The Life of H{e}arts: Diventando Americana...

The dreaded appointment had been in the books for weeks and I was panicking inside for about 5 days leading up to it...papers were flying, the entire contents of our filing cabinet was in our sitting room, and I was furiously printing copies of documents scanned and faxed from the US.

I was ready...Good Lord I hoped so.

You see, there are many things that one must remember when getting involved with a foriegner.

Language barriers. Culture differences. Strange habits.

But that is the easy part.

If there is anything that has been more difficult, it is definitely having a kid with said foriegner.

Not the actual labour bit, that was easy too...but rather the endless barrage of paperwork from any choice of any of our native countries at any time.

A Cultural Profile of the Harts

Henry: Born in England. Lived in Bahrain and Switzerland for a minute, and then back to England. Then to Italy.

Steffi: Born in USA. Never ventured farther than an afternoon's car drive from home, then moved to Italy.

Prada: Mexican and Yappy. Born in Indianapolis, but you would never know, her English is rubbish.

Olivia: Born in Italy. Lives in Italy. But due to foriegn parents she has NO rights to Italian citizenship. So, she is British - passport issued at one week old (you should see the photo...she is a little blob of baby and it is valid for 6 years?!). Also eligible for an American passport and citizenship - we left it for two years because, hey she is European and therefore isn't the British Passport good enough? Nope, says every port of entry to the USA. Not good enough. And as I am sick and tired of getting put through the discussion every time I go home, and have spent even just a few minutes in THAT room (you know the one I am talking about - the one reserved for sketchy people, NOT a former Miss USA contestant) I made the executive decision to apply for the good old American citizenship and Passport. Easy Peasy!

Um. Think again.

One full day off work...BOTH parents. Three train tickets to Milano to visit the Consulate. 5 am start.

Check. Check. Check.

Apples and Tractors on the train!

Then came the paperwork requests.

There were normal ones of course - birth certificates, marriage certificates, residence certificates.

But then they asked me to PROVE my American-ness (as having only one American parent only requires evidence of a stay of 7 years or so after age 14).

Wow.

Social Security statement? OK, but we need more. W2? OK but more even then...

That's when I started running out of ideas...but my mother came to the rescue and helped out by scanning and sending my high school transcript.

OK! That should do it!

Side Note: After receiving the transcripts, I can no longer call myself a nerd. Dear husband has seen my Mathematics and Algebra grades. And they were not pretty....

So the diaper bag was full of documents and Hubs, baby, and I were off on the first train to Milano. Easy journey. Easy finding the Consulate. Getting in was like going through airport security but much worse...

And then, as you step through a door guarded by a Marine in uniform...it actually SMELLS like America.

45 minutes later and after several attacks of the nerves (would all that paperwork be enough!?!), all that remained to do was take an oath and sign on the dotted line.

Olivia called the Consualte Head "Granny"...thank goodness she didn't hear that one.

But all went well, and I am now very proud to say that I have myself a little American baby girl...Officially.
So what does any good American do to celebrate that good news?

Why, we eat of course!!!

Henry directed us to the most AMAZING restaurant just up the street from the Duomo (so little you would never even take ANY notice of it). We ordered a giant plate of fresh sliced proscuitto di Parma 24 mesi, some fresh bread, and two BOWLS of Lambrusco wine - Dark, fizzy, and red.

It was the best celebratory meal I had ever had.

This place is definitely up there in the top 3 restaurants recommended by the Harts...it is intimate, quiet, full of locals, and the Parma ham is to DIE for. It melts in your mouth.