Exactly 9 months to the day we packed up our cats and a few suitcases of belongings and moved from New York, NY to Lucca, Italy.
It has been nine months of living in a new country far from our family and friends, with a foreign language, and different way of life.
"So you did the thing. What have you learned? Has it changed you? Is it everything you thought it would be? "
These are some of the questions I get most often. And honestly I am going to try my best to reflect upon it here.
We are among many immigrants and ex patriots who choose Italy as their new homeland. Last year approximately 105,000 people immigrated here. I can tell you that, so far, we fall into a unique category of people. There are not many of us here in Lucca at least. We are not retired. We are not independently wealthy, and we are not coming to seek asylum. We were not moved here because our job required it. We come from, perhaps, the most privileged nation on earth. We are a part of a new wave of ex pat. The digital worker, in their late 30’s early 40’s, without kids.
So how did we get here?
I am lucky enough to hold Dual Citizenship to Italy and The United States, which means I hold an EU passport. This is thanks to my brother Tony and sister Kim who took it upon themselves to follow the tangled web of our family’s lineage in Italy in the early 2000’s. Without this, this move would have been literally impossible.
My husband was able to obtain his Carta Di Soggiorno - Permission to stay - a five year visa to live and work in Italy due to being my family member.
Now, living in Europe was always my dream. My husband Mike, nicknamed house cat by his entire family, is the rooted sort. He comes alive while traveling, but slow travel is the way to his heart. Sinking in, learning a place is what he loves. He does not expect comforts of home to follow him to new places. Yet he loved most returning home after our long trips, and settling back into routine. Returning home to a house that existed in the midst of a chaotic city. Slow life, whether rural or in a charming little town, always felt too small and draining for him.
I, on the other hand, crave both isolation and stimulation. I come from a rural home in Pennsylvania, and moved to the hectic pace of New York City. Small charming towns have always intrigued me , because they seem like an ideal combination. Europe just so happens to be filled with these types of places.
Now Mike and I had an agreement. We will try to accomplish as many dreams together as possible. Our relationship solidified when we both realized we did not want to change the other. We only wanted to see the other emerge as fully and wholly as possible. So, if I need to experience living in a different country for a few years, then we shall do it. If he needs a year away from work to focus on a creative project, done.
We are scrappy artists at heart looking to extract experiences from life, and in the process learn, grow, build meaningful connections and hopefully, thrive.
We have learned that moving to Italy has held less culture shock than moving from Brooklyn to Rural Upstate New York. We recognize the people here.
Our first week here we walked into an art gallery/ restaurant/ music venue and had our dinner while a “weekly jam” session played to the room. Different musicians swapping in and out playing old American blues, rock, and jazz. I grab Mike’s arm and pull his ear to my mouth “Look, the saxophone player, the bass player, and the singer, they all have your hair.”
He explodes into laughter.
Because they do, in fact all share the same unruly, thick but thin, curly, ever growing with humidity, head of hair.
Mike’s family is also of Italian heritage. The presence of that heritage is the root of his family.
Mine was the broken limb.
Thus, it is much more a part of his being than mine. Laughter big and robust is quick to fall from Italians lips. When they recognize that shared spark the corner of their mouth rides up into troublesome smirk, and the banter begins.
Some of my favorite matches are with Veronica , our wonderful realtor, and Mike. They volley joke after joke building a visual scene of my reign of terror over the home. Crescendoing into explosive laughter and then a quick “Okay, I see you next time.” Kiss, kiss, and we part ways as quickly as we came together.
No bullshit. Mike would say.
My frequent visits to the Ortofrutta and the bakery fold me into the dough from which I am cut. Women buzz around the fruit and vegetable market commenting on the days bounty. If you can speak their language they are brutally honest. They want to talk about the sweetness of the watermelon, or find me the best melon to be eaten that evening. The love of quality food oozes from every crack and crevice of this country.
It brings me back to the table of my Great Aunt where she, my mother and my sisters would comment on the tenderness of the meat, or the ripeness of the tomatoes. Food, and strong ethnic women , my aunt would say, are the foundation of who I am.
The bakery is owned by men, but filled with women. I have become friends with a woman there. She is also an artist who owns a gallery, and her husbands family has owned this bakery for hundreds of years. They invite us to their house for a BBQ - American style. I must make them my family’s BBQ sauce recipe. It was the recipe from my late uncle Tom.
That night her children ran through her garden, her son, of strong mind and spirit, began turning each piece of furniture upside down in order to make a fort. “This house is making me crazy!” She jokes as she holds up two new kittens that her father in law had just gifted to her children.
The tanginess of my family’s sauce, mixed with the spice of her family, transported me to summer nights at my childhood home. Sweet and sour. Foreign but familiar. I left bursting with love and appreciation for this place.
The intimacy and kindness of opening your home to someone is a language unto itself.
The changes have been slow and subtle. Summed up in a word for me: Balance.
The time difference between here, New York, and Los Angeles ,where my clients live, has created a natural barrier to overworking. Left to my own devices I pummel myself with work. A result of years of conditioning watching my mother frantically move from work, to cooking, to providing. My parents divorced right before I started high school, and my mother, a working mother of four, is the testament of resilience. I operate, at times, like a single parent, anxious, scarce, and busied. Yet, I am not.
The unlearning began a few years ago, but Italy has been my greatest teacher yet.
I wake - to no alarm- I put the Moka pot on the stove, collect my cafe and climb the stairs to our “altana” (the Italian word for the room on top of the roof). It is a small room filled with windows. From here I watch the piazza come to life. The morning light cascades off the church of San Michele, in the distance the mountain peaks stand guard encompassing our little city. My phone is somewhere downstairs, left unattended. I read, I write, I consult my tarot cards.
I linger, in the sweetness of nothing.
I dress and head to la Mura , or the walls, for my morning walk. They are a grand park that encircle the city. At Least twice a week I meet my friend on the ramp and we walk together. Sharing about our week, and making plans for the coming months. Other days, I catch up on voice notes with my closest friends, and listen to audio books.
My day Stretches out with moments for me.
Now, it’s time for second coffee, but first a stop at the local fruit and vegetable market, and the maccelleria (butcher) shop to pick up items for todays lunch. Then, I choose a cafe and have a foamy macchiato dotted with crystallized sugar, paired with a spremuta (fresh squeezed juice). I sit, and watch the townspeople move through their day with practiced ease.
Hurried steps were left on the sidewalks of New York.
Climbing back to the apartment, a shower and then time to cook and prepare lunch. Cooking , always a creative outlet for me, is a dialogue with my intuition. A new combination of flavors. Learning local ingredients and cooking with the season. No more bland white slices of tomato from the greenhouse, my kitchen is filled with melons, prosciutto, or artichokes and fennel. All depending on what the earth is naturally providing. Honoring food in its best state.
They do not force their earth to produce based on the desires of humans, they encourage humans to savor in cycle with the earth.
Post Pranzo (lunch) a nap. Then finally, I begin work. From the hours of 1-8, 4 days a week, I sit inside the lives of my clients. I am more alert and present than I used to be. Clients comment on my move and note it as a point of reference. “I was thinking about x life change and it felt impossible, then I thought about you, and moving to Italy, and now, it feels possible.”
Living differently invites others to think differently.
Post work, I am rejoining Italian life just in time for diner. Italians eat late 8:30-9:00pm . If we aren’t cooking at home we get dressed and head to one of our favorite restaurants. We linger over a glass of wine, a perfectly cooked Veal chop, and a bowl of tordelli. A Lucchese dish of large meat and nutmeg filled pasta in ragu. It is my favorite, and It is divine.
After dinner, maybe a stroll, or a gelato with friends. Our friends will sometimes call around 10:30 pm and invite us out for an evening walk. We were surprised this one night in particular to run into our friends parents at the Gelateria at 11pm. Perfectly dressed, in their late 60’s, walking out for an evening ice cream and stroll.
Life is lived, and not limited by age.
If I look back at my life in New York. My day of work began at 7am. Seeing clients in office or online before their work day began, and would continue through normal work hours to welcome clients after their work day ended. Typically leaving the office around 10pm.
I did this 4 days a week.
My first day off was like trying to revive a corpse. My second day I would have a little more energy, and my third day would be encompassed with anxiety about the next four days that were on the horizon. My “me time” was on the subway or in the two hours when I finished work spent on the couch in front of the TV.
New York taught me hustle and grit. It showed me diversity and ambition. I love that city, if you ask me where home is, without hesitation I will still say “New York”. I love her, but she tired me. The cost and the hustle left little space for creative ideas and flow.
Italy is teaching me about joy and balance. I love her for it. On a recent trip “home” to the states, my sister asked me how it felt being back. My honest answer. I miss my day to day life in Italy. It is the happiest I have ever been in daily life.
Mike too is settling in. New pathways to creative collaborations have materialized. He is working on three different creative projects, training for his first marathon, and learning, dare I say enjoying, lingering and taking in life at a slower pace.
We are striving to make art and build community. We are seeking ways positively impact the community that welcomed us with open arms.
Uprooting your life to move to a different country challenges you in ways you never expect. It grows you, opens you, and teaches you about your own resiliency.
Nothing is perfect, so what is the cost?
Being away from family can be very hard, especially if there is an emergency. For us we know we can get on a plane and figure it out need be. We have an "oh shit" account just for this reason.
Being away from friends and the community you spent years building, is equally hard. Luckily, Italy is quite an appealing destination for vacation, especially when you have extra bedrooms to spare.
You can not unsee what you learn. I do not think I will be able to live inside the hustle the same way again. Not when I know a very different life and rhythm is possible. Change is part of the cost.
The literal cost? Monthly overhead is about 1/3 of what it is in New York City. Apartments range from 350 Euro- 2000 Euro per month depending where you are and what size apartment you need.
I can spend about 70 Euro for a weeks worth of groceries.
Going out to dinner - Last weekend we went to a very popular restaurant here- We had appetizer(carpaccio), Entrees(roasted rabbit and housemate pasta in bolognese) and dessert (pistachio Cannoli) , a bottle of wine (Pinot Noir from the Dolomites)and a digestif (housemate melon cello) for 79 euros.
Life, a lovely life, is affordable.
There is one last question to answer- Is it everything I thought it would be?
Yes, and No.
I learned the same challenges await you in any place you move. You are still yourself. I can not magically move to Italy and suddenly become the artist I have always dreamed of being. Because I am still me. I still have my own bullshit in my way. My procrastination, my fears around how I will be received etc. They are still, sadly, alive and well.
I do now have more time to reflect on them. My life IS more easeful. I can travel to my hearts desire. I can hop on a plane and arrive in a different country in under two hours, and pay next to nothing for the ticket.
I am less encumbered and more free.
Also, I am grateful.
Grateful for my ancestors who held on to their Italian identity long enough for me to have access to returning here.
Grateful for a partner who will take big, major leaps alongside me.
Grateful to my intuition for helping me trust in the process when things get hard.
Most of all, I am Grateful to Italy and it's people, for sharing herself and her way of life so wholly, authentically, and generously.
So... Was it worth it?
1000%. Yes. Yes. Yes.
Rebecca Is a writer, therapist, and artist living in Lucca Italy. To follow more of her stories you can find her on social media https://www.instagram.com/rebeccapappa_/
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