Do you know in the movie Hitch, when Will Smith (Hitch) says “No woman wakes up and thinks, ‘I don’t want to be swept off my feet today?” He is wrong. I am that woman. I do not want to be swept off my feet today. I didn’t want to be swept off my feet yesterday. I probably won’t want to be swept off my feet tomorrow. Why? Because I know that I fall as easily out of love as I do into it. Furthermore, I’ve learned from experience that I will wreck more havoc and cause more pain in the lives of others than my own existence incurs. This begins to make one feel guilty. But think about the use of the phrase ‘to fall’. I paraphrase someone here (I think Carver) when I remind you that we also we use ‘to fall’ when it comes to sleep. Sure, we can lie down in bed. We can chose when we will crawl under the sheets and wrap ourselves in the blankets. We can decide to put our heads on the pillow and close our eyes. But we do not choose the blissful, terrifying moment that we loose sense of our surroundings and fall uncontrollably to sleep. In the same way, we fall in love - uncontrollably, beautifully, terrifyingly.

This was the foundation of a recent conversation with Alessandro. He argues that within two weeks time one can know if they will fall in love with someone or not. I reflect on the great loves of my still-quite-short life and question if his two-week paradigm works… No. It is lust at first sight kindled by enduring friendship that presents one the opportunity to fall in love, I think. Nevertheless, I am the woman who does not want to fall in love today, so it is of no importance to me when or how it happens.

The Mediterranean hosts an emotional culture. From Italy to Greece to the shores of Egypt to the narrow streets of Morocco, emotions seem to conduct electricity between people. There is one stark difference, however, between those cultures in the northern Mediterranean (I speak of Italy, to be specific) and those in the southern Mediterranean (I speak, of course, of Egypt). That difference being the realm and means for this emotion to surface. In Egypt, it manifests itself in traffic jams and sexually-deprived-hopelessly-romantic-text-messaging-hand-holding-relationships that end the world and render one’s life meaningless when they’re finished. In Italy, it manifests itself in couples making out on street corners and kissing in cafes, in people singing one of what is probably dozens of ways to say ‘I love you’, ‘I desire you’, ‘I adore you strongly’, ‘I want you deeply’, ‘I need you by me’. There is a reason we refer to Italian, French, Portuguese, Spanish and whatever other language it is…Romanian, maybe? as ‘romance languages’.

I find that with every language I dabble in there are certain phrases that simply do translate effectively. For example: The convenience of keda, ya3ni, and momkin truly cannot be underestimated. Prendre la vie comme il vient is not quite as carefree and optimistic as ‘take life as it comes’ in another other language. Ti voglio bene lacks the abyss of emotion it throws the recipient into in any language other than Italian. I search for a similar example English but realize that the job is already done for me…consider all the Anglicisms that other languages adopt: pop music, sex, workaholic, internet… Initially these words might seem superficial, consumerist or vain but the truth is they are just as meaningful as any other concept we employ. Pop music stands alone. Some Americans might hear the word ‘pop music’, organize an understanding of the latest Top 20 Countdown or catchy-soon-to-be-overplayed-tune-written-by-a-team-of-over-paid-assholes-and-performed-by-an-underdressed-twentysomething in their minds, and then dismiss it as meaningless. I, however, hold – and I chose that verb carefully after considering revere – everything those two little words mean. There is a reason that Britney Spears kissing Madonna to the tune of Me Against the Music could remedy any homesickness deep in the heart of Cairo. There is a reason our skin tingles – literally tingles – with nostalgia when we hear a song that was once ‘our song’ with a significant other. There is reason that every Beatles song every played carries with it an immeasurable empathy with thousands of people between the ages of 17 and 57 (they probably all got high to it beneath a black light or in a VW beetle…). There is a reason that some Italians that can barely utter a grammatically correct sentence in English yet can flawlessly sing entire ballads of American pop music. We are a shameless people, but Americans certainly are honest. In fact, it is our shamelessness that permits us the freedom to be so. That’s why I love – I hold dearly, I almost revere - pop music: It’s freedom. It’s honesty. No matter how crass, unattractive, or intoxicating that maybe, that is the most beautiful thing in the world. Listening to a pop song, one is guaranteed three minutes and sixteen seconds of pure, shameless, catchy truth.

I’m tempted her to dissect the lyrics of several pop favorites but now that I can bowl with the bottles of doppio malto I’ve lined up (three, ya3ni 6) it’s probably best I stop tackling concepts like truth and love in this evening’s writing. On a different note: I’m turning 22 soon. This is exciting for two reasons: First, 22 is my lucky number. I’ve told my closest friends multiple times already that I have ‘a feeling’ about 2008, that 2008 is going to be the craziest, most unbelievable, mind-blowingly fictional year of my life thus far. 22 will be a benchmark, I have no doubt. Second, I’ve been told several times in the last week that it is unbelievable that I am 22. I’ve been told that once that I seem more like a thirtysomething coming out of a bad relationship and another time that that I am wiser than a 20something is capable of and by someone else that I have decades more experience than my age suggests. James Kingstone wrote in my quarterly comments senior year of high school that I engage with people and literature like someone ten years my senior. Conveniently, my life and the people I encounter resemble literature more than existence. The point is I think I’ll be 22 turning 34. I think, however naively this may be, that after this crazy-ass year of hijinx and wandering, I will actually be ready for something serious. Something real and routine and committal and important. I wouldn’t dare to define this yet but I am deeply and inexhaustibly happy for a sense of calm normalcy and satisfied grounded-ness to overcome me about a year from now. We’ll see.

In the mean time, Milano is offering me exactly what I need, research is coming along, and my life is cluttered with possibility. The program I’m directing in Egypt (www.learningenterprises.org) this summer is shaping up and I’ve got my heart set on a language program in Oman or Jordan (???,com)… I miss DC but appreciate the distance between me and people I care about since it makes me realize that their sweet and quirky importance in my life. Family is, as always, closer to my heart than a mailing address could ever suggest.