Italy

There’s this story my dad loves to tell every so often. It’s a great story, the problem is, he mentions it almost every few months during some mildly related conversation. Its not that he’s obsessed with telling it, it’s that he forgets that he’s already told it. So each time, he thinks he’s telling this amazing story I never knew, for the first time, when in fact, it’s like the 21st time.

Anyway story goes, my family was in Italy once when I was a baby, about a year old. And we were living there for a few months, and my father was looking for work but it was hard because he spoke no Italian and no English, for that matter. One day my hat flies off in the wind. It blows away and my dad starts to run after it. An elderly Italian man picks up the hat and gives it to my father. Somehow, someway, through universal sign language, this man ends up offering my dad a job. He worked the entire three months we lived there. All because of my hat.

So there it is. The story my father loves to tell, and will continue telling it, for the first time, each time.

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  1. It’s a very nice story!

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