What is real life? That is, when is it gonna hit me? Is this real life? This living in Italy, learning another language thing, is that the real life that mom’s, dad’s, professor’s, mentor’s and the like have been telling me about all my life? Or is their yet another link?

What separates the “real” moments from those that are “unreal?” If I were to hear about the life that I have been living for the last 5 months from another person I might conclude, in exclamation, that this very “real” experience sounds quite “unreal.” Out of this world, in fact. So, what’s the definition?

In response to my own question, I have the following thoughts:

Suggested “Real Life” Moments:
• Death
• Exam Week
• Pop Quizzes
• Faulty Alarm Clock Mornings
• Interviews
• Diagnoses
• Performances
Feel free to include and suggest other moments of sheer panic, stress, sadness, or anger to this list as you feel inclined.

Why is “real life” named the culprit of all of the tough stuff? Each of those previously mentioned moments was a moment in which I can remember my head spinning, therefore inducing a feeling quite “unreal.” Not drunken, or drugged (You are in control of what you put into your body; therefore, manipulating substances to create a desired feeling is considerably “real.”), but more like my head was growing to a size beyond capacity for the world. Literally. That’s pretty “unreal,” right?

So, here’s my latest example of the real unreal: I found myself riding in the back of Giuliano, my teacher’s, car. I was looking out of the window over the Umbrian countryside as he navigated the winding roads of the mountain necessary to scale and descend in order to meet our friends at their home. The Italian sky (literally translated into “heavens”) is clearer, bluer, and more seemingly tangible than any I have ever seen, something that I am marveled by with every coming day. The clouds are of a density that gets me surmising a plan for how I could take a seat up there, allowing me to take in the view of those going for a drive on this lazy Sunday. We were discussing educational theories. We were talking in Italian.

Aoi was giving directions from the front passenger seat: “Gira sinistra. Qui. Si, si, qui. Davanti al bar. Si, si, sono sicura.” As Giuliano parked and we tumbled out of his tiny car, I found myself standing between an olive grove to my right, a vineyard straight ahead, a panorama of the countryside below to my left, and the heavens above. Our friends appeared with smiles on their faces, taking our shoulders in their hands and kissing our cheeks, welcoming us into their home in classic Italian form. It’s only their physical and audible features that keep them from hiding their Irish-Scotch heritage.

My impressions of today continue in much the same fashion until, 7 hours later, familiar signs of my city began to appear beyond the windshield of my teacher’s car. And, even now, a few hours later, sitting on my bed, refining my thoughts to a mere few words, my conclusive feeling is one of awe. A feeling often induced by things deemed to be rather “unreal.” Yet every bit of it was as real as you and I to the touch, but not a bit of it was tough.