Pass The Prosecco
The real Italian thing lies in the wince, the smile, the glance, the wave.
The real Italian thing lies in the wince, the smile, the glance, the wave.
As the boomerang flies, so it flies back. The stories that lived within me, passed down from my grandparents. Theirs was an Italy of nostalgic approximation. Mine is an Italy that is bowed but unbroken, a phoenix that will rise again.
“If it weren’t for my husband, I would still be in Umbria. Who knew that after two months from the day we met, we would be getting married in San Francisco?”
While I was sitting at a cafe in North Beach, I started to wonder what makes something ‘Italian’.
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