When you call a foreign country home and summer rolls around and you find yourself planning a vacation to the old place you used to call home, you realize how strange your life has become. You are now, in many ways, a tourist in your own land. You find yourself gawking like a bumpkin at utter commonplaces-at the colossal dental hygiene aisle in Safeway, say. It's especially weird when you have children who straddle both cultures, in my case children who speak perfect Florentine-wherein c's morph into h's and all that-and who also speak perfect English (well, near-perfect American, at any rate). Children have an uncanny way of demonstrating that, while they don't quite fit in like born-and-bred Little Leaguers, geographical borders are indeed fluid things.