I lead a double life. I go by two names: my maiden name when I’m writing, and my married name when I’m entertaining. Whether it’s working on a story or working a crowd, I’m always following leads.

I am a writer, and I am a diplomat’s wife. I’m American, and I’m married to a European. I have an American passport and an Italian diplomatic passport. When I’m in Europe, I feel American. When I’m in America, I feel European. When my husband and I are with my parents, we speak English. When we’re with my inlaws, we speak Italian. Between the two of us, we speak English and Italian, depending on who’s around. I spent as many years living and working in Italy as I did attending high school and college in America.

And, these days, we’re living in Brussels.

Women of my generation tilt their heads when I tell them that my husband is a diplomat. First, they tell me they think it’s romantic. You must be married to someone tall, dark, and handsome, they say (on that one, they’re right). Then, they think I live in a four-story Embassy with a butler, four maids, a cook, and a driver. They imagine I never make my bed and polish my silver all day long. If they could see me walking the dog while pushing the stroller on which I also haul my groceries, they might alter their hallucination.

After that, they start really scrutinizing my situation. Very few women seem to accept the fact that after completing high school, college, a masters in something, and a good ten years logging in hours in a promising career, you’d give it all up to follow a man. This is the kiss of death of my generation. We were educated with power degrees that were supposed to lead us to power careers, power husbands, and power kids.

I decided in my mid-twenties that such a life was not for me. The power bit, that is. I wanted to live in a place where I was not defined by my job. But it wasn’t easy. Because my job, as a writer and now also a diplomat’s wife, wasn’t advertised at college fairs.

In my twenties, I was offered a job at a prominent news weekly in New York. I turned it to down to move to Rome and work as an intern at a news agency. I had to be creative in my job search in Italy because the demand was fierce for very few spots. My most demeaning moment was when I helped one outgoing foreign correspondent move his Chinese scrolls — which he asked me to vacuum before rolling up to be packed away – from his Roman apartment to his Washington home. However, it led me to a great job with his successor at a leading American newspaper. Based in Rome, I wrote on topics ranging from the Pope to pasta. I dabbled in television for a bit, got married, had a child, and now I’m a freelance writer.

My greatest challenge in living abroad as a diplomat’s wife is representing a country that’s not my own. Daily, I struggle with maintaining my American ties while strengthening my Italian ties. But, of all countries other than my own to represent, Italy would always be my first choice.

This blog allows me to vent, rant, and rave about the struggles of living overseas and leading a double life. I wouldn’t have it an other way but, there are times when it ain’t easy. Read more and you’ll see why.