Expiration Dating Read Free Page B

the cab driver watched. I tentatively accepted the change and ran through my mental notes, trying to recall whether I needed to tip him. The dog finished his business and moved on, neither the cabbie nor I breaking eye contact.
    I w on the stare down, apparently because he got in the car and he drove off into the mess of vehicles. I stared down at the Euros in my hand wondering if they were fake.
    What sort of awesome curren cy has shiny embellishments on top of pink and blue paper? I felt rich just holding the colorful bills, fascinated by the silver strip glittering across the top. I’d save  money while I was here, just because I didn’t want to spend it! I wanted to hold onto these bills and watch the designs twinkle.
    I pocketed the precious paper money and hauled my bags inside. I noticed a problem before the door swung closed. First, there were stairs  leading  to the elevator. Excuse me, but I thought the purpose of elevators was to avoid stairs. I’m not the laziest person in the world, but let’s be realistic. I had luggage.
    Five minutes later, I reached the elevator after crossing an expanse of floor more intimidating than the Sahara Desert. I waited, and waited, and waited. Approximately seven minutes later, the elevator dinged open. Problem number two: my suitcases would not all fit. I gestured to the grey-haired lady at the front desk that I’d be back for my oversize bag. She ignored me. I wasn’t surprised, as she’d watched me heave suitcases up the stairs with a smile on her face. Italy obviously had a different style of ‘doorman’ etiquette.
    I arrived on the seventh flo or and rang the bell, sweating from exertion. A mother with a baby clinging to her apron opened the door. I could see a family, and I mean grandma, grandpa, uncle, aunts, fifteen cousins, all staring at me in quiet confusion. I had interrupted their dinner prayers. I looked at my sheet, noticed the footnote that floors are labeled differently in Italy; floor seven is actually eight, due to the fact Italians count ground floor as zero. Basements are negative one. I apologized waited an awkward seven minutes for the elevator to rescue me.
    I was certain I had the correct door when I saw the sign for Study Abroad. I rang the doorbell and was greeted by a thin, flimsy haired woman. She was tiny, but at least a few years older than me.
    “Ciao, I am Laura,” she murmured. “Welcome to Italy.”
    Laura gave me a brief tour of the apartment showing me the balcony overlooking Milan.
    “Holy shit! You c an see all the way to the mountains!”
    Laura looked at me as if I was an idiot. “Si, gli Alpi.”
    I nodded, not understanding , still in awe over the amazing view. Next stop was the kitchen. She walked into the room, and I started to follow. She held up her hand for me to stop.
    “This is the kitchen.” She opened her arms to display the small room and stepped out, allowing me to enter. I understood now why she showed the space in such a fashion; two people in the space would have been a tight squeeze. There were three chairs squeezed under a scratched table, and it was debatable whether they functioned for actual sitting purposes. There was definitely not enough space if you included an expansion buffer for few plates of pasta and maybe a cookie or four. I hear the biscotti are smaller than American chocolate chip cookies.
    Despite its small size, the flat was warm and comfortable. The plants were thriving, the dinner table well-used and the fireplace inviting. The yellow walls gave off the feeling of sunshine and brightness, and I appreciated the openness of the living room after the claustrophobia of the kitchen, sunlight streaming through full-length balcony doors. I could imagine it would be cozy and intimate by night. Though there was a chill in the air outside, I felt safe and secure inside the apartment. I had fallen in love.
    “Are you ready to meet your roommates?” Laura asked. She led me to the other end of the