They have to choose a school: an international school with barely any Italian children or an Italian school with hardly any foreign children. We visited quite a few. From a massive schoolmaster who ignores my child to a lovely English-speaking teacher named signora Tuttobello (there is no such thing as coincidence) who was smitten with my girls. From children with tight uniforms to little girls wearing clothes that are way too slutty. From practical newbuild to messy classrooms with a community center-vibe. A father who cheerfully keeps saying everything is going to be fine. A mother who started crying when the headmistress pointed out that with a huge change like this safety is important (hello Achilles heel).
My faint-hearted thirteen-year-old would have chosen for the small international school. Turns out my daughters are much braver and decided to go to the Italian school.
This adventure forces us to face our fears; my daughters don’t seem to have any. This proud mother can only look at them in admiration and learn from them. And here I was, thinking I was here to teach them something: it’s exactly the other way around.
