Sunday; a day to relax. Piazza Matteotti is filled with Cagliese and Americans, all chatting and laughing over cappuccinos and gelati; the notion of time rarely entering their minds. Churchgoers slowly pass to and from the town's several churches, not even acknowledging the shuttered stores around them in the piazza; they are here without plans, here solely to enjoy each others' company. The cafès are so alive with the locals unwinding in the day's warming sun, and as mopeds continually whiz by, I strain to hear the steady stream in the fountain.

No stores open to stress myself over what to buy, no activity occurring but socializing over food and drink in the piazza. Yet, I somehow feel anxious. I need a plan, I need a schedule. To be unbusy makes me nervous. Today is like a vacation, a day I dream for when I am sitting in class, sleep deprived and overwhelmed. It makes no sense, but I imagine there is something missing. I continue to sit in the piazza and scrunch my forehead, searching for what I must have overlooked. I am forgetting to do something, go somewhere, see someone. Relaxing is not relaxing to me.

I feel nervous and anxious without viable reason. It is only the third day of our four day weekend. I am accustomed to living in a world of fast moving traffic, through wide, busy streets. There, sitting at a restaurant's table two hours past eating your last nibble of food is thought rude. I am clueless how to act in a town where rushing is thought unneccessary.