Americans

So much has happened, it feels, since my last post.  As usual, I want to share everything.  However, I understand no-one has the time to read it all and I don't have the time to write it all. My hope is to get some pictures off my camera today or tomorrow and put them up, at which point I may write a little more.

I've been loving the locals I meet, including an Italian friend and his italian cohorts.  But the Americans have been getting on my nerves.  (I would say-take no offense, but as a default Americans are easily offended- another aspect that annoys me)

A couple nights ago, Rafaele took me to try real Italian pizza.  He practically new everyone working there-a little community of colorful people in a grey city.  Our waitress is dating Rafaele's brother and teases him.  She appreciates my attempts to speak Italian. ("Gratzi", "Prego" Que Quatzo") The daughter of the restaurant owner gestures at Rafaele and they exchange an animated string of Italian words. "Lovers of tomatoes surrounded by potatoes"I think to myself. 

Halfway through the meal an old white-haired couple sat down.  They were dressed in their finest. The wife was thin, her skin taught and her bony cheekbone's highlighted with rouge.  I hear their American accents. Naturally, I am curious. I am drawn to them, like Rafaele is drawn to his fellow Italians here in a different culture. 

I observe them and their clumsy, garish manner. They are high class, I can tell. However, they lack the sort of class one needs to travel.  They look confused, judgemental.  They are unfriendly, with sour expressions.  They demand water at the wrong time and argue over choices.  They ask Liliani, the waitress, if they can split something.  Liliani makes little attempt to hide her annoyance. The couple talks at her.

It is obvious they dislike eachother.  When Rafaele goes outside to smoke, I, feeling confident after 2 glasses of wine, lean over and smile. "Are you Americans?" Her eyes take a long time to sweep across the room and find me. They are shadowed, below from circles, above from Lancome. It's as though it is a tremendous effort to take the time to acknowledge me. I think of Cruella De Ville or the Queen in Snow White.  Their movements are heavy and darkly elegant. Always looking down at you, their noses up. She simply replies "Yes" Her husband, stiff and pulled in from years of wincing, says nothing.  I continue: "I thought I recognized your accent, I am american too, where are you from?" "Texas" "On vacation?" I ask. "Yes" They reply. I want to say,  "Then relax!" She asks if I am studying and I simply tell her I am traveling indefinitely. Next stop France and Spain. She appears a little more respectful and I notice a half-smile. "Have a nice time" I say, knowing they won't.

When their calzone comes, they demand Parmesan cheese. Liliani looks a little confused. "TO SPRINKLE ON TOP" the man says loudly. Liliani flashes a look of irritation that the couple take no notice of. But Liliani nods, grinds her teeth, and replies "Ov corse"

I notice them quietly observing Rafaele and myself laughing and talking and letting down our guard.  We are trying to understand each other's cultures and language. I speak no Italian and his English is very rough, but we are succeeding. I notice the husband irritatedly remark, and his wife snaps back. They, I imagine, married for 55 years are sitting across from one-another with no clue how to connect, how to be vulnerable, how to listen. They both speak English, but not the same language.