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Our
party
doesn
’
t
end
until
almost
dawn
.
We
could
have
roasted
that
twenty
-
pound
turkey
,
after
all
,
and
eaten
it
for
breakfast
.
Luca
Spaghetti
drives
me
and
Deborah
and
Sofie
all
the
way
back
home
.
We
try
to
help
him
stay
awake
as
the
sun
comes
up
by
singing
Christmas
carols
.
Silent
night
,
sainted
night
,
holy
night
,
we
sing
over
and
over
in
every
language
we
know
,
as
we
all
head
back
into
Rome
together
.
I
couldn
’
t
hold
out
.
None
of
my
pants
,
after
almost
four
months
in
Italy
,
fit
me
anymore
.
Not
even
the
new
clothes
I
just
bought
last
month
(
when
I
’
d
already
outgrown
my
"
Second
Month
in
Italy
"
pants
)
fit
me
anymore
.
I
can
’
t
afford
to
buy
a
new
wardrobe
every
few
weeks
,
and
I
am
aware
that
soon
I
will
be
in
India
,
where
the
pounds
will
just
melt
away
,
but
still
-
I
cannot
walk
in
these
pants
anymore
.
I
can
’
t
stand
it
.
Which
all
makes
sense
,
given
that
I
recently
stepped
on
a
scale
in
a
fancy
Italian
hotel
and
learned
that
I
have
gained
twenty
-
three
pounds
in
my
four
months
of
Italy
-
a
truly
admirable
statistic
.
About
fifteen
pounds
of
that
I
actually
needed
to
gain
because
I
had
become
so
skeletal
during
these
last
hard
years
of
divorce
and
depression
.
The
next
five
pounds
,
I
just
gained
for
fun
.
As
for
the
final
three
?
Just
to
prove
a
point
,
I
suppose
.
But
so
it
is
that
I
find
myself
shopping
for
an
item
of
clothing
I
will
always
keep
in
my
life
as
a
cherished
souvenir
:
"
My
Last
Month
in
Italy
Jeans
.
"
The
young
lady
in
the
shop
is
nice
enough
to
keep
bringing
me
bigger
and
bigger
sizes
,
handing
them
through
the
curtain
one
after
another
without
commentary
,
only
asking
with
concern
each
time
if
this
is
closer
to
a
fit
.
Several
times
,
I
have
needed
to
poke
my
head
out
of
this
curtain
and
ask
,
"
Excuse
me
-
do
you
have
a
pair
that
is
slightly
bigger
?
"
Until
the
nice
young
lady
finally
gives
me
a
pair
of
jeans
with
a
waist
measurement
that
verily
hurts
my
eyes
to
witness
.
I
step
out
of
the
dressing
room
,
presenting
myself
to
the
salesgirl
.
She
doesn
’
t
blink
She
looks
at
me
like
an
art
curator
trying
to
assess
the
value
of
a
vase
.
A
rather
large
vase
.
"
Carina
,
"
she
decides
finally
.
Cute
.
I
ask
her
in
Italian
if
she
could
please
tell
me
honestly
whether
these
jeans
are
causing
me
to
resemble
a
cow
.
No
,
signorina
,
I
am
told
.
You
do
not
resemble
a
cow
.
"
Do
I
resemble
a
pig
,
then
?
"
