Two Worlds

Baby Boy is pensive outside a church in Ischia, Italy. © Photo by Francesca Di Meglio

Baby Boy’s little cousin calls him Dragon because he’s usually a spitfire without words. She builds tall towers with blocks for herself because she’s a princess, and Baby Boy comes running to knock them down. She yells, “Dragon, Dragon!” Then, the two of them giggle and fall to the ground together before arguing over one toy or another. It’s love and hate – but mostly love – with those two. On the day we left New Jersey for a nine-month stay in Italy, they had one last battle in which he tore out a chunk of her beautiful blond locks and she bit his back – and left a mark to remember her by. In the end, they hugged each other tightly. Baby Boy screamed when we tried to put him in the car headed for the airport. It was as if he understood he’d be leaving behind his best friend and worst, but favorite, enemy.

On the plane, the kind stewardess, who is a mom to a three-year old, tried to give him the kind of milk that comes from powder, so it lasts longer. He spit it in all our faces. Then, he cried – yelled actually – for about an hour while everyone else was trying to sleep. I could get him to calm down for a moment or two in the restroom, but we couldn’t stay in there forever. Finally, he cried himself to sleep. It wasn’t so bad after that. He drank water, not milk to which he has a serious addiction.

When we arrived at my in-laws’ home in Ischia, he was greeted by his three aunts, their husbands, his four cousins, and Nonna, all of whom live in the same house with us. Even though he met everyone and spent three months in Ischia last year, he wouldn’t greet them. He stayed in my arms, hesitantly smiled when one of them tried to kiss or hug him. He was, however, keen to grab the ball and start kicking it to everyone in the garden out back. And he really appreciated the colored pencils that his relatives had put in the playroom they set up for him, replete with kid-sized table and chairs, a toddler bicycle, and other various toys. Still, this 19-month-old wasn’t quite the Dragon yet. He wasn’t knocking anything down, and there was no fight in him.

We figured he was desperate for a fix of milk. When we handed him his cup full of fresh milk that my mother-in-law had purchased just for him, he took a sip, spit it out, and threw the cup at us. He did, however, eat up the yummy Nutella filled cake with a Toy Story design on it that his aunt made just for his arrival. But it wasn’t enough of an effort for him to go to her, even though she had bathed him a hundred times the year before. In fact, she was the one, who helped him – not to mention me – get through a month-long plight of diarrhea that he faced on our last trip. He didn’t seem to remember or he remembered and wanted to forget.

Maybe he was tired. It was a long, long trip, after all. So, we went to sleep. And Baby Boy slept an unbelievable and unprecedented 16 hours. This is the Dragon. He has never slept 16 consecutive minutes, never mind 16 consecutive hours. By the next week, he still wasn’t coming around. Whenever his relatives tried to make a move toward him, he would hold onto my husband and I as if his life were in danger. He would sometimes smack their shoulders or faces to get them to move away, and he would always say, “No, no, no, no, no…”

I was getting embarrassed and hurt for the in-laws. I could tell they were disappointed, too. They kept saying that he should be used to the Old World again already. I knew different. He was in a different country, where everyone spoke a different language (even if it is one he has grown up around), and he left behind all his stuff in his house where only three of us lived, and I was certain he missed his American relatives, too. It would take more than a few days to get used to so much change.

At the end of the first week, Baby Boy and I curled up in bed for a Sunday afternoon nap, and he began burning up. It was day one of a week of fever. The Dragon was on fire himself. As it turns out he had an ear infection. His eyes seemed to be infected, too, and he had puss on his throat. He began taking antibiotics, which would give him – you guessed it – more diarrhea. His bottom turned as red as the tomatoes that rise like Jack’s beanstalk around here. Now, he wouldn’t even get in the bath tub because it burned to the touch and especially when washing with soap. The only person he wanted, of course, was me, his mommy.

Despite having to work nights (keeping American hours for my editors), I was happy to hold him in my arms and dote on him. He seemed to need some coddling and cuddling. And I was sad, too. I missed our home for just the three of us back in N.J. I missed working days. I missed my own mommy and papa’, not to mention the princess and the rest of the gang in our American fairy tale. But I didn’t want him to suffer, and I was worried this would turn into another month – or even longer – of sickness in Italy. We were both heart sick enough. We didn’t need an actual ailment, too.

There was some good news. Baby Boy started to take to the Italian milk and we were putting probiotic in it to help his stomach deal with the change in country and antibiotics. Soon, he was drinking milk with pleasure, relishing every sip as he had the American version. A week later when the Giro d’Italia came to town, we took him outside for the first time since he fell ill. He had gone a whole day without fever. I put him in his Dragon shirt (see above) and we first headed to church to say a prayer for him and for us.

In the photo above, he was still a sad, little boy. Every once in a while, he would have a tantrum, and he would throw himself onto the cold tile floor with tears streaming down his face and scream. Then, he’d jump up, run into a dark room, lay his head on the bed, and cry some more. Often, nothing seemed to lead up to one of these episodes. We’d have no idea what set him off. Sometimes, he’d look as pensive as an adult trying to decide his future. Once he asked for Nonna and ran to the computer, signaling he wanted to talk to his American nonna on Skype. When she wasn’t available, he got angry. When she finally arrived, he wouldn’t talk to her and yelled, “No, no, no” to her, too. When his cousins, the princess and her baby brother, came to visit him on the computer, he would cry and run away or just ignore them.

Yesterday, we had a break through. He still won’t take a bath, so we’ve had to fan water from the bidet onto his fanny. While the odor he is now giving off is starting to get to us, he doesn’t seem to mind. But he offered a piece of bread to his zio and giggled when he tickled him. He played with his older cousins and aunts for hours and even let them feed him. And he let all his relatives kiss him good morning today.  He ran through the house and laughed and babbled. Now, he sleeps peacefully in his stroller after a long walk in Ischia. The Dragon seems to have made a comeback. If only we could get the princess over here to build a tower!

Di Meglio is the author of Fun with the Family New Jersey (Globe Pequot Press Travel, 2012) and the Guide to Newlyweds for About.com.

Baby Boy and his father say a little prayer for us. © Photo by Francesca Di Meglio

BEFORE: My happy elf smiles wide for the camera. © Photo by Antonio Gerenini

I love America. And one of the reasons I know I love America is because I’ve spent the holidays in Italy. I hated Christmas in Italy. It’s subdued and rather boring. The big holiday meal is great, of course, but when you get three hours for lunch everyday, that big holiday meal seems the same as any other day. Yes, the American version of Christmas is all about material things and glitz and I’m supposed to hate it. But I love it. I love it in spite of the materialism. I love the way we all believe in Santa and there is something magical in the air. I love the lights on all the houses, singing carolers, egg nog, and Christmas cookies. I love the holiday music and the holiday movies. It wouldn’t be Christmas without a viewing of Rudolph the Red-Nosed reindeer. Since I have my own little elf now, I want him to cherish American Christmas as much as I do.

Being a New Jerseyan – born and raised – I want him to feel the spirit in his home state most of all. So far, this season we have had breakfast with Santa at the Park Ridge Elks (see “AFTER” photo below), exchanged cookies with some of our cousins, baked cookies with the elf’s cousins, and decorated the house with the miniest of trees and put it far out of reach because my elf is also Mr. Destruction. He nearly pulled the heavy, metal stocking holders on his head. Those are gone, too. But we will not shout, “Bah humbug!” On the contrary, paper decorations are yet to come. And we’re planning on baking a cake in the shape of St. Nick and attending Van Saun Park’s annual train ride with Santa event. Of course, there is Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day to celebrate. ‘Tis the season to enjoy New Jersey, its people, and its Christmas spirit, so get out and support local businesses and attend local events, like your neighborhood tree lighting, caroling, or dreidel spinning. Happy holidays to all and to all a good night!

Di Meglio is the author of Fun with the Family New Jersey (Globe Pequot Press Travel, 2012).

AFTER: My little elf did not care for sitting on Santa’s lap, but he rather enjoyed the pancakes and eggs at Breakfast with Santa at the Park Ridge Elks. © Photo by Antonio Gerenini

Baby Boy and Mamma in Ischia Ponte © Photo by Antonio Gerenini

After battling a rash that was probably an allergic reaction to something and a terrible stomach flu that had him going diarrhea for seven days, Baby Boy finally started feeling like his old self again. He’s still dealing with teething, which is keeping us all up at night. But he was able to get out and about again. Our first stop was Ischia Ponte, where his father and I indulged in some fresh seafood before taking pictures of our boy in front of Castello Aragonese. To see the few sunny moments Baby Boy experienced while sick and just after recovery, visit the “Recovery” photo album.

We spent my first Mother’s Day with the family at home, and Baby Boy and his papa’ gave me a lovely bracelet that is pink and looks like rope but is actually copper. Very cool. The best gift came from Baby Boy a few days before Mother’s Day when he said mama for the first time. Finally!

Baby boy climbs into the laundry basket for fun. © Photo by Francesca Di Meglio

Even though I’ve been visiting Ischia since I was 2 years old and I’ve been married to my Ischitano husband for nearly four years, I still experience some form of culture shock every time I step foot on the island. This time around might have been the worst yet. My seven-month-old son had diarrhea for seven days straight. There was one day that he made a total of 10 poop bombs. He cried. I cried. On top of this, he already a rash of red bumps all over his back and bottom. With the diarrhea came diaper rash. At one point, he had the rash, which we thought was some sort of allergic reaction, and the diaper rash at the same time. His backside looked like a tomato and it probably felt like a hot pepper.

When the pooping first began, since he already had the rash, everyone, including the doctors here attributed it to some sort of allergy. Meanwhile, there was a stomach virus going around the island. After a few days and some cortizone cream, the rash started to go away, but the diarrhea became more intense. We tried one medicine that seemed to put my baby in a catatonic state, which scared the bejeezus out of everyone. We took him to the hospital, where they found that he was hydrated but gave him different medicine to control the diarrhea. On the eighth day, despite still pooping a little too often, the diarrhea finally stopped.

I was worn out from the culture shock. It came in the form of my inability to voice an opinion over his medical care. I don’t know the medications here or the terminology for different illnesses. The doctors were perfectly kind and gave me good direction. (In fact, the main doctor he sees here is my cousin and she’s an excellent physician.) But because you’re in another part of the world with their different ways and beliefs, you’re at the will of others. My in-laws and husband directed me on what to feed the baby. I had little choice because I also have to use what’s available here. He lived on cream of rice, fennel tea, and my breastmilk for weeks. Now, he’s finally eating some good ol’ fashioned American oatmeal again, and he’s just starting fruits and veggies. Even though I’m the mom, I didn’t have much say. I had to let go and trust the folks here. Although I’ll be grateful when I’m back in my own element and can call the shots with my own kid, I’m glad everything turned out all right. And Baby Boy is finally feeling better. Through it all and to his credit, he always had a smile on his face.

Our laundry air dries outside in Ischia. © Photo by Francesca Di Meglio

Here in Italy, women take laundry to a new level. I have always considered myself capable. I know how to use a washing machine and detergent. Since my son was born, I have been dealing with milk, poop, urine, and baby food stains with a little bit of Oxy-Clean or some brown soap. I can work a little magic. But these Italian ladies never put their clothes in a drier, wash many things, including delicates, certain sweaters, comforters, and the like, by hand. And they know every product – heavy duty stain removers, special fabric softeners for different kinds of fabric, fabric stiffeners for shirt collars, you name it. If it rains while laundry is out to dry, they run outside like wildfire and get everything down and under cover in seconds. If there was an Olympic game for this, they’d win hands down.

When the laundry is all dry and inside, they iron it. They iron everything – underwear, sheets, even rags. Their irons look like something from another planet. They have a big box under the iron plate, which you fill with water to make steam. They are industrial sized, and they sell special furniture to contain all their ironing equipment – the ironing board, fabric sprays, a tray or two to put folded clothes that have been completed. When it is closed, this furniture looks like a small pantry or cabinet. When their work is complete, these clothes look like they are ready to go on sale at the GAP. They are perfectly folded or on a hanger chic and fabulous. Meanwhile, my laundry is in a pile on the bed after I bring it in from outside here in Ischia, and I fold it as quickly as possible. And I almost never use my professional iron or the piece of furniture for ironing. It looks great with my runner on it, and we have put some pretty candles on display on top of it. I guess I have learned the art of laundry, but I’m not practicing the art of laundry – at least not yet.

Before this last trip to Italy, I always stayed at my cousin's place in this piazza in Barano d'Ischia. © Photo by Francesca Di Meglio

Get the truth about one of Italy’s most popular islands – and its people – by reading my new weekly blog installments (every Monday right here on this site)

Chapter Thirty-One – Hey Gelosia (Jealousy)

From the time I returned from Italy after that first magnificent trip since Tony and I became a couple, I kept playing back a discussion I had with Lisa that was bothering me. Lisa, my cousin Roberto’s girlfriend, drove me to a restaurant, where we were to meet Tony and Roberto one night. In her Smart Car, which barely has room for my big toe but is considered sleek and stylish, we began to chat for the first time really. Sure, we had met the year before but she was none to pleased with me at first. At the time, I would stay at Roberto’s house with him and his family while I was in Ischia. And Roberto and I were the best of friends. Sometimes, he would stay in with his parents, sister, and me; we’d eat and talk and watch old family videos and eat some more. It was truly a beautiful time that I will always look back on fondly. But it meant that Roberto was neglecting his girlfriend, which is why Lisa seemed to have issues with me early on.

Still, now I was staying at Tony’s place, and I had a new love to occupy my time in Ischia. I didn’t need Roberto, so there should have been no ill will. So, I initiated a chat in the car. Rather than sit in silence, I began to ask Lisa about her family life and her friends on the island. I talked to her about what she hoped to do with her life. She didn’t have much to say other than she would stay on the island and work with her family, who owned a major hotel on Ischia.

Out of nowhere, she brought up a much more controversial topic, one that would haunt me for years to come, one that still haunts me today more than six years later. “What made you decide to commit to Tony?” she asked in a serious and defensive tone.

“Well, I was against it at first,” I explained. “But he was so persistent and then I started to get to know him and I started to fall for him. Now, I decided to just go for it and see what happens. I know it’s going to be hard because we live so far apart…”

“That’s right it will be hard,” said Lisa in an all-knowing and cold manner. “I told Tony, ‘You can do anything you want in Italy and Francesca can do anything she wants in America and neither of you will be the wiser.’”

“While that might be true, that’s not how I conduct myself,” I responded. “I will not be cheating on Tony and he better not cheat on me.”

“You just don’t know,” said Lisa. And then we said nothing else for the rest of the trip to the restaurant. I never really discussed the conversation with Tony. But I kept wondering if Lisa was trying to tell me something about my new love. Should I be worried? Would Tony cheat on me while he was in Italy and I was in America? How would I ever know? These questions plagued me even more once I was back in New Jersey. Every time Tony would get in touch with me on Skype later than usual, I would think, “Is he out with some other woman?” If I had doubts, Tony was a jealous mess.

Some names and identifying characteristics of the real people involved have been changed.

Tune into this Web site, Two Worlds, every Monday for the latest installment in my blog about my experiences in Ischia, and every other Monday to ItaliansRus.com for the latest Our Paesani column about all things Italian. Di Meglio is also the Guide to Newlyweds for About.com.

Maria getting ready for her baptism. © Photo by Francesca Di Meglio

Amanda (r.) shows off her bouquet and cousin Nina (l.) at her Confirmation dinner. © Photo by Francesca Di Meglio

From the begging of this summer, my family has been celebrating milestones with its young people. Two of the biggest events we recognized were my niece Maria’s baptism (for photos, visit the “Maria’s Baptism” photo album) in May and my cousin Amanda’s confirmation in June (for photos, visit the “Amanda’s Confirmation” photo album). Both Maria and Amanda made us proud as they conducted themselves beautifully during these important religious moments in their lives.

I guess family has been on my mind because lots of my stories have focused on relatives, too. For the Our Paesani column that I write for ItaliansRus.com and Las Vegas’ La Voce newspaper, I covered “20 Signs Your Italian Man is a Mamma’s Boy,” “Stuff Our Italian Fathers Say,” and “Italian Family Feuds.” Obviously, those of you who know me can be certain that I drew on my own personal experiences – and family – to write these stories. And I even make a funny in the first two. I guess I’m not as serious as you thought!

Roberto flirted with just about everyone in Florida. Even Minnie wasn't immune. © Photo courtesy of Di Costanzo and Gerenini

Get the truth about one of Italy’s most popular islands – and its people – by reading my new weekly blog installments (every Monday right here on this site)

Chapter Twenty-One – Harmless Flirting?

Roberto enjoyed living the life of a bachelor while on vacation in the United States, probably never more so than in the week we spent in Orlando, Fla. with my brother and his friends. The only problem was that Roberto had a girlfriend back in Italy. “I’m-a, how you say, flirting,” he would tell me. “No problem.” Still, he was leaving out the stories of flirting when he would finally get on the phone with his girlfriend Lisa.

By day, we would sleep in before heading to the Disney theme parks with either my brother or one of his friends. By night, we would either go out to dinner or eat at my brother’s house with his single buddies. One evening, we all headed to a bar. Tony and I went home early with one of my brother’s roommates. The three of us were all older than the others and had long outgrown the bar scene. Tony, who works as a bartender in Ischia, hardly wants to hang out at a bar or nightclub when he’s on vacation. But Roberto never left. My brother had his new girlfriend by his side, so he left Roberto unattended most of the time.

You’d think that would be okay, given he was 22 at the time and supposedly in a committed relationship. Another night, my brother had the boys bring the drinking to the house instead of going out to a bar. People were coming in and out. But I stayed locked in the guest room with a good book. Tony would come in and out of the room until about 10 p.m., when I drifted off to sleep. The next morning, I would discover that I missed all the fun.

Tony described a buzzed Roberto zooming around the house and talking to everyone in English. He zeroed in on one girl, who actually had a boyfriend who was at the house. And he walked over to her and said, “I like your big-a bobs!” Not boobs. He said, “Bobs.”

“Fantastic,” I said to Tony. “What do you think Lisa would say about this?”

“Non sarebbe contenta,” he responded. “She wouldn’t be pleased.”

Later on in the evening, Roberto had another encounter with her. She had just chugged a beer from a can, which women in Italy don’t do. And this all-American burped like she was a bull frog croaking in front of everyone in the room. “Now-a, that’s-a real woman,” Roberto said. “Real woman-a.” Moments later, she left with her boyfriend. Nothing more happened between Roberto and her, but his “flirting” made for cute anecdotes later.

Although Roberto was looking and not touching – barring his attempted kiss with Addy, which she thwarted – and his flirting appeared harmless on the surface, I kept thinking that if I were Lisa, I’d be bothered by this behavior. Who wants to hear that their boyfriend complimented another woman’s breasts? Or was scoping out the singles scene abroad? Then, I quickly realized I could be Lisa. I wondered how Tony would act when he returns to Ischia, which was only a couple of weeks away. Would he be “how you say flirting,” too? Should I be worried? Do all Italian men cheat? Was I ruining my life by getting involved with a real Italian?

Some names and identifying characteristics of the real people involved have been changed.

Tune into this Web site, Two Worlds, every Monday for the latest installment in my blog about my experiences in Ischia, and every other Monday to ItaliansRus.com for the latest Our Paesani column about all things Italian. Di Meglio is also the Guide to Newlyweds for About.com.

After my trip to Ischia in 2004, the Statue of Liberty waved me back home, but one kiss might change all that. © Photo courtesy of Di Costanzo and Gerenini

Get the truth about one of Italy’s most popular islands – and its people – by reading my new weekly blog installments (every Monday right here on this site)

Chapter Sixteen – Already, a Complicated Life

My question for Tony was simple and direct. “Are you sure this is a good idea because I’m from the United States and you’re from Italy?” His answer was the same, “Don’t worry. Keep kissing me. We’ll find a way to make it all work.” We kissed for another moment and then I returned to my office to work. He smiled for the rest of the day, but the kiss had me trembling both for its passion and the complications it would undoubtedly bring to my life.

While I wanted to believe Tony and focus on the glory of this blossoming love story, I couldn’t help but hear my gut churning. After all, months earlier a trip to Ischia’s hospital with that dang knee injury that was still plaguing me had me wishing I had never seen the place. Now, I was going to get embroiled in a romance with one of its natives? Aaaaah, but he was so cute and charming, and he seemed to genuinely like me, which was my favorite characteristic in a man back then. He did travel all the way from Italy to see me. And did I mention how cute and charming he was?

In the meantime, Roberto and my mom returned from the grocery store just in time for the boys to start preparing lunch and for my parents to head to the airport to pick up my sister Rosaria and her friend Addy. The phone rang and when I answered, there was a familiar Italian voice on the other end. It was Lisa. She was not at all happy. Roberto had not been in touch since he arrived in the States, and she wanted to know what he was doing – and with whom. I quickly had him pick up the phone. Although Tony and I couldn’t hear what was happening on the other end of the line, Roberto’s face told the story of a boyfriend in trouble with his love. If he had been back in Ischia, he’d be sleeping outside with his dog Diego (named for soccer player Maradona, of course) tonight. For much of the afternoon, he looked as if Diego had died.

Singing while cooking (still with a genuine smile stretched across his handsome face), Tony insisted that American salt had no taste and kept adding it to the pot of boiling water, ready to dump the pasta into the pot. As I finished up my work ahead of the Thanksgiving holiday, I was distracted by the kiss and thoughts of being forced to live in Ischia, an island without even an MRI machine, where my kids would lack opportunities, and the people work only six months per year, a place where people really believe that a glass of ice water on a hot day will kill you. At least, I had family like Roberto there. And I made a few friends on my recent trips. Truly, I earned a college degree in the States and vowed to stay in the New York metropolitan area because it was where I belonged and where my real family – replete with parents, siblings, and cousins – either lived or often gathered. We left Ischia with good reason; Ischia made us poor, and America made us rich in more ways than just in our wallets. And I sang to myself, too: “God bless America, land that I love…”

A little while later, Rosaria and Addy, who met my sister while the two studied abroad in Italy last summer, walked into the house. After brief introductions, we sat down to eat. Suddenly, the sullen Roberto, who had just argued with his Italian girlfriend Lisa, was coming back to life. He pushed my sister aside to sit between her and all-American Addy. A dancer, Addy was long and lean and had the face of a supermodel. Blond and blue-eyed, she was the epitome of what Italian boys thought of when they dreamed of American girls. Certainly, Roberto had forgotten his earlier tiff, but I think he also had forgotten Lisa’s name…

Some names and identifying characteristics of the real people involved have been changed.

Tune into this Web site, Two Worlds, every Monday for the latest installment in my blog about my experiences in Ischia, and every other Monday to ItaliansRus.com for the latest Our Paesani column about all things Italian. Di Meglio is also the Guide to Newlyweds for About.com.

Roberto and Tony find excitement in America. © Photo by Francesca Di Meglio

Get the truth about one of Italy’s most popular islands – and its people – by reading my new weekly blog installments (every Monday right here on this site)

Chapter Fifteen – Primo Bacio (The First Kiss)

I’m a planner. So, in the weeks leading up to Roberto and Tony’s arrival in the United States, I planned the vacation of a lifetime for them. We would see all the major sites in New York City, and travel to Washington, D.C., where I graduated from college and my sister was currently studying, and Disney World in Orlando, Fla., where my brother was working. In between, we would celebrate Thanksgiving with Roberto and my American relatives.

The first day of their journey featured a low-key Italian-American Sunday lunch at home and an evening stroll at the Bronx Zoo, which was beautifully dressed in twinkling lights to show off the animals’ homes and celebrate the start of the holiday season. Before we left for the zoo, we took photos of our visitors in our front yard, where every year my father the landscaper puts up a harvest display replete with stacks of hay, berry bunches, and giant pumpkins.

At the zoo, much to the chagrin of my father, Tony quickly took my arm to help me walk through one of the rockier habitats. I was still limping having had only one knee surgery at that point and still enduring three days a week of physical therapy. That was Tony’s in with me because after that he held onto either my arm or hand at the zoo and for the rest of his time in the States.

I was already working from home as a freelancer when the Italian duo arrived, so Roberto and Tony were on their own or with my mom during the day on weekdays. Rather than get bored, Roberto and Tony would walk to Linwood Plaza, a mini mall near our home, complain about how Starbucks coffee is nothing compared to a Neapolitan espresso, marvel at the variety of products Americans sold at what we call a “pharmacy” such as CVS, and purchase used PlayStation video games for the tournaments they would have at our house.

By Wednesday, my sister was coming home from college for Thanksgiving – and she was bringing a friend. In the morning, my mom was planning a trip to the grocery store, my father was already at work, and I was in my bedroom/office slaving away at the computer trying to get all my work completed before Thanksgiving and my weeklong vacation in Florida with the boys, which would be a big surprise to Roberto. (I had told Tony to keep the news a secret from my cousin.)

Meanwhile, Tony and Roberto were lifting their weary heads from the pillow and going down to breakfast. While there, Tony convinced my mom to take Roberto to the grocery store because he and Tony would prepare lunch for us while my parents picked up my sister at the airport.

A sneaky one, Tony began texting me once we were alone in the house to lure me out of my bedroom/office. Once I entered my sister’s room where he was organizing his stuff (but really just waiting for me), he pulled me toward him for our first kiss. A typical Italian, his hands soon landed on the back pockets of my jeans. And I, surprised, pulled away with a question for him…

Tune into this Web site, Two Worlds, every Monday for the latest installment in my blog about my experiences in Ischia, and every other Monday to ItaliansRus.com for the latest Our Paesani column about all things Italian. Di Meglio is also the Guide to Newlyweds for About.com.