There are times I truly, absolutely, viscerally love living in rural Umbria. Times when I am saturated with gratitude for the strange winds that blew me here. Times when I savor every charmed (and charming) moment, when every fabulous meal is a gift, when every bucolic vista is a discovery, when every lazy summer afternoon an epiphany. Times when I revel in my sons’ endearing Italian accent, my husband’s Euro-male je ne sai quoi, my mother-in-law’s hand rolled pasta. Times when exploring the small, family owned shops is an adventure, navigating a government office in another language is a small victory, and painstakingly nourishing a new friendship with a local is a pleasure. Yes, my friends, there are times when I love this country with all my heart, body, and soul. And then there are times when my godd@!n freaking telephone line is out of service for a godd@!n freaking month, including Christmas, and I wonder what the hell I am doing in this godd@!n freaking country.