First Person

A trophy for a Prada purse? How about a smile instead.

In Los Angeles, friendship has its own rules — and they're Lite.

I ordered "shrimps" in my pasta. Aren't they shrimp, a co-worker asked?

Falling in love with an Italian? No way, I said. No way at all...

I thought, Of course we talk about food. What else would we talk about?

A trip your Italian boyfriend's home village can be an eye-opener.

When her parents suggested Perugia as a day trip, she said "no."

Dirty Man opens my package and prepares it for the "doctor," whom I call "the injector."

In L.A., people want be somewhere else with someone else. It's always more, more, more.

The news that we’re terrible at foreign languages is no shock. We already know we “speak English not very good,” and don’t need EU reminders.

My waiter is concerned by my solitude and hovers over me anxiously.

You could take the girl out of Rome, but you can't take Rome out of the girl. It's a tough lesson.