Leigh's Views

Anyone who knows me, or who has read this blog for a while, is aware that I’m adopted. I don’t keep it a secret because it’s a big part of what makes me who I am. I often feel like I'm on the outside of every family interaction in the world looking in. The reactions I get are anywhere from, “Interesting” to “Who cares?” The later response always throws me. A huge chuck of me is unknown and that’s your response? But that’s a rabbit trail for another day. Anyhoo, I was getting tired of being unable to answer certain questions. You know, like those questions on forms at the doctor’s office. ‘Do you have any relatives with…’ and then there is this whole long list of ailments. And there I’d be, sitting staring off into space, going, “ Do I have an Uncle John, much less was there something wrong with him? How about an Aunt Jane? Do I have siblings, cousins? Where am I from?” Next thing I know the nurse is calling be back and the stupid form is half filled out. Fine, in this wonderful

I wandered into a little restaurant while I was in Roma. It was early and the place was empty, however, every table had a “reserva” sign on it. Yikes, I was out of luck and turned to leave. Suddenly, from somewhere in the back, a woman a little older than me came rushing out. She said something to me in Italian. Double yikes, “Scusi, no Italiano,” came my quick reply. Yes, ugly American alert. But I’m not getting into that discussion again. She smiled, grabbed my hand, guided me to a table, whisked the “reserva” sign off and ushered me to a chair. Okay, then, I guess I’m safe. For a little while at least, because I’m sure that table was meant for someone. A gentleman came out with a menu in his hand and in broken English welcomed me. He then pointed to a sign on the wall, ‘pizza + vino = 8 euro’. To keep this simple, I said I would have the pizza. He then started to tell me which pizzas they had – oh my, too many choices. I cut him off and told him to bring me the best one since

So, I’m sitting in a little bar in Roma, Italia, late one afternoon. Uhm, just in case you don’t know – bars there aren’t like here. You go in there for a wonderful croissant and cappuccino for breakfast. Or an amazing panini and cappuccino for lunch. Or you can go in there for a pastry and a birra for breakfast. Trust me, I saw that plenty of times while I was there and I still am not sure why anyone thought that was a good idea at eight in the morning. Oh well, moving on with my story. I’d come to like this little bar; it was right around the corner from the apartment I was staying at. It had free wi-fi, which was nice and a comfy couch in the back. The barman, on my first visit to the establishment, proudly announced he was from California when he heard me speak. I called his bluff and we had a good laugh over his, “Wish I was,” reply. Yup, on that afternoon, I’m sitting there, reading a few e-mails while sipping a cappuccino. Then this woman, who was about my age, plops down ne