I had to be reminded of the beauty of Italy.
When we got to the top of Mount Tabor in the northern province of Lombardy, I could feel the warm air of the Alps caressing my skin.
The warm air was accompanied by the unmistakable smell of Italian bread, and the taste of tomato sauce.
It was like coming home.
I was looking forward to the day that the last of the snow would be removed from Lombardy and the Italian countryside.
However, I soon realized that it was not to be.
We had been warned.
A snowstorm was forecast.
The weather station was located on the hilltop, and I was in danger of falling off the mountain.
It would be impossible to climb to the summit of Mount Eigliano, and a good chance of getting a cold snap.
So I decided to take my chances.
I left my clothes and shoes on the snow.
I brought a warm coat, which I found to be a bit too warm.
I had never felt cold in Italy before.
When I returned to the house, I found that my jacket had been ripped.
I could not bring myself to throw it away.
I tried to find a replacement jacket, but it was too big and too heavy.
As I was about to leave, the owner called me over.
“I will help you with the coat.
We will buy another one soon.”
It was a long time before I heard from the owner again.
I decided I needed to make a change.
I got dressed, put on my coat, and left.
The next morning, the next morning again, I had breakfast with my new jacket.
I looked around, wondering how long it would take to find another jacket.
But no one seemed to care.
It took me a while to find one that fit.
The snowstorm did not last long.
By mid-May, the wind had picked up again, and it was time to leave Italy.
The winter season had come.
As my family gathered around me in Italy, I knew I was going to need to start a new life in another country.
I would have to decide whether I wanted to stay in Italy or go back to the United States.
I chose to stay and try to get a job.
In the beginning, I was able to find work.
I worked as a truck driver.
But then the snowstorm came.
I found myself unable to drive the truck.
I eventually quit.
I also decided to find other work in Italy.
I applied for jobs in the health and food services industry, and eventually I was hired as a cook.
I learned a lot about how Italian cooking works, and even learned how to make my own meals.
As a result, I gained confidence in my skills, and became an Italian cook.
But when I returned home to the U.S., I was not able to work again.
When my wife asked if I wanted another job, I told her that I would need to find my own work in the restaurant industry.
She thought I was joking, and that I had just gotten out of the country.
But I did not know that the next day, the restaurant owners in Lombardy were going to be waiting for me outside of the restaurant, ready to give me a job!
I was very disappointed with my decision.
I wanted a job that paid well, and was safe.
I felt I had not done anything wrong.
But, I felt like I had made a huge mistake.
I knew it was wrong, and my family did not understand why I did it.
In my desperation, I went back to Italy and tried to get the job.
My wife and I went to a restaurant in Milan.
The receptionist told us that I could get a promotion.
However my experience with the receptionist in Italy did not help.
She told me that she had never heard of an Italian job where a restaurant employee would give a promotion to someone else.
It turned out that my job had not been the only one with an Italian boss.
I then went back home to New York, hoping to find someone to help me with my situation.
It did not take long for me to realize that the people in Italy who were most likely to offer a job to someone like me were the ones who were not Italian at all.
My family and I started to search for work again, but I still did not feel safe.
My parents had been paying for the bus that I used to take to work.
In Italy, it was legal to use public transportation, but not to drive.
I went with my father to the bus station, but there was no one to take me home.
My father and I were worried about getting caught, and so I asked my mother to take us home.
We arrived at the bus stop a few minutes before we were to be taken home.
The driver of the bus, who was not Italian, asked if we were willing to take the bus to the hotel. I told