Forty years ago, I spoke Italian better than I do now. (Forty years ago, I did a lot of things better than I do now -- but I'm a lot happier now, so there's that.)

Oddly enough, although I have forgotten almost all the Italian that I once spoke with subtlety and verve, the one thing I never lost were the curses:

"Dio cane!" ("God dog!")

"Porca miseria!" ("Miserable slut!")

"Stronzo." ("Piece of shit.")

"Va fa un cuolo!" ("Fuck off!")

"Che cazzo!" ("What a dick!")

You may ask, "Um, you don't seem to be your usual sunny self today, Kath -- is anything up?"

I answer: "The Post Office."

The box of books we mailed ourselves (cost: 81 actual US American Dollars) from Colorado Springs last August has finally arrived. 

Unfortunately, it arrived not at the rustic Tuscan farmhouse, but at my brother's elegant Capitol Hill townhouse in Washington, DC, USA, having been -- and here's the kicker -- returned from the Post Office in Pietrasanta. TWICE.

While Jonathan and I were going in constantly to inquire after it or any mail at all, they were busy stamping the box with all their little stamps and returning it to the US as "unclaimed."

I suppose we should count ourselves lucky -- I was in there about a month ago when one of the tellers (true story) actually made a woman cry. But, really. Our box has made more trips across the Atlantic than most college students. It has frequent flier miles now and the cabin attendants all know its name. The only beings in the universe who have spent more time hanging around in the Pietrasanta Post Office than it has are Jonathan and I looking for it.

Dio cane!