Arrivederci, Roma. Bonjour, Brussels. I’ve moved. Left behind the chaos of Italy for the efficiency of Belgium. Abandoned un vero cappucino for a watery cafe’ au lait. Rolling my “rs” is now secondary to drowning them. And I have a new, scarey job, too, with a major title. I’m a mother. Una mamma. Une maman. And my boss’ name is Luca. He’s three and a half months old, and his smile makes me melt. He tells me my French is better than his. But he seems to win the hearts of strangers faster than I do. I call him “Mr. Big Eyes.” They call him “Monsieur Beaux Yeux.” He’s the best boss I’ve ever had, and I can’t imagine a better job.

We arrived in Brussels two weeks ago. Leaving Rome wasn’t easy. After all, I lived there for nine years, longer than highschool and college combined, and grew to feel as comfortable there as I do in the States. Sure it helped that I fell in love with my husband in Rome, found a profession that stimulates me, and married into an Italian family that always made me feel as if we’d known each other since the sandbox. Above all, I guess I got to know myself best living in Italy. And, on June 1, 2006, I started a family with my husband with the arrival of Mr. Big Eyes. That’s a lot for one city. My dad once told me that the twenties are some of the hardest years in growing up because we’re seeking life’s three most important things: 1) a lifelong companion 2) a profession about which you’re passionate and 3) a city which enables us to enjoy the former two. Rome gave me all three things, and, for that, as we flew over the Alps to Belgium, I kept trying to swallow that damn lump in my throat.

It always seemed to me that so much of growing up was about advancing our education. I raced through high school, college, internships, entry-level jobs, promotions, then, a Masters. Now I’m getting my Ph.D — in motherhood. But I know this kind of Ph.D is infinite, and there’s no thesis to hand in. Every day there are several oral exams and I don’t have a clue how I’m doing. Luca doesn’t seem to protest too much at my work but there are days when I barely understand the material in front of me.

So here I am in a city completely new to me. Struggling to resurrect my high school French, opting to speak it instead of trying to pick up Flemish. I’m an American formally representing Italy as I tag-team my husband in his role as a diplomat. Yet I’m running in primarily Italian circles as the token American. I’ve become Italian after marrying one and living in Rome. Yet no matter how well I can roll my “Rs” or make an espresso, I’ll always be The American. And the same can be said in Brussels, perhaps. But I’m definitely feeling my Italian habits shining through as I try to get assimilated with my new city. Why can’t I throw out my garbage every day instead of waiting to dispose of old oysters until the day the truck passes? Why can’t I speed through the yellow traffic light? Why can’t I honk? Why do I have to stand in a formal line? Why wait my turn for something? After all, I just have a quick question.

Mr. Big Eyes and I have quite a road, una strada, une rue, ahead of us. We’re going to go contemplate it over some pommes frites.