5 - The Girls Next Door

Chapter Eleven: The Girls Next Door

Across the landing from us lived  a childhood friend of my uncle's wife. She  moved to California with her boy Bobby and three nieces, Erin, Aileen and Ellen and lived in the apartment across from ours.

My Uncle Ted met Marie on the cruise ship that brought him back to Italy a few years earlier, on the trip that started my journey to America. Their romance seemed certain from the start, aided by the beautiful Roman backdrop where he spent a glorious week showing her and her friend the beauty of the Eternal City.

Hollywood could not have planned a better seduction scene.

After  a honeymoon in Canada, waiting for his visa, he and his bride set up household in one of the two apartments above the building he owned in Los Angeles. Her best friend Peggy  moved to L.A. soon after.

Bobby was in middle school. The girls were at St. Mary's High School a block from the apartment.  Erin, the eldest, worked at the telephone company in the afternoon, the same place as her Aunt Peggy.  Erin was my age, and she and I hit it off right away.

She confided that she had wanted to  travel, see the world, take a cruise and  find romance. She worked the afternoon shift, and by the time she got back home and did homework, she had no time to date.

She was saving all her money to move out, buy a car and start dating properly. When I asked her about dating, what it was, she elaborated.

"At school, when we met boys and were interested in them, we  met up with them to go to movies or gather at  local drug stores for a coke and a burger. If you hook up, that was  considered 'dating'. "

"I don't see any boys around here." I said.

"Exactly! In New York, we could meet and walk out to movies together, or see a live show. Here, you need a car to go out at night, or anytime actually.   The bus to work? It stinks.  I wish I had a car, then I could work any shift."

"I thought you took taxis to work. Yes?"

"At night, the company pays for the taxi ride to keep us safe."

"Safe?"

"Yes. So, nobody gets hurt going home. You know that for a while, some of us got extra money for taxis and we'd pocket it, getting home somehow. Then, someone got raped right on the street behind the building. That's when the company decided to have taxis at the door waiting after each shift. It's automatic now. They submit the fare to the company directly."

"In  Italy, I walked everywhere, meeting people on the streets." I responded. "Right after food, I miss  those passegiate with friends."

"You could, in New York, in certain neighborhoods."

Peggy worked a late shift.  She came home early in the a.m. and dropped in to visit with Marie. Only, Aunt Marie was not up at that time. She went to bed late, a habit she had from her own days at the telephone company when they had worked the midnight shift  in Manhattan, enjoying the freedom of sleeping late, the leisure of having entire days to shop or run errands.

Peggy was  not much older than my aunt, but looked much older. I didn’t know anything about her family, how she ended up raising her nieces as well as her boy. She was an encouraging soul, always allowing my little cousin to rummage through her purse, where she would have stashed some little thing, a small toy or a mirror to play with.

“Morning sickness, again? ” Peggy must have seen the confusion on my face.  "I'm worried about you too." She said, giving me a hug.   I knew nothing about morning sickness.

"Is it catching?" I asked, naively.

"She is pregnant. That's all. She's not her usual self. You have to understand and forgive." She said, as a kind of explanation to excuse Aunt Marie's bad moods.

“So, what are you up to this morning?” She changed the subject.

“We’re signed up for swimming lessons.”

“Did you know that your aunt never learned? Oh, we had occasions, when we were girls. But she never wanted to get her hair wet, always concerned about her looks. Her little brother was a real fish, he was.”

“She has a brother?”

“Jimmy.”

“I didn’t know.”

“We have not heard from him since the wedding. Tell her I came by.”

“Can’t you stay for breakfast?”

“Too tired to eat. See you later.”

As soon as Bobby and the other girls got to school in the morning, Peggy took the phone off the hook, and went to bed. In the afternoon, when they all returned, she started her day. That’s when she’d come over to borrow something or other, and she and my aunt would actually talk for a while. Everybody was always coming and going.

Uncle was either working in the store or napping in front of television. I would hear them talking about this and that late in the evening, and then my name would be mentioned, and I was all ears.

“They are increasing the tuition again”, she’d say.

“Everything is going up. ” He said.

“What we need to do is send her to a public school.”

“Then we worry about other stuff. You know how teenagers are. Did you see the girl next door with those short shorts?”

He was making a point about the fashion of the day worn by Erin.

The comment about the short shorts. I distinctly heard him say that he did not like Bermuda shorts when his wife bought and wore them around the house. He teased her, saying girls look good only with short shorts. Now, he was putting Erin down for wearing shorts!

“I never agreed on an indefinite time. Just a year you said! Now, we are paying this horrendous tuition.”

Aunt's voice was harsh and strident.

I held my breath. Nothing about my American life had turned out the way I had anticipated. Nothing except the school. If I had to leave that school, I might not survive.

I quietly climbed in my bed and wept freely. 

Chapter Twelve: Ride with Ms. Monroe

Myra Monroe lived just a few miles away, and, on Mondays and Fridays, she gave me a ride to school. Her sports car was a high school graduation gift.  She looked as though she came off of a photo shoot every time she stopped to pick me up.

She wore the same blond bob and red pouty lips as the real Marilyn Monroe. Her car, her clothes, the whole package, including the mohair sweater, the perfume, all came from studying Marilyn's pictures in gossip columns.

We met in French class, where I had become an assistant.  That is, I took French II because it would be an easy subject to take, but the teacher realized after our first class that I was way more advanced than the rest of the class, and instead of sending me to French III , she suggested I remain and help others.  She offered to help me  with my English. I was in heaven.

During our rides, Myra and I went over our homework. I enjoyed reading French out loud; she appreciated the extra help. It was a fair exchange.

She worked part time for the airline industry, and looked forward to graduating and joining the airline full time as a stewardess,  traveling the world and meet interesting people. She was dating a  pilot from Italy and when she found out I was Italian, she became a quick friend.

“What's it like in Italy?” She asked.

“What do you want to know?”

“Are all the boys as cute as Sergio? ”

“You mean handsome and flirty? Yes!"

"All of them?”

So, I told her, not knowing how she would react and how she would interpret the revelation. Telling people about your people was tricky. Uncle’s wife had asked me a simple question when I first arrived. “So, does Ted speak good Italian?"

“He speaks our dialect.” I said, meaning he did not speak like my teacher, Mr. Fioretti.

Accent, vocabulary, intonation, construction, all these factors revealed your social and economic status. In small towns, people spoke their native dialect that sounded very little like the Italian we were learning in school. Proper Italian was a studied language, complex and tricky. By comparison, English was easy.

"So, he's really a peasant, right?" Aunt seemed to cherish that bit of information. She looked interested in our history. So, I went on, telling her that we were all from peasant stock, in some ways. We had land and worked that land for our livelihood, like millions of other people I had known in poor areas of Italy.  I emphasized to her that we had suffered tremendously as a country, as a family.  She seemed to know very little about the home town of her husband.  I told her how difficult it had been for me to obtain my visa as a student because we needed to prove that  we were well to do, with enough assets.  We had to search our property titles and discover what had been our ancestry, even  abandoned land and abandoned businesses.

She asked: "Ted told me you are all related to a baron."

That comment told me that Uncle had embellished our history.

"Sure. Everybody is related to some baron or count."

Whenever she got angry she would throw insults based on that bit of background that seemed innocent enough. I never knew how Uncle Ted had represented himself when he courted her; but, I could guess that he must have constructed a bit of fantasy for her.

I tried to explain what courtship meant to Italians when Myra told me she and the pilot were dating.

“In Italy, boys  are encouraged to be charming and romantic. They embellish the truth about their feelings to please girls. The game they play is one of elaborate courtship. It is a game; and we are not supposed to take it literally.”

“Oh?”

“All girls get entrapped, if they are not careful. Boys all lie."

"All?"

"They can't help themselves! It's a national problem!"

I was guessing that she was disappointed by this information, thinking that her beau might not be sincere. I had to soften the blow right away, I thought.

"You know, I am kidding. Most guys are charming and sincere." I saw relief in her eyes.

 How can she be so gullible, I thought. It didn't make sense.  I was reading Hemingway, plain, simple words, simple construction, sentiments clearly put forth. Myra must trust everything she hears because that's the way she is. She would say what she feels, not what somebody expects to hear.

I had told her Italian boys were not to be trusted. I truly believed that.

My brother and his friends pretended to like certain girls, courting them with notes, trinkets and exquisite compliments, sending little sisters to put in a good word for them. Boys and girls could not speak to each other directly after they reached a certain age, so little brothers and sisters acted as go-between.

Sometimes we initiated a relationship where no relationship existed. I liked my friend’s brother, but he was not interested yet in courting girls. We told him that a girl was interested, had asked about him. At first, he was just annoyed; then, with time, he began to ask about this so-called beauty that we had bugged him about. Since no real girl existed, we strung along this fantasy for him. When it was time to meet, the girl was suddenly sent away to live with some relatives miles from home.

On the way to school, one morning, Myra told me her pilot was ten years older than she.

“Do your parents approve?”

“Mom says I have to grow up a bit, have a career before I marry. She says that’s what she missed most of all. Not having a life of her own before she became a wife and a mother. We need our economic independence should something happen.”

“What could happen?”

“Silly, she means should the marriage break up. A woman who has worked can be independent, earn her own money.”

“Myra, is your mother divorced?”

“ She is remarried. I have a stepfather.”

“ Are you not Catholic?”

“Irish Catholic, my dear. Nuns, priests, and poets are in our genes.”

“Well? How is that possible?”

“Do you mean, is she still going to church and communion? Well, yes, she still goes to church but skips communion.”

“Myra, how does your mother feel about you dating a non Irish?”

“Didn’t I tell you? Nobody here is pure anything, all mongrels. Momma says that as long as the man doesn’t drink more than you do, and has a good job, he’s fine. Are you dating?”

“No!!! Not allowed. Not in Italy either; both my uncle and my dad are in the Middle Ages, afraid that girls will be taken advantage of.”

“That’s cruel. Just like the church insisting the 'The Pill' is evil. Primitive thinking, if you ask me. Don’t you miss not having boy friends?”

“There are other things I miss more”.

“What? What could be more important than boys?”

“My family. If I could, I’d go home right now.”

"Don't you like America?"

"I never thought I'd miss home the way I do. Sure, I like America. It's wonderful and generous. But..."

Myra said nothing.

I was now deep with thoughts that if expressed would definitely be misunderstood: I would go back right away if I could. I felt out of place. The dream of America was too much like a nightmare. But I couldn't write my folks and tell them how hard it was to stay positive. I lived with people who resented my presence. I could do nothing right in their eyes.  I could never explain. Nobody could know.What I needed to do was show my gratitude and appreciation.

"Myrna, everything here is so much better!" I said with enthusiasm.

Myrna looked happy.

"Oh, I knew you must be homesick or something." She said, showing no interest in what I had been trying to tell her all along.

"Myrna, "I wanted to tell her, " everyone thinks America is so beautiful and rich. It is quite ugly, quite blind to what is happening in society. Look at my situation. I don't even have a room of my own here. I was better off where I came from. I was free to walk out of my house, say what I thought, eat what I liked.  Here, in this paradise, I study in a closet, and I eat what is served. I do all the chores and I'm resented if anything is done differently. "

Instead, I said, " I'm lucky to be here. Here, I can be anything I want." Myrna was happy with that answer.

Chapter Thirteen: Party with the Beach Boys

When Myra invited me to her birthday pool party, I dreaded asking my Uncle for permission. In our apartment, a new disagreement would sit at the dinner table every night, shouting its way into every conversation. When I mentioned to Myra that Uncle didn’t like me to go to other people’s houses, she laughed and told me to stand up for myself, “After all, you’re in America now. You have rights!”

“Where does she live?” Uncle’s first question.

“Westchester, by the beach.” I said in a studied, casual tone, trying to hide my eagerness.

“Who’s going to be there? That immigrant girl you hang around with at school?” My aunt’s jumping in.

Uncle’s wife was a native New Yorker, did not like any body too rich, too poor, or too ethnic, regretted the life she left behind and worried about her hair turning gray. More than anything, she hated the idea that I was doing well in school, and that my visa was renewed every year. She enjoyed disagreeing with me; and if anything might bring Uncle to be nervous with me, she fed his paranoia.

We had just finished a meal I had prepared carefully, washing each pan and putting it away before dirtying the next tool.

She disliked a messy kitchen. She wanted nothing to do with sauces that had to simmer, or meals that required multiple pots. Her perfect meal was filet mignon cooked on a bbq outside, with a side of baked potato. She always had dessert and coffee. If she didn’t like the spaghetti I prepared, she wouldn’t even come to the table. She took the dessert to the living room, and sat there with her coffee and by herself. Always with a cup of coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other, she told everyone what their place was.

After each discussion where she didn't get her way, she added,  “You are here temporarily. Don’t forget.”

I pretended her comments did not bother me, responding as though we were just kidding with each other.

“When will it end?” She asked me about Myra's party.

“Who knows! She'll be driving me back at her leisure!”

"NO. That will not do! You must be home by ten, not ten after, twelve after. Ten. You understand?"

"Definitely ten!"

Myra had taken care of every thing. “By the way,” she had said, “ no presents; and don’t worry about a bathing suit either; we’ll have extra suits you can borrow. All my friends want to meet you.”

“She can’t just drive about, gallivanting all over the place! ” Aunt was using words I didn't know. Now, I was speechless.

Uncle heard the conversation and just added, “ We’ll see.”

After supper, as I tried to study in the room I shared with my little cousins, I overheard comments about my request, low rumbles like winds gathering strength in the distance, preparing to explode all around the house.  The party I wanted to attend was an excuse for other arguments to gather strength.

"She sasses me. I swear, she does. ” Aunt was readying for an argument.

“You want me to talk to her? I promised she could live here and go to school as long as she wanted. What did you expect?”

“You’re taking her side! You should be supporting my decisions. Now she wants us to go to parties; before long she’d want to date; she’s trouble; and I’m sick and tired of her sauciness. She is trying to be like the neighbor girls.”

Each word was a sneaker wave pulling me under, choking my confidence.

The comment about the girls living next door was unkind. In their company, Aunt was all smiles and encouragements. They had showed me how to style my hair, shave my legs, wear lipstick for special occasions, and purchase the right bras with extra help, to achieve my ‘potential beauty.’ In America, there were no ugly people, only those who had not read the right magazines and not purchased the right products. I was learning that my uncle and aunt’s expectations and rules did not match any other adult’s. The girls next door were fun loving and nobody yelled at them for looking at magazines, for purchasing products to look glamorous, for listening to music and doing homework.

“It’s our duty to look our best, to enhance Mother Nature.” Erin would show me how with just a little help, I too could look like those movie stars in magazines. I was looking enhanced with their help and expert advice.

It was the girls’ aunt who interceded with my relatives about this party.

Saturday, stiff from sleeping on the rigatoni contraption that gave my hair a glamorous wave, I welcomed Erin's help to ready me for the party. She brushed and styled my hair, added a bit of face cream and color on the lips, and even lent me an outfit she put together from items in her closet.

“Don't you have any birthday or party dresses?” She asked, "When is your birthday?”

“Oh, we don’t celebrate birthdays in Italy. Only our Saint’s Day.”

“Well, you’re in America. And We celebrate birthdays. Bet on it. This birthday party you’re going to is a big deal here.You need to look good.”

Wanting to look like those people on television, I realized that except for my uniform type skirts and tops, I had no civilian outfits and no party clothes. Erin returned with a pretty blouse and a matching sweater and pushed some stuffing in my bras for extra measure.

"There. You're ready. Just remember about the condition of the bras before you jump in the water."

I didn't understand that last comment because Myra was honking the car downstairs and I was eager to go. "Thanks for everything." I hugged Erin and rushed out.  Erin was babysitting the kids for me; nobody else was around.

Myra looked glorious, even more elegant than she looked on a daily basis. Her place was packed, and after a few introductions I was on my own. Someone would talk to me for a few minutes, then they moved on. I realized one had to keep moving about. There were over fifty people I had just counted by standing still and watching how many people went to get drinks.

All the young people  were swimming, chasing each other in the pool. I must learn to swim and buy a bikini, like Myra’s. First, though, I had to put on some weight. And maybe with more weight I would finally develop into a bosomy Italian, like Gina Lollobrigida. Italian girls were supposed to look like her.

There was music and dancing. A boy called Mike introduced himself as Myra's stepbrother. “Are you having a good time?” He asked.

“I don’t know anybody. It’s hard to even hear people.” I said.

“Come, I’ll show you around.” We moved to another part of the backyard, to a pool house where he showed me dressing rooms with extra swimming suits.  Then, he was called to do something  and I was alone again with very little else to say to anybody.

I went over to the BBQ area and Myra's mother introduced me to her friends and neighbors who were helping out with the cooking. I tried to eat a hot- dog; fortunately the cake served later was great.

I now knew four, five people among a crowd. Most were dancing. A few were swimming. A handful were eating and talking. I kept moving, pretending to know how to do this. When I saw Mike again, he seemed too busy.  I spotted Myra a few times, once in the pool, once on the dance floor.

Most of the dances were animated. “Let’s do the Twist”, the singer was shouting on the record, as everyone gyrated with their hips. Someone pulled me into a group, and I too swayed back and forth. Then, a slow dance started, and I was alone again, as everyone was leaning toward each other, holding close, head on each other’s shoulder, drops of sweat trickling from brows. “Put Your Head on My Shoulder.” the singer swooned, and gently, everyone did just that.

Before the next song, I was standing next to the record player and someone  turned to me and asked what music I liked. I must have looked confused. “Hey, you must have some favorites no? Do you want me to guess?” Before I could answer, Mike walked over and the two of them talked. Then, Mike turned to me and asked what music I liked. I told him Elvis and the Platters. He shouted out , “Rick, put Elvis!”

After the cake, Myra opened her presents. Her parents were busy serving food and clearing trash. I felt bad not having brought her a present. She had told me not to. I figured then that telling people not to bring presents must be a polite way to say, come even if you can't afford a present.

It was late before I could approach her to get a ride home. Since she was distracted, I waited a while longer and then tried again. I was the last person there. Myra had forgotten about my ride. “Sorry, Rosy. Can’t you spend the night here? Call your Uncle and ask. My stepfather took the car.”

I woke my uncle when I finally called home.

“What time it is?” Uncle asked, full of sleep.

“Myra wants to know if I can stay the night.”

“Well, it’s late. Be sure they bring you home tomorrow before church. We’ll talk later.”

He hung up with a loud thud.

There, I hated how this was turning out.  This party was not worth getting all excited about. While I was thinking how complicated every little thing was, Myra popped in the kitchen where I was telephoning and sounded excited,

“Brian is here for Mike. They’ll be working in the studio all night. First, though, we’re going for ice-cream, cause he missed my party and wants to make it up to me. Come.”

“Wait. I just called and told my Uncle I did not have a ride.”

“So? We’re not the ones with the car ! Let’s go.”

She yelled back at her mom who was still cleaning up.

“Mom, we’ll be back in a half hour or so.”

Myra and I hopped in the back seat. Mike and Brian were talking about the work they had to do later, and how this song was going to be on the radio. Myra explained that their band had one song that might be played on the radio. If that happened, the band would be on their way.

At the drive-in, attendants on roller skates brought banana splits and sundaes. Mike paid for all of us.

Instead of driving us right back to Myra’s house, Brian drove for miles on the Pacific Coast Highway, arguing with Myra, nervous and excited about the possibility of his song on the radio.

”Baby, I had to work all day. It’s all worth if they play it on the radio tonight. It’s almost time.”

With the surf pounding and the wind blowing through our hair, we rode for hours listening to music and singing.

“Girls, listen, they are playing IT. There!” Mike turned the volume up and the boys sang along.

Myra explained the song was Mike’s and Brian’s, and their band was The Beach Boys.

“You’ll see, they’ll be famous.” She said.

“We’re there already!” Shouted Brian.

The Beach Boys became famous, though I just think of them as boys, night cruising down on PCH, the wind in their faces, stopping at an ice-cream drive-in with girls in the back seats 

Chapter Fourteen: Lay Teachers

I graduated  in  June of 1963, expecting to  return to Italy and join the family that had moved and was now residing in Milano. After four plus years, I looked forward to taking my place where I belonged, among people who loved and respected me.

June came and went and I found out that Uncle couldn't afford purchasing the ticket. I had never given any thought to money and to expenses.  They paid my tuition, books, bus fare. There was talk about how much my education was costing them, but I had been a bit too selfish and blind to see how difficult it was for my uncle to support me.  They had lots of expenses i was not aware of.

 I was living in my own bubble.

Uncle convinced me that I needed some practical experience as well as a teaching certificate under my belt before I ventured back to Italy. Curiously, it was easier for them to dish out tuition that came in small chunks than come up with a big sum for the airline ticket. He tried to explain that with taxes and other unexpected expenses, this was a bad time. I guessed that the new baby in the house, born around my graduation was another good reason to keep me around.

My aunt in Fresno had her own difficulties, and explained that owning property was a big liability at times. Instead of making money for them, property cost them money, in repairs, in advertising, in taxes.  I had no idea.

I enrolled in a graduate teaching program at Immaculate Heart, and mentioned to the teachers and registrar that I needed to earn some money..   A few months later, when  I heard they needed a substitute at Bishop Conaty High School, I applied and was hired. The place was easier to reach by bus than Immaculate Heart College. Now, I was able to earn real money and cover both my tuition and save for a ticket to take me back home.

The school director  helped me apply and obtain  a working visa.

The  faculty consisted of a few lay teachers like myself, and sisters from different religious orders, some wearing habits, some business suits with prominent crosses. At times it was hard to distinguish the religious from the secular faculty. Four of us lay teachers were still in school,  finishing a master or a teaching credential.   All of us looked forward to being wives and mothers. In my case, I first had to make enough money, and have enough experience to satisfy the requirements for my return home before dreaming of becoming a wife or a mother.

In the teachers’ lounge the lay teachers ended up eating separately. The exception was Sister Mary Joseph, a widow who assumed religious life after she had had a full life as a wife. She gravitated to the group of young teachers, sharing opinions about everything. Eva, Muriel, Tonia all taught different subjects  but saw the same students and shared strategies  as disciplinarians.

I could have passed for a fourteen year old,  barely 100 lbs, purposely wearing dark color suits devoid of frills to display a rigid attitude and strict adherence to rules. I could have passed for a nun myself, except for my hair, styled carefully to look like Jackie Kennedy.

No nun would spend that much time and energy on her hair, I thought.

We all had extra-curricular activities, some coached or assisted in a sport, some in fundraising, some in sponsoring student council or yearbook. Our students had a reputation for strength, stamina and a winning attitude in sports. Returning after a late basketball game, we fount out all kinds of stuff about the girls and their families, their neighborhoods and their ambitions. Since many girls transferred from one bus to another late into the night, ending up in their neighborhoods at unsafe times, we teachers took turns driving them home. Since I was still commuting by bus myself, I too needed and was happy to get a ride home after long days.

In August of 1965, a traffic disturbance on Florence Avenue erupted into a police and citizen brawl that spread like wildfire and affected  students who came from the section of town called south central . Our September opening day was tense; fear and frustration were visible on everybody’s face, gravity draped over every body's  uniform. The Watts Riots, as they came to be called, paralyzed the city. At recess, emotions flared, and verbal exchanges among students from different neighborhood became standard conduct.  The staff no longer had free lunches. We took turns supervising the cafeteria and the yards.

I hated recess duty! The girls were all taller and bigger than I was.

Los Angeles was a diverse city, but neighborhoods were homogeneous. People congregated around their economic, racial and social peers. A great many people that had emigrated from Mexico lived in neighborhoods that had specialized groceries and restaurants. The caucasian population of Los Angeles was moving North, to the East San Gabriel Valley and to the Northwest San Fernando Valley where new homes where being built and sold at a fever rate.

My uncle had enrolled his eldest daughter in kindergarten in Burbank, a suburb that he favored, across town on the freeway, miles from the place where we lived. He and his wife were putting the store up for sale and moving as soon as the deal was executed. The Watts riots delayed the sale and was sowing panic all over the place.

Everyone was looking to move and to feel safer.

We were reading Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn in my freshman class. We took a little longer with it and decided to turn it into a stage play, concocting critical scenes to share with the rest of the student body. We spent hours in the auditorium, writing and rewriting, working on how to present the piece, worrying about sound effects, costuming, and practicing to sound like authentic southern characters.

On a rehearsal day,  a visitor from the office of the Archdiocese stopped by. I encouraged the girls to project their voices, and stay in character. The Director and the visitor seemed to enjoy the play, the girls noted. I had been too busy to catch their entrance or their exit.

At the end of the day, as I was checking out, the Director called me into his office and told me that the play had to be postponed for now.

“I don’t understand! Father, what is the problem?”

“Let’s not get into this; Just postpone the play, for now. We don’t want to alarm the children.”

So, I made up an excuse, something about the auditorium not being available for the next few days. But this was not an easy thing to accept. Obedience has its place, I thought; obedience should only be demanded of children.

I couldn't wait to purchase my ticket back to Italy.