If loving Italian leather is wrong, I don't want to be right.
Our evening walk and gelato run turned into a session of retail therapy at Piazza di Spagna, and the doctor was in. While I had to pout away from the Armani boots that, at 500 euro, would have prevented me from traveling and eating for the rest of the semester (and probably my college career, for that matter), I did find one piece of leather to call my own.
I thought the salesman was going to cry when I asked if the bag was made in Italy. He choked back his anger and surprise long enough to explain that it was, in fact, as real as it gets.
So with the emotions of the week and the shopping endorphins pumping through me, I made her my own.
I have been ridiculed all night for:
1. apparently stroking my bag on the bus on the way home
2. taking pictures of her to put on my blog
3. planning my outfit around her
4. talking to her as I type
(I maintain that numbers 1 and 4 never happened.)
I am not usually one for gaining happiness from material objects, but let's just say she (my espresso, "Vertigo" Nicoli) is sitting next to me right now, and I am smiling.
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