I began the fall of my junior year of high school ready to become a foreigner. I believed that the American Dream was a thing of the past, something realistic only to Marcia Brady. My future lay in Europe. Having spent the previous two years at Choate, an über-preppy boarding school in Connecticut, I felt stifled by the notion that pearls and a pink-and-lime-green ensemble are as perfect of a couple as Brangelina. I got off the plane in Rome for my trimester abroad and I looked around as if I were ready to crack my knuckles and dig in to a tremendous bowl of spaghetti.
