I hesitate to write this post, lest The Powers That Be mistake my humor for irreverence. But, alas, this is a risk I must take. (Cue dramatic, ominous music).
The group of expat bloggers with which I have been associated recently has decided that today, Friday the 13th, is an appropriate day to tackle the subject of superstitions in Italy, as seen through our foreign eyes. The problem is that my eyes are not really all that foreign, and the gravity and seriousness of the following subject is one which still gives me pause.
(Da dum dum dum…. that’s the music again).
My mother’s grandfather was born in a small impoverished town in the province of Messina, called Bauso. In 1898, he followed the cue of almost the entire population of the town and immigrated to Boston in search of a better future for his family. Soon after arriving, he…
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