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.
“Take off your underwear,” the doctor instructed. Right now? In this moment? Here? Can I get a gown or glass of wine first?
“I’m very sorry,” my teacher Sara replies when I share that I’m married to an Italian.
The gurgle of an air conditioner dying is a most terrible sound.
After all we've done for you, you ungrateful son-of-a-me.