I’ve gone back and forth between the US and Italy so many times that there are no more surprises. I know exactly what I am getting into every time I land in each airport. In DC, I am greeted by swaths of carpet and a line of wheelchairs. In Rome, I am welcomed by the cacophony of ceramic cups clanking against the counters and I am always underdressed. Flying into LAX is like flying into the next season, while the rest of the country climbs over one-month old piles of snow, I’m warmly embraced by a sea of palm trees. After eight years of trying and failing to make Europe home, I’ve learned to live somewhere in the middle of these three coasts. One would say I’m tri-coastal. I would say the same about my food culture.