Usually when I am out of town I hit a point where I am ready to go home. This was not the case this time around. Yes I missed my friends, my family, my dogs and my boyfriend, but I was also beginning to become attached to a new landscape, a new language and the history that is Italy. Is it because one of my grandparents came from Milano? After all I am also attracted to Celtic art and believe I have some Irish blood in me as well. It has taken this week to become reaclimated to my home, the time difference, the different pace of living, the accents. I longed to say "grazie" to the store clerk at Cumberland Farms, and "scusi" came out of my mouth more than once. Italy is made up of music, the language, the stories, the harmony of the artwork, the opera. I was born in the U.S., love the trees, the lakes, the critters of the Berkshires, but also feel a connection to a new place now. This past semester I wrote a final paper on the concept of "home." Where is one's home? I wrote, "Home is a place of connection, of beauty, and of simplicity, the place where the birds flock to eat up all of the safflower seed before the bear decides he needs a snack. Home is what is left after the walls burn and the relationships die. Home today is the edge of Barbieri Pond." Now I don't know. Do we have a permanent place that we can call home or is the concept an ever changing idea? Non lo so.