In the fall of 1970, my family — version 3.0 — was winging its way to Europe. To explain the “upgrade,” which it was in no wise at all, I’ll take a stab at revisiting the thought processes of my mother at the time. “My children are thriving in this bucolic setting,” she may have thought. “I have a lovely home, a decent, intelligent husband, a fulfilling career, and a host of interesting friends. And yet—. Something is missing. I can’t figure out what, but surely this isn’t all. I’m intrigued by this fellow illegally squatting in the house across the street, the fat drunk with the absurd afro who was recently ejected from the Peace Corps for molesting favela children in São Paulo. There’s something about him. It could be his violent temper, his cat-killing prowess, his subhuman intelligence or his love of cheap whiskey… I don’t know. But something about this man makes me want to cuckold my husband, run him off, sell the house out from under him, and take off for Europe in an insane plan to open a restaurant in Florence.”
Or something like that.
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