We were seated on a long table out in the garden, an exquisite vintage blue and white ceramic plate across from each of us, and the sun straining through a half-arch vine of greens above us.
From where my husband and I were seated, we could see the hill-like garden of Villa Galleotti, sprinkled neatly with patches of pomodoro, basilico (basil), oliva (olives), and more.
Millennials (born from 1980 to 2000) have acquired a bad name.
I am not alone in shunning this category to the point of disowning it. Insisting that I’m way older than my age, I pushed back from this purportedly lazy and entitled generation.
Some realizations hit me as of late.
A few weeks from now, I’ll pack my life in boxes to live overseas for the first time. I’m leaving with my husband carrying the role that I’m still slowly coming to terms with: a trailing spouse.
It seemed to be an extremist choice that in my head makes vegans and vegetarians such radically miserable people—deprived of the glorious joys of foie gras and a medium-rare finely-marbled slab of steak.
One of the most difficult Lenten sacrifices I ever had to make was the abstinence from gossip.
I put a Miles Davis record on, make my second cup of coffee, and look at a handwritten To Do list peeping at me from our home work desk.
There is an absence of movement and noise other than the slight hum of the A/C and jazz music filling the entire apartment.
