Trading a house for a home

If you're not familiar with my adventures in restoration, read my love story post first. Actually, even if you ARE familiar... go re-read that post. It's good context! (I'll wait...)

If you're the kind of person who moves into a house and never changes the paint colors, this post won't resonate with you.  But for the rest of you, you know how it feels to put a little bit of your style into a house. Maybe you've stripped wallpaper or pulled back the carpet to find hardwood floors hidden underneath. A few hours worth of work and you've fixed, cleaned or replaced something. You've made it better.

I bought my last house when I was a young, optimistic, single woman. Over the next four years, I would repair or replace every single wall, ceiling, floor, door, light fixture, electrical outlet and piece of trim. That's no exaggeration.  I gutted all 4 bathrooms and rebuilt them from the floor up.  I gutted and rebuilt the kitchen. I put in all new lighting, floors and major systems (HVAC, roof, electrical panel). I took down walls, fixed beams, and sistered joists. I had help from friends, family, and a few contractors. All told, I spent 208 weekends working on that house.

I saved the place.   And then, not long after I finished, I decided to sell it.

I think a decaying house is like a bad marriage. It takes years of neglect to create the problems, but with hard work, you can almost always fix it. And I believe in fixing what can be fixed. Saving what other people deem "a lost cause."  But, imagine spending 4 years in couples counseling.  After 4 years of hard work, you wake up one morning, look at your partner and realize you have the exact marriage you've always wanted. It's perfect and you're content.  And then you ask for a divorce.

That's exactly what I did.  I sold my house in January of 2014. I just went back for the first time a few weeks ago. Driving up to the house, I felt so many emotions.  The new owners painted the exterior, replacing the sunny yellow with a shade of grayish blue. I'd like to tell you the color is all wrong, but in fact, it looks lovely.  Other than that, it's exactly the same as the day I left.  But, what was once the "love of my life" was now, just a house.

That's the lesson, I think.  A house is just a house. It's 4 walls and a roof.  It keeps you warm and safe and dry. I realize now that after 4 years of restoring that house, I loved it, but it still wasn't a home.  A house becomes a home when it's filled with love, family, memories, laughter, tears, fights, make-ups, dreams and hopes. A home holds all the beauty and love and heart that you bring to it.

After I sold my house, I traveled Europe for 3.5 months. Read about my European meltdown here. And then moved back to Michigan.  I fell madly in love and my life changed forever.   We moved to Chicago and we've created a home filled with laughter, the pitter-patter of little feet, with squeals of joy, family dinners, fights, make-ups, forts, bedtime stories and long discussions about our future.

Rich and I will buy a house soon enough, a place for our family to put down roots. But now I know...anywhere I go with these boys, I'm home.

Vicenza and The Ugly Americans

Tonight, we spent the evening walking around downtown Vicenza. Vicenza was founded in the 2nd century B.C. and prospered under Venetian rule from the early 15th to the end of the 18th century. The famous architect Andrea Palladio (1508-1580) designed many urban and government buildings as well as villas, which are scattered throughout the Veneto region. Palladio's work inspired a distinct architectural style that spread to England, throughout Europe and to North America - called the Palladian style.

I love to stroll around cities and take photos, but I don't love to write down what I'm taking photos OF... so forgive me, but I'm missing lots of photo credits. :)

The beautiful Chiericati Palace:

                 
                                                 

My favorite thing about European cities is when you look down little side streets and find something unexpected. As we walked, I found a nondescript little opening and much to my surprise... it opens into a beautiful courtyard with a sculpture.

                                                   

I love the colors in Italy...it's exactly as you see in pictures and postcards, but being here is entirely different somehow.  The buildings are antique cream, pale yellow, warm gold, fiery red and burning orange. It should all clash terribly, but instead, it's the most beautiful color combination you can imagine.

I love big, old, unique doors of every kind, shape and size. Whenever I'm in Europe, I find that doors are among my favorite things to photograph.  These beautiful doors lead to an apartment building in the interior courtyard.  Just imagine coming home to that door everyday.  Swoon!

My parents in front of another gorgeous door!

                                                                        Street signs...

I think Vicenza is a perfect Italian city.  With plenty of restaurants, museums, cultural opportunities and amazing architecture, it's a city not to be missed.  

We have dinner at the Ristorante Paradiso. The food, service and wine were excellent. Unfortunately, I won't remember the restaurant for it's delicious food.  I'll remember it for the neighboring table full of "ugly" Americans, and older woman, younger couple and their 3 year old daughter. The parents let the 3 year old run around the restaurant without regard for her safety (or the safety of the wait staff!). The restaurant is at the top of a large marble staircase and the little girl was running around near the staircase without so much as a glance from her parents. The parents didn't bat an eyelash when their child began wandering up to tables of people and touching things on the table or touching people.  A few times, they quietly and ineffectively said her name "Claire,"but it comes out like a question and the little girl ignores it completely.  I think that people like this give Americans a bad name when they travel.

When my steak with porcini mushrooms arrives, the child appears at my side and starts generously salting the food on my plate before I can react. The parents aren't paying attention and say nothing.  I am shocked and cry out "what are you doing?" while gently pushing the child away from my plate and table. The ugly Americans don't utter an apology, instead they console the (now crying) child, who has apparently never been told "no" before.

The parents are loudly consoling her saying "...it's okay...you were just trying to be nice!" and "don't worry... you didn't do anything wrong..." as if trying to teach ME a lesson in manners.  To make it up to her, the parents then encourage her to empty an entire bowl of grated parmesan cheese (one spoonful at a time) onto one of their plates, wasting it.  As the child does this, the lid to the bowl smashes loudly down each time.

Perhaps it was the stark comparison to the beautiful Italian day, the gorgeous city or the grace of the Italian people. But as I sit eating my overly salted steak and hear the Americans continue to soothe their "poor child",  I don't miss home one bit.