“I need a job for a woman. Un lavoro per una donna,” this earnest, bright-eyed 19-year-old said to me.
“I’m very sorry,” my teacher Sara replies when I share that I’m married to an Italian.
After all we've done for you, you ungrateful son-of-a-me.
“But it’s good for your cholesterol!” she protested before going on the stoop to smoke.
I’m looking forward to the day when I don’t feel like a 10-year-old only daughter whose adoption papers were just finalized.
We head to Agenzia delle Entrate to get my codice fiscale (more or less an Italian social security number) and tessera sanitaria, a card that will allow me to enroll in the public health system in Italy (suck it, Paul Ryan).
In a jet-laggy fog, I wish Alberto good luck -- it’s his first day at a new job and my first Monday alone in a foreign city.