Like in Florence?
Damn, that's really good.
I'm writing about the other love of my life.
No, I only talk to my mom and sister. That's it.
Not your father?
-No, I don't talk to my father. -Oh.
Let's just say…
We are different.
You're so beautiful.
As thin as cardboard, these walls.
- My mother is one of a kind. - Hmm.
Shit.
What I could do with 20 minutes in this kitchen.
Mama, I made the risotto with almonds and broccoli.
It's not like yours.
And how is the work?
You didn't tell me, is it in the town center? Can you walk from--
There is no center here, Mama.
There is no city center here.
No way. Impossible.
Mama, I don't know what to tell you. That's how it is here.
I'm tired, amore.
- You've been here, what? -A month.
Just long enough to not get lost on the bus.
Yes.
A nice little place.
I've heard of it, at least.
Eggplant up and down the menu, I bet.
You're Sicilian, right?
-Yes. -Ah.
Uh, that's absolutely no problem.
I'm willing to work my way up.
Damn, that's good.
You're an artist.
- One moment, please. - Yeah.
- This is polenta. -Sì.
You're Sicilian? I'm from Castelleone! Near Cefalù.
Yes! My father is Sicilian!
But where can I find decent coffee?
I don't know.
And La Repubblica? Americans don't understand Italian politics.
I don't half understand it myself.
-I don't understand. Cin cin. -Cin cin.
Hello.
Listen, Dad. I'm calling with good news.
I'm listening.
Amy and I are getting married.
Hello?
Hello, Papa?
I'm here.
Say something.
It would have been better if I hadn't answered the phone today.
Papa, what are you saying?
First you leave home,
leave your family's farm to drop out of school.
And that brought shame to this family.
Then you move to America.
And now this girl.
Amy, Papa.
Her name is Amy.
An American.
I don't know how much more I can take!