Most of my colleagues shave once a week. Every Monday they come in cleanshaven, ready for work (more or less--most of our coffee break is spent discussing how not fun it is to wake up on Monday). By Friday, they are all rugged-looking (and tired). So every weekend I think "You know, Peppe's not actually that pretty" because I remember Friday-Peppe. And then Monday I walk into work and he's sitting at his desk all pretty with no stubble, and that's the way life goes.

On Monday, Lorenzo picked me up about half an hour later than I usually go to work, so, for the first time, I was in the house at the same time as Mira. Every morning until now I've been running out the door as she's arriving, and I say "ciao" or "buon giorno," but she knew I was la americana and assumed I didn't actually speak any Italian. On Monday I asked her if she could lend me her house keys while Roberto was in Israel, told her the kids were sleeping, and generally managed to sort of communicate.

That night, I got home and Silvia said "I think you really surprised Mira this morning . . ."

I have eleven and a half days of work left. Three weekends. Every few days I idly contemplate what would happen if I asked Angelo to give me a full-time job and just stayed here.

But I know it's a bad idea, and I know he wants me back next summer, and I occasionally miss things about home (there is no Thai food in Ancona), so I won't--but the thought of leaving is more painful the closer I get to the end.