Wandering in our Volkswagen through sleepy hills, my man comes upon a tiny village bearing his family name. He jumps out for a few words with the shepherd, who booms, "Oh ho ho! You're my cousin!"
Inside the shepherd's house, soup is bubbling, and we sit around a book of family trees. They're man trees: the descendomaster, his sons, and their sons. They don't bother to document the women.
But women have no names.
We shed family names as easily as we gain them, traveling incognito through the generations, leaving anonymous legacies.
On the road home, I decided to make my own name.
What's a self-made woman without a self-made name?
Ms. Duva is born.