The zucche are back in season – round squash with bright melon-like flesh and ivory-colored bulletproof rinds. I see heaps of them in a plastic milk crate at the market and think about it for a heartbeat, but then remember the toughness of that rind, my desperate awkwardness with knives and, above all, the fact that whether I carve a squash or not, no one will give a crap except for myself.

I see the ads on Facebook. This nightspot or that nightspot promotes a “Halloween” party that will – as I know by now – be, at most, half-full with people dressed as zombies or black cats, who haven’t the slightest idea what the holiday is about, and if the rains are too heavy, if Paolo suggests seeing a movie instead, if mamma makes a really heavy dinner, those people will bail on that ‘Allo-win party because in the end, the day means nothing, it’s just something stolen from American TV, just another excuse to drink, and no one will give a crap about it except for myself.

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I wrote this.

http://intelligenttravel.nationalgeographic.com/2012/08/22/i-heart-my-city-evas-terracina/

If you feel like reading it, you can.

So there’s this color virus spreading around the travel blogosphere, and apparently I’ve been infected by none other than Madame Ivory Pomegranate herself (thank you, Kristin. It is always a pleasure swapping pixels with you). Carefully selected travel bloggers are invited to post five photos that celebrate the colors red, blue, white, green, and yellow. It’s a contest you see. Run by the good folks at Travel Supermarket.

I live in a small beach town called Terracina on the West Coast of Italy. Loadsa color here, which I’m happy to bring to you. Except I keep thinking of the old ad copy, “Skittles: Taste the Rainbow” which, in turn, makes me hungry for preservatives and artificial coloring. My feet may be in Italy, but my taste buds are in America.

Without further ado, my five colorful photos.

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Eva, they say, you’re quiet tonight.

They get nervous when I’m quiet – these friends of mine – and they’re not wrong to be. I like to talk, and I can do it in twoalmostfour languages. It’s rare that I stop – What’s that? What’s that word mean? Conjugate this verb in dialect for me. Can I eat this? Can I eat yours, too? – and when I do, 60% of the time it’s because I’m upset. 30% of the time, because I’m writing in my head. 3% of the time because I’m feeling shy/awkward/don’t know what to say. 2% of the time because I’m ignorant of the topic and would rather not talk out of my ass.

But the last 5% of the time? Because I’m spellbound. Because there’s something coming out of someone’s mouth that leaves me speechless, and hungry to know more.

Like when my friends – in their 30s like me – talk about the good old days. The good old days of being children in an ancient city.

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In case anyone has been curious about the state of my novel – that thing which I came to Culonia nearly two years ago to write – I am pleased as punch to tell you that it is going very well. Very well indeed! I finished the rough draft a couple of months ago (huzzah!) and am now looking for agents (the opposite of huzzah!). Between teaching and travel writing, I’m deep into the revisions of said book; my routine at the bar still sacrosanct. For all intents and purposes, Caffè Girasole might as well be my second home, so deep is the imprint of my ass on the chair at “my” table. The staff tells my visiting parents that I’m “family” and routinely slip a gummy candy into my hand along with my receipt. My friends know that the bar is where they can find me, and they pop in regularly, unannounced, and when I’m not looking, pay for my Lemon Schweppes. My friend Andrea – prisoner in arms of the 7:30 A.M. commute to Rome – tells me, People see us together and they say, “We’ve seen that girl at the bar.” You have a reputation. Everyone knows you as that foreigner who writes at Caffè Girasole.

I can think of worse reputations.

And even as the summer heat wears on and I find myself stymied by revisions, even as I find myself fighting waves of icy fear – I’ll never find an agent. Nobody will like the book. This metaphor I thought I liked is derivative crap! – I can’t help but be proud of myself. Even if it’s true that nobody will like it, even if it’s true that I have only months of rejection ahead of me, I’ve still written a book. I made a commitment and saw it through. I created something. I kept a promise to my six year-old self.

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It’s April 5th and we’re in Hungary: in Budapest, at an Easter Market, staring down wooden kiosks laden with painted Easter Eggs, bottles of elderflower syrup and strawberry wine; giant cast iron skillets heaped with fat red sausages, rainbow-colored root vegetables, and spicy potatoes.

One kiosk attendant stirs a black cauldron full of porky, savory gulyás. Another rolls out floury potato dough to shape into dödölle.

There are glass tanks of fresh lemonade, teeming with thin slices of lemon, limes, and oranges. Side dish stations overflowing with tangy sauerkraut, plump beans, and sour cream. Grills sizzling with juicy sides of pork. Artisan Hungarian beers. Pots of pork-and-rice-stuffed cabbage. Chicken on the bone!

It is in this wonderland of traditional Hungarian deliciousness that I opt to try the rooster testicle stew.

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Three things:

• Last fall, I got a steady part-time job in Rome that requires a crazy commute. Out of the house at 7 in the morning, back at 8 in the evening. Have lots and lots and lots to tell you about the joys of commuting with the broke-ass Italian public transit system, and more to tell you about Rome, and other stuff to tell you about my new job. But I’ve been ever so much sleepier now. And that’s why I haven’t updated in forever.
• While I was busy adjusting to said commute and saying unfff, tomorrow to my wordpress dashboard page, my server got frisky and deleted my website without warning me. I have no idea when. Or why, for that matter. But I discovered this during my trip to Hungary last week, while checking my e-mail, when seized with a sudden urge to see how I Eat My Pigeon looked on my iPad. Like a big fat zero, that’s how.
• Server contacted. Site back. Pigeon is back, too – home to roost.

Now.

I’ve had a fierce aversion to recapping past events since my earliest diaries. So I’ll just jump into some posts about things I’ve wanted to tell you, if ye don’t mind. Starting with one about balls.

A few months ago, I was interviewed by Blog Expat for their Expat Interviews feature; a lovely time was had by all. Answering the questions made me reflect deeply on my years living abroad – how did I get here (Ryan Air)? What advice would I give other expats (stock up on Jell-O)? But the question I had the toughest time answering was: What is the biggest myth about your adopted country? Now that was a real head-scratcher; a real Sophie’s Choice of a question. In the end, I went with perhaps the largest myth I encounter: Italy is paradise; nothing bad ever happens there; it’s beautiful delicious dreamland; how dare you complain about anything if you live there? Right… if you’re just on vacation and don’t have to deal with bills, work, garbage build-up, and the giant, unreliable pain in the ass that is the Italian public system.

Italy, you KILL me.

But I digress. While I greatly enjoyed getting that off my chest, I soon realized that I was still unfulfilled. Had I really done enough? This ring. This watch. There are more Italian myths I want to bust for you. Here. Take my hand. Take a breath. And prepare to get your cultural preconceptions rocked.

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