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.
“I need a job for a woman. Un lavoro per una donna,” this earnest, bright-eyed 19-year-old said to me.
“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.
“But it’s good for your cholesterol!” she protested before going on the stoop to smoke.
Despite my best efforts to avoid a fight on the first day of school, I have to flee a brawl.
My husband has many talents (e.g. making risotto, doing mental math, assembling IKEA furniture), but teaching me his native tongue is not one of them.