After all we've done for you, you ungrateful son-of-a-me.
“You and your husband have the exact same birth date?” the Milan city hall employee asks me. "No, no, we don't," I say, showing her my passport while a nice cup of anxiety brews in my belly.
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.
We plowed over women and children in our rush to make the connection from New York to Milan, arriving an hour late from MSP. It was a good crash course in shedding my passive-aggressive Minnesotan skin to become an aggressive-aggressive Italian, but karma bit us in the culo.