"Parlare Inglese?"

A peculiar thing happened today: a sassy old lady marched up to my friend Allie and I and confidentially said in the most American Italian I’ve ever heard, “parlare inglese?”

I was completely taken aback. Usually I am stopped on the street to be asked for directions, by other Italians, but this was the first time an American had stopped me. I felt like somehow she could’ve used some sort of American sense and known I was a fellow citizen. I had to stop myself from blurting out “of course!”

Having lived in Italy for a couple months now I’ve realized how much I really like being American. It really is so much a part of my identity and the delight I got from being mistaken for an Italian has faded to sadness, like an important part of my is being ignored. The disappointment (and sometimes disgust) I see on their faces, once I tell them (in Italian) that I’m American, is annoying.

This lady was one of the things I loved about America: old enough to be my grandma and the pluck and humor to keep her smiling in a country that looks down on her as a tourist more often than not. Just by looking at her you knew she would be fun to talk to with a sharp wit that’s always surprise great to discover within a sweet old lady. So when she asked me if I spoke English, it made me want to declare with pride “Yes! Yes I do!” and help her in every way humanly possible.

Unfortunately she wanted to locate a hotel, something I ignore regularly since I live in an apartment. We talked to her, trying to find some kind of hint that would point us in the right direction. Now it became more about the pride of living in Italy. I’m not a tourist! And yet I couldn’t give directions to a fellow American. So what am I?