2008 Woodie Awards
La dolce vita
Sara DeGonia
Issue date: 12/6/07 Section: TruLife
They have diagnosed me with an imminent, yet non-life-threatening disease.
Something frighteningly called Reverse Culture Shock (RCS) that sounds to me like the effect of seeing too much Renaissance artwork and drinking too much sophisticated wine ... backwards.
Supposedly it's nothing like that but instead involves the homecomer (me) feeling ridiculously depressed and all angsty toward my family and friends like a sullen 15-year-old once I have arrived back in the States. It has a whoobity-whubity percent chance of afflicting me no matter how excited I've been the last few weeks to reunite with my beloved Mommy, Daddy and Boyfriendy.
According to the experts, it occurs because of the adjustments I have to make and the enormity of my experience.
For instance, imagine my Aunt Margie asking me at Christmas, "How was Italy?"
See, this part I understand. I mean, what do you say to that?
"Well Aunt Margie, how much time do you have because I spent 3.5 months there, and it would take me about 24 hours to explain it in briefest detail."
No. Who am I, Scrooge McDuck?
Instead I'd say, "It was great! So much amazing food and plenty of fantastic sights."
But how annoying is it to reduce your potentially life-altering, gigantic cultural experience to about two sentences?
So that, in a nutshell, is RCS.
Apparently there's not much I can do to prevent the agony of such frustration and brief emotional return to teenagerdom. Thus, I've made it my goal to enjoy my last week here to the utmost.
I know undoubtedly that I will miss many aspects of living in this Mecca of beauty and new experiences, so there is absolutely no use to rush through my final days like a homesick puppy. Father Time never listens to me anyway.
My to-do list is now an ironic blend of firsts left to experience, tasting the best cocoa in Florence or visiting Michelangelo's casa, and lasts, one more margherita pizza or an "Arrivederci" to my preferred grocery store.
Something frighteningly called Reverse Culture Shock (RCS) that sounds to me like the effect of seeing too much Renaissance artwork and drinking too much sophisticated wine ... backwards.
Supposedly it's nothing like that but instead involves the homecomer (me) feeling ridiculously depressed and all angsty toward my family and friends like a sullen 15-year-old once I have arrived back in the States. It has a whoobity-whubity percent chance of afflicting me no matter how excited I've been the last few weeks to reunite with my beloved Mommy, Daddy and Boyfriendy.
According to the experts, it occurs because of the adjustments I have to make and the enormity of my experience.
For instance, imagine my Aunt Margie asking me at Christmas, "How was Italy?"
See, this part I understand. I mean, what do you say to that?
"Well Aunt Margie, how much time do you have because I spent 3.5 months there, and it would take me about 24 hours to explain it in briefest detail."
No. Who am I, Scrooge McDuck?
Instead I'd say, "It was great! So much amazing food and plenty of fantastic sights."
But how annoying is it to reduce your potentially life-altering, gigantic cultural experience to about two sentences?
So that, in a nutshell, is RCS.
Apparently there's not much I can do to prevent the agony of such frustration and brief emotional return to teenagerdom. Thus, I've made it my goal to enjoy my last week here to the utmost.
I know undoubtedly that I will miss many aspects of living in this Mecca of beauty and new experiences, so there is absolutely no use to rush through my final days like a homesick puppy. Father Time never listens to me anyway.
My to-do list is now an ironic blend of firsts left to experience, tasting the best cocoa in Florence or visiting Michelangelo's casa, and lasts, one more margherita pizza or an "Arrivederci" to my preferred grocery store.
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