Nothing about their house would announce, “We’re immigrants!” except the aroma of garlic and basil floating from the kitchen window. In the city, on Eighth Street, they were Italians; in the suburbs, on a place like Myrtle Avenue, they would be Americans, no different from anyone else.
– The Saint of Lost Things by Christopher Castellani
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Andrea Reads America 
Gives you a nice flavor of what America is like.
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