"Ma sei tornata, alla fine?" the cashier asks me. I am sorting through my change, cursing once again the fact that I still have not removed the quarters from my purse, so it takes me a second to look up at her. It is indeed the one I chatted with a few days before leaving last year.
"Ah, si," I respond, smiling.
We chat for a moment. I feel all neighborhood-y. You know, like when the cashiers know you and stuff.
"E poi a settembre, che fai?" she asks.
"Boh... non sono sicura... maybe I'll go home and go back to school," I explain, not particularly clearly.
"Brava," she encourages.
Boh. If I were really brava, maybe I'd know what to do with my life by now...
About Me
Life in Italy... and other places.
An American takes a year post-college (and pre-medical school) to go to Italy and teach English. The year stretches to three... and four... and this blog is a record of small things that get remembered at the end of the day. On occasion, she can also be found in New Jersey or France, the familial homelands.
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