and I felt bad for my dad.

I ended up sipping my Coke, which tasted like Doctor Pepper, with my grandfather as we slipped into a brown table booth, and my sister, Christa joined us after she had worked a bit. It wasn’t planned, but it was nice being at the old DQ with Pap in our impromptu encounter. Of course my Pap insisted that I get an elaborate ice cream cone, and I really wasn’t hungry and resisted for a minute. However, I can rarely ever say no to Pap, especially when I know that it makes him happy—and ice cream makes me happy even if I’m full. I asked Alyssa, my other sister, for a chocolate cone. This is my funny dry-humored sister, and I’ll just say that she wasn’t having the best night working in her blue T-shirt and matching eyeliner. Cute.

Pap, in his neat checkered shirt, started to tell some of his stories from when he was a rather famous disc jockey in the area, about how used to hold dances in the fire hall every Friday and Sunday night with 1500 people packed into the joint religiously, only skipping one night in 1963 after Kennedy had died that week. He has many other stories that I will tell in a different moment; he is a wonderful man.

Although he is thrilled that I have had a great experience in Italy, he is very worried that I will move there for good. He tells me every time that I see him now-- “Cara, I know you’re having a good time, but I worry you won’t come back…., will you be home for Christmas?” looking at me with a half-smile and loving eyes. I reassure him that Italy is not a permanent fixture in my life, and that he should take that off his mind as a worry. Of course, I am sure that he will still pray about it. He is a very religious man, and he rightly believes that putting your faith and trust in God is the most important thing in life. I agree with him always, and he brings up this conversation frequently, explaining God’s grace visible in our lives—I of course am always listening, having the conversation in front of the door to the DQ as I watch my cousins and sister scurrying with toppings and buster bars around my dad still balancing on his latter, soaking wet, punching out sopping ceiling tiles. I know Pap feels bad that my dad is working, and I tell him I love him because it is so true. My Pap wants to wait for my dad—they are like best buddies—in fact my dad calls him, “Buddy.” My sister and I go home and say goodbye to everyone after our random two hours spent trying to adjust problems and a lovely conversation with my grandfather over an ice cream cone. He wants to give the Diary Queen to my dad eventually.

Christa and I rode home in the car listening to Michael Buble, “Everything.” I broke down crying because I was emotional I guess. I am caught in a very odd moment in my life where I am torn between places, cultures, passions, family, and reality. I go to Milan, the fashion capital, and I dress as classy as I can afford (which is barely nothing at this moment), always sporting my own style, and I drink wine near the Navigli waterways for an aperitivo in a carefully chosen dress and lipstick. I stroll in piazzas, speaking Italian with different friends, with new flames, with interesting people, traveling, working, learning, and having new experiences---far away from home. I will never be anyone but myself--but the Cara of LALA town is literally worlds away from the Cara of Milan.

I know to never underestimate the specialness of small places because the roots of my life and love lie in a small silly broken town; however my dreams and passions are with currents, cultures and worldly journalistic encounters. It feels like there exists such a dichotomy to my life, and I can’t seem to sift through all of my desires to find a strong and sturdy pathway to find where I belong now. I understand that happiness is where the heart is, and for me, I know that even the most ugly and dreary places can be palaces of love and wealth. Compared to Milan-in Italy-in Europe, despite its own flaws, is absolutely grand compared to LALA town and in ways, Pittsburgh.

It is hard, knowing that family is the most important aspect in my life when I have so many different strong inspirations pulling at me in different directions. In addition, I also love the culture, Italian language, and have created nice friendships in Italy, which makes it hard to leave a place that despite the added difficulty that living in Italy provides, I really find good life energy there. (I’m getting hippie on you, but I really wanted to translate exactly from Italian: Mi trovo molto bene….I find myself very well). On the other hand, I guess I have also been thinking a lot more about stability despite my chosen non-traditional lifestyle as an “artist.” It is funny because I’m not really creating art now.

I just think that I will never fully find true stability because I will always have itches to pick up and travel, paint, create, explore, etc. We’ll see. Sigh.

This is enough writing for tonight, but I will say that “Everything” bye Buble does make me wish for a serious boyfriend, someone to love me in that way. There is a spontaneity present in the song that feels crazy and uncontrollable, and it is exactly what I want in love. I always knew that I’d marry the boy that would stop the car, run like wild with me in a field, and kiss me as we fell. We’ll see, I am still holding out for dreams. Alla prossima blog!