Riding Home At 3 a.m.

After working as an au pair for one week short of eleven months, I was reprimanded for the first time yesterday evening after my youngest charge wiggled out of sight and crossed a busy six-lane street by himself. His parents, home early from work, watched the whole thing from the balcony and called my mobile, demanding to know where I was. It was all resolved in the end, but the best way to finish this particularly traumatic Wednesday was to go out for wine with three other au pairs at a nearby jazz bar. Each had a nanny tale worse than the one before, and one glass of red wine gradually became four bottles. For the better part of four hours we bitched and moaned about our jobs as one only can when surrounded by people who completely, absolutely sympathise, saying all the things we can't say to people back in the States because they always trump us with the smug "But you're in Italy!" card; and all the things we can't say to people we've met here because they're either friends or co-workers of our employers, or held at emotional arm's length by the language barrier.

The more we drank, the more American (loud) we became, and the creepers at the counter absolutely loved it! Corner table. Saucy redhead from Virginia, blue-eyed brunette from Indiana, a quirky southern California blonde, and yours truly. The bartenders closed the doors and pulled down the exterior storefront. "Are you closed?," I ask in Italian. "For you, no. For everyone else, yes," they smile. I go behind the bar to choose the next song. My friend is getting Arabic lessons from an older Moroccan guy for our upcoming trip in July. Another girl is dancing with a flaming homosexual in silver tank top, wine glasses in hand; the last is sketching on a paper placemat and talking with the computer programmer from Milan who claims to have lived in Miami for some months and that's why he knows to speak English so much well. I rode my bicycle home at 3 a.m., and managed to carry it downstairs into the cellar without falling on my face. Almost a year in Europe, and you think my alcohol tolerance would have risen. It hasn't.

Slept four hours before waking to ready the children for school (no longer Bad Nanny, previous day's transgression had been forgotten), and went back to bed until 11 a.m. No hangover! But no appetite, either. Found a pretty sweet matchbox in my pocket, which I vaguely remember having admired when me and old Moroccan guy shared a cigarette. The cute short bartender with the fauxhawk drew a picture in my journal - he calls me San Francisco Girl - next to which the tall one with a cousin named Caesar, wrote, Anticamente ricordo di avere pensato che il mondo potesse comprendersi tutto in un solo momento e vivevo contento di averlo compreso. Ultimamente piuttosto considero tutta la vita un gelato che viene leccato da tutte le lingue di un mondo schifato ma ancora goloso. A long time ago I remember having thought that the world could be understood all in one moment, and I lived content with having understood that. Lately, though, I consider this life to be an ice cream being licked by all the tongues in a disgusted, yet gluttonous, world.

Eight more weeks. Lick the gelato.