​Yesterday night I went out in Bergamo for an aperitivo with an American friend. When we meet, we only ever speak in Italian. Bizarre, I know, but anyways there we were: a strawberry blonde American and a raven-haired Canadian, sipping on a Spritz and a Bloody Mary. Next to us was a young Italian, blue-eyed and probably in his twenties, chatting up a platinum blonde who I could only guess was either Swedish or German. The two of them, no more than 5 inches away from us, were speaking in heavily accented English to one another. It was the cutest thing, watching him reel her in with my mother tongue. I'm weird, I know, but sometimes I think about how many love stories have been strung together by this lingua franca. To our right, there was a table of tourists from Poland, ordering in English, speaking in Polish and I noticed one fellow staring at us the entire evening. I honestly think he was trying to figure out what language we were speaking with our non-Italian accents and non-Italian looks. It was quite a funny scene, lingustically-speaking. Aren’t languages wonderful? 

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Don't judge me, as this a very lame thing to be "worried" about but sometimes, I think about how any future children I have will never get to grow up in that "all-American" way that I did. I'm embarassed to admit that in my heart of hearts, I actually mourn this. That is not to say that growing up in Italy doesn't have its perks. I've often thought that it must be a hoot and a half to be a teenager here, even a pre-teen, zipping around on mopeds and loitering outside bars. You could literally have your first kiss in front of the Colosseum, a scene worthy of any teenage flashback if you ask me. But here's what you miss about growing up in North America as opposed to Italy (granted, these hypothetical kids won't even know what they're missing)...

You wouldn't have a locker and as such, you'd never have to spend hours decorating it, strategically organizing the overlapping faces of your best friends and your real or fictional crush. What's more, you wouldn't be able to peek around your locker door to watch the former as he walks down the hallway. You wouldn't be able to look distracted trying to find a lost textbook in the depths of it to avoid talking to him. There would be no school dances, no prom, no homecoming. You'd never roll your eyes while chanting the school cheer at a pep rally, secretly loving the smell of teen spirit. You'd never get your parents to buy you a two-six and drink it straight around a bonfire only to throw it up later and never be able to drink Tanqueray gin again. You wouldn't get to be a cheerleader or a quarterback or captain of the debate team, you'd never get to shiver in the cold at a football game, counting down the final seconds. There will be no nights at the cottage on the lake, those blue skies of summers that last forever and those nights that never lasted long enough. You wouldn't learn to two-step to "Fishing in the Dark", stumbling and tumbling over two left feet. No class rings to wear or to give away. No varsity letters or jackets. No AP classes. There will no dive bars or learning the lyrics to "Don't Stop Believing" to drunkenly scream at the top of your lungs at closing time. In Italy, Vasco replaces Journey. It's these miniscule bits of culture that you never think about, until you do. My children won't hop into the beds of pick-up trucks to watch the stars with Garth or Tim on the radio, nor will they dance in headlights. I reminisce over these things as I think about what a blessing it is to be able to know two cultures, but it's sobering to think that one will always prevail when I carry such fond memories from growing up in the other. 

If you've grown up with an expat parent or you are an expat parent raising children, I would love to hear your experience. Have you noticed a huge difference between growing up Italian and growing up American/Canadian/Australian/wherever you're from?! ​

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Thinking about it, Pompeii and cancer actually have a fair amount in common—although we fight far less on this tour. Both places are full of ghosts and surprising, palpable reminders of life interrupted midliving: loaves of bread still in the oven, unfinished art, Vesuvius not quite dormant above the city.

- Nina Riggs, "The Bright Hour"

My dad passed away almost two weeks ago, another soldier lost in the seemingly bleak battle against what has appropriately been called "the emperor of all maladies". Without timelines, I had booked the week of Ferragosto to go back to visit, not knowing it would be the last six days I would spend with him in this life. We had been riding the roller-coaster of Stage Four colorectal cancer for almost two-and-a-half years: the immediate stomach-drop upon discovery and thinking he had weeks, not months, to the surprising recovery post-surgery and post-radiation that saw him regain a startling 30 pounds and cross the Atlantic to walk me down the aisle. It was in May this year that a steadily decreasing weight and appetite led to the discovery of a recurrence and a terminal diagnosis. We were heartbroken and I was an ocean away. But God is kind and gave us time together. I spent entire days watching my dad breathe, this tiny human swaddled in blankets, all sharp angles and bone cushioned by a plethora of pillows positioned here and there. I fed him ice cream and washed his face, our parent-child roles in the distorted reversal that age and illness inevitably bring and that ultimately put you face-to-face with the intrinsic, interwoven nature of living and dying. My dad died in the morning on a Sunday. The night before, he waved a little goodbye to me. The gesture of a kid, bending and unbending the four fingers of the hand- up and down, up and down. It was the most he could do as he was no longer able to talk. I replay that simple motion in my head like a favorite scene from a movie. It has been said that cancer puts emphasis on the dying rather death itself. I agree. As the quote above, towards the end it is like being forced to watch Pompeii in slow-motion with no means to intervene or to look away and at a certain point, at the height of suffering, almost hopeful for the final explosion and finally, ashes and slow-burning ember. The ashes of a person typically weigh four pounds when all is said and done. I carried my dad's for a brief moment at the cemetery, close to my chest, and couldn't help but think about all those nights I would fall asleep on the couch as a child and he would carry me so carefully up to bed, a balancing act of blankets and teddy bears. At one point in life, we will all carry one another.

I know now is the time to write something inspirational about my dad or what losing a parent to cancer has taught me but those words have been penned time and time again so I will keep it very short. Loss and dying has inadvertently taught me about living, a proper cliché, yet more importantly, to live like my dad did. In the eulogy delivered by my brother, he said: "Dad never sat when he could dance, he never drank water if there was wine (or better yet, a good scotch), and he never stayed at home when there was a good time to be had." The title of my blog is questa dolce vita - this sweet life, and that is precisely what we should all be trying to enjoy.

Thank you to everyone who has been there during this time, readers who have reached out with their own stories, support, and prayers. You have made a world of difference in my life. Grazie.

Happy half-way to Friday everyone! I’m usually a fairly upbeat person (unless you’ve caught me right after an immigration office visit) and I think that this comes across in my blogging as well. But as I’ve said many times, being an expat is hard at the best of times and almost unbearable at the worst of times. This is one of the latter. We recently found out earlier this year that my dad’s cancer is now considered terminal. Terminale in Italian. That up until now, I’d always associated with train stations and points of departure for a long-awaited trip rather than the end of the line. Now, it means that we’ve used all the ammunition that modern medicine can provide at the moment, and that the enemy has out-run and over-powered us. Having come from a background of pharmacy and briefly being exposed to a course in oncology, it still amazes me the strides that we’ve made against cancer but it also makes me realize how far we still have to go. When you think about it, here’s what we can do to cancer: poison it, burn it, or cut it out and as you might imagine, we’ve done all three over the past three years.

I’ve decided to share this on the blog as a means of catharsis and a way to cope, I know it’s a bit of a stray from my usual topics. I just feel like somewhere out there on the interwebs and in this great, big world, someone may need to read this and know they are not alone. Or maybe it’s just me that needs to know. Today, while browsing blogs, I noticed that and somehow, they managed to be both heart-breaking and heart-lifting at once. I suppose because this is a shared human experience, a universal certainty and perhaps there is some uncomfortable comfort in that. I wanted to express that this is undoubtedly the most difficult thing anyone might have to face as an expat, although truthfully, I could stop that sentence before writing “expat”. As you know fellow readers, I’ve just returned from a month-long trip to Canada, of which I spent time with my dad. Spending time is a different concept at this stage of a consistently worsening illness like cancer, it essentially meant checking on my dad every now and then and feeling my own heartbeat quicken if I happened to catch him mid-breath. It meant checking he took his pain medication 2 hours ago and seeing when he last drank something. It meant fighting with him to eat something, even the smallest crumb has since become a victory in our books.

Now I’m back in Italy, a choice that I struggled with the entire month before my flight back and still struggle with. Why did I make this choice? Was it the right one? I ask myself that a lot. The answer isn’t black or white. I prayed a lot. I thought a lot. I thought about what my dad would tell me.  I thought about life and death and time. Because amidst even the deepest agony and heartache and sadness, we must also remember to live. In fact, I feel like we owe this to everyone who wishes they could leave a hospital bed. Before cancer, my dad was the opposite of what you’d call a homebody. You’d be pretty much guaranteed to find him wherever there was fun and a good time to be had and there was usually wine involved. So here I am, continuing the philosophy. I don’t believe there is a right thing to do in this situation. If I had delayed my move to Italy three years ago, when the initial diagnosis was already at Stage 4 and the emergency room doctors had uttered the words “weeks”, none of this would have existed. This life that I've created would not exist. Not this blog or any of the living that you’ve read about or seen on its pages.  That’s why before returning, I confided in my friends and we prayed and asked for a sign as to what I should do. One morning, laying in bed, I heard a plane fly overhead. Loud, unmistakable. And so I got on mine, knowing that I can be back on one in an instant if needed. Trusting God with both our journeys. 

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I am blessed to know two countries, two languages, and two ways of living, however there is a saying in Italian: non si possono avere due paradisi: uno di qua e uno di là. You can’t have two paradises, one here and one there. You can’t have both at once. I’m back in Canada, dreaming under the blue skies of Alberta and for the moment, it is paradise. Perhaps one day, many years from now, I’ll have the same feeling of belonging, the same tears, when the plane lands in Milan. Of this, I am uncertain, but there is one thing that I know for sure- you will never catch me yelling across a crowded piazza upon glimpsing the tricolore, the Italian flag. That’s something I’d only do and will always do…for a maple leaf. ​- by Jasmine Mah for EXPLORE CANADA, Peace Collective 

For today's post, I'm sharing some of my photos that my friends and I took in Banff National Park this past weekend. You may have already seen some or most of these if you follow or , I've been posting a ton over these past two weeks so make sure to join me on those sites as well! 
​

 So some of you who perhaps follow my Facebook page might know that I’m getting married here in Italy in September. I wanted to write a little bit about what it’s been like planning and prepping for a bi-cultural Italian/Canadian wedding. (Photos above are from my Bachelorette party in Canada this past spring/summer!). 
 
First off, we were very late getting started and I don’t recommend doing this. The usual “rule” of starting a year before is a good one to abide by, also because Italians love getting married on Saturdays and we quickly realized that all the Saturdays were already reserved at on-demand locations when we started inquiring. That was fine by us though since half the guests are coming from Canada and will be on vacation anyways, having a wedding mid-week was actually an acceptable option and we ended up choosing a Thursday. The restaurant is probably the most important thing to book early, then the church if you’re doing a religious ceremony. Keep in mind that if you’re wanting to get married in the church, you absolutely must do the marriage course which is typically offered at very specific times during the year and not more than twice a year in each parish. I’m Catholic and so didn’t have any issues (so far) with participating in the course and organizing the church ceremony so unfortunately I don’t have any insight with regards to options if you are of a different denomination. The course will last one to two months depending on how often you attend each week. We went on Fridays for a little more than three hours for two months.
 
After having attended the preparation course, you then have a whole bunch of fun bureaucracy to deal with as you need to present a myriad of documents to your comune of residence so that they are then able to “publish” your upcoming marriage on the town “bulletin board”. Being Canadian, one of the documents I had to present was an official testament (a nulla osta)  from the Embassy of Canada stating that I have never been married in Canada and thus, there is nothing ‘impeding’ a marriage in Italy. Post-publication of your marriage, you are then required to take part in private interviews with a priest where you are asked a variety of questions separate from your partner. Apparently the documentation is then forwarded to Rome and also kept on file at your church forevermore. We haven’t yet done our interview part yet, it’s the last bit that we’re missing in this never-ending process. So basically in summary, as you can probably tell, just the simple legalities of getting married (especially if you’re doing a religious ceremony) are almost enough to make you not want to get married! It’s then made slightly more difficult if you’re not an Italian citizen and marrying one – our trip to Rome was actually to go to the Embassy of Canada to pick-up one of the obligatory documents, for example.  I’ve actually begun to think that this is a brilliant tactic devised by the Italians to filter out who is serious and actually marrying for love versus those marrying for other, not so noble reasons! 

It's been almost a year in Italy and thankfully, I actually have friends...! Miraculous. Out at dinner yesterday with some of them, I got to thinking (whenever I write this, it makes me think of Carrie's voiceovers in Sex and the City)...when you're an expat and able to communicate (most of the time!) che in your native language sia in your adopted country's language, you end up having AT LEAST seven friend categories. Here they are in no particular order:

1. The Italian Friends You Speak Italian With
2. The English Mothertongue Friends You Speak English With
3. The Italian Friends You Speak English With
4. The English Mothertongue Friends You Speak Italian With
5. The Friends That You Switch Back and Forth With
6. The Non-English Mothertongue/Non-Italian Friends You Speak Italian With 
7. The Non-English Mothertongue/Non-Italian Mothertongue Friends You Speak English With

Now try saying those three times fast. 

It's VERY bizarre. But I actually have friends in all these categories. I have this theory (actually I stole this theory from the person who told it to me)- the language in which you initially meet a person usually ends up being the default language that you use for the rest of your relationship. Massi has a friend, for example, that was very good at English seven years ago when I spoke no Italian and we went on a road trip together. To this day, I always associate him with that trip and with English and it's strange to speak to him in Italian. Instead, I have a friend that is Ukrainian, so English has never been an option, and we speak Italian together. Last case study is a dude I know from California, we like to do the mix and match of both languages, doing one word or one sentence in one language before switching to the other. There is really no rhyme or reason to this madness. Can you relate? 

If you live in Italy, be sure to pick up the latest Chi because you just might find two familiar faces between its covers...that's right, Puffo and I are in this month's issue! I sent in our photo last month but completely forgot about the possibility that it could be chosen until I was casually flipping through the October 7th edition on the weekend and was in complete shock to see him featured. Anyways, with a face as handsome as Puffo's, it was inevitable that they'd include him, he's only just the most beautiful cat in the world. 

Being an expat has historically always had a cool factor associated with it. We're automatically allowed at the popular kids table in the cafeteria, not to brag or anything. But everyone wants to know your story, where you're from. Then Italians (or the locals of your country) will gush about how great Canada/your home country is and you'll give the obligatory gush back about your new country and then everyone gets drunk together on cheap European wine and you try to keep your brain from exploding while talking in two different languages at a dinner table for six with eight people because expats always have to bring their friend(s) from ____________ (insert random foreign city). We're all about the networking. Why? Because you're always on the lookout for your new BFF of the month or year or whatever. The harsh reality of being an expat is that not only do you have to be a master at meeting people and forming insta-friendships via your common bond of a) language or b) Questura horror stories or the equivalent in other countries that aren't Italy, but you ALSO must be the master of goodbyes. Inevitably, the majority of your expat friends will leave, back to their native country, or onwards and upwards to the next foreign land. I think in the past two months, I've had to say "ciao for now" to a running total of five lovely ladies, like Kyra from Germany (us pictured above outside Capitol Cinema in Bergamo)- please come back everyone! Just kidding, I'm happy for you wherever you are. But that's my short spiel for today. This thought came upon me after a wonderfully international dinner out last night and the roll call was pretty awesome: C and L from California, F from Singapore, J from New York/Carolina (soon Memphis/Finland), me from Canada, and your three token Italians. It may seem sad, but while munching on my stir-fry, I couldn't help but think about how beautiful yet fleeting a moment like that is- a moment when half-way across the world, eight instant friends from seven different cities sat down and ate curry. That is what life is all about. 

This is my dear friend Beth who grew up in a small town in Alberta that borders Saskatchewan. Her love of teaching and adventure took her to London, England where she met her ginger prince, James, an Irish fellow in case you didn't get my subtle hint (and she literally refers to him as this in conversation amongst friends). They lived in London, currently live in Vancouver, Canada, and got married in Ireland. If theirs isn't the epitome of international love stories, then I don't know what is. While it may seem storybook perfect, captured in a few lines like this, I give them my utmost respect- though love knows no borders, the heart certainly knows the pain of living far from childhood friends, stomping grounds, and family. It is no small feat to see a cross-cultural relationship until the happily ever after. I suppose that one of the most integral revelations a couple must have is that they must find home in one another because once you've had the privilege of living and loving in two different countries, well, you will never truly be home in a physical place. So congratulations Beth and James and grazie for having us at your gorgeous wedding. x