Hand in hand with sickness is stress. I just flew to the States and back just to be told that what I wanted would be found at the Questura. Upon asking at the Questura, I am told that I need to return to the States and ask at the Consulate. Again. I am here on a study visa that expires in May. I want to stay, more than anything. I’ve heard that trying to get a work visa, as an American, is improbable. But what can I do? I can’t throw in the towel- I just made my way home, here, now. Day by day, my mind wildly runs possibilities of how to live here. Why is it so easy for people to stay illegally, and yet so impossible for someone who wants to live and work and pay the taxes and do everything by the book?

I’m looking for a sign. Any sign will do. The large kind from a greater force than myself, like lightning in the shape of an arrow pointing to a briefcase of cash that will buy me a residence, or even something that says, “Hiring Americans. Will provide Visa”. Perhaps that is too much to ask for. But there’s got to be a way, there just has to be. I didn’t come all this way to turn around and go back now. Italy wants me and I want her. We are engaged in a love affair that blurs fantasy and reality, and she ties those miles of red tape into a heart-shaped bow, welcoming me into her arms.