I am Canadian. Io sono canadese. (in Sardegna/Sardinia)

 

Canadian Maple Leaf

The muscles in my calves are aching as I make my way up the mountain, bags in hand. At home I unpack the groceries to our six-foot two fridge. In an hour M. will be home, sweaty from seven hours of pane and he’ll be hungry. He likes and wants me to prepare the meals, its part of his culture; that’s just what the women do. I’ve seen it at many dinner parties thrown by his friends. And this woman doesn’t mind. He’s home and greets me with a bacio and we eat. I wash the dishes in the bathroom sink; our cucina finished within the next few days, Sardinian time. In my reality of time our cucina will be finished in two to three more weeks. I’m ok with the fact that things here happen slowly, I can’t change the hand of time nor can I move a culture to rapido. After all, I am in their country trying to speak their language be it dialect or Italian; and I find myself becoming the traditional Italian housewife with the exception that I AM CANADIAN, eh!