Baby L swayed back and forth in her mama’s womb as they crossed the sea to Italy.
In an attempt to be more jolly this holiday season, here are the silver linings to my recent grievances.
Too legit to quit, ragazzi.
“I don’t think I have the right ticket…” I text Alberto from a bus -- a bus that I’m riding illegally without any valid documents aside from an old Iowa driver’s license.
Riding the Milan subway makes me feel like a globetrotter who’s got places to go and people to see (I don’t, usually).
Italy is a gorgeous country with delectable food and fascinating history, but (1) You already know that. (2) It’s more fun to write about dumpster fires. So, here’s another one of my infernos.
“Niente di grave,” the doctor begins, pausing to look at me intently. Nothing serious. He either senses my anxiety or he doesn’t trust my language skills. Probably both.
Most Italians head to the stunning seaside for their summer vacations, but we were looking to add not shed layers, so we headed north to the land of cinnamon buns and paternity leave.
“I need a job for a woman. Un lavoro per una donna,” this earnest, bright-eyed 19-year-old said to me.
I don't enjoy cooking but I do like homemade Italian food and interesting dinner companions.