Troppo Snob

The day I arrived in Florence, I immediately set out to purchase a journal. Huddled along either side of the Arno river are cozy little shops that sell sumptuous hand-made books and papers. Because of the old-world, leathery lure of these shops, they are often tourist traps. I became ensnared in one right near the Ponte Vecchio and was greeted by an exasperated shopkeeper, who looked up at me from behind the counter with an expression of sheer relief.

“Questi Americani! Finalmente, una Italiana,” she shouted holding out her arms to me as if I were to come hug her. I had not yet begun my formal language studies, but relying on my kitchen Italian, I understood enough to know that the paper lady thought I was a compatriot.

So I gave her an uncomfortable smile and nodded while looking down and said, “Siii.”

There has always been something about my looks that lead people to not identify me as an American. In high school, I was excused for lacking a hall pass because the monitor thought I was one of the French exchange students. Just this past Christmas, a salesperson at a store in touristy part of Manhattan offered to gift wrap my purchase by over-enunciating and tying an air ribbon with her hands. Yet, this quality has always served me well when traveling as I seem to blend in anywhere where dark hair prevails.

She continued on, rambling, venting, and gaining speed in the re-telling of a story that had something to do with an American student and a dog (or was it meat?) that belonged to a gypsy. Again, I vigorously nodded my head and repeated, “Siii.” She was on to me.

“Sei Spagnola?.”

“No.”

“Greca?”

“Uh, no.”

“Forse Tedesca?? Nooo. Da dove sei??!!”

I gulped and fessed up, “New York.”

“Ah! New York!!! Mi piace molto New York! Mi sorella ha studiato a la NYU.”

I was encouraged. I was making my first Italian friend! I was anxious for acceptance and I didn’t know when to stop. “Uh, si, si!!" I sputtered. “Eh, ma sono Italo-Americana!! Ho nonni di Napoli, Salerno e, uh, eh, di Calabria.”

Suddenly, she retracted and with an air of disapproval she switched to speaking English. “Well in Florence you will learn to speak the real Italian. And don’t go in Naples. They will rob you like they did to Boccaccio. He was from Florence.”

My sprits felt like the dripping patterns of marbleized paper hanging on rolls behind the counter. I thought that my Italian background would set me apart from all the other American students walking around Italy in flip-flops and complaining about a lack of peanut butter. In Florence, my Southern Italian heritage was as foreign as my fear of trippa.

Soon I settled into life in Florence and let go of my hurt over being re-buffed by the paper lady and made casual friends with the cheese man, the vegetable guy, and the bread woman. Until my language skills improved, I let myself be known to them simply as a graduate student studying la storia dell’arte. But one day while sipping an espresso at my good coffee place, Angelo the owner asked me, “Is your family Italian? You don’t look like una Americana.”

I revealed my dark roots, this time armed with the truth that Boccaccio described his days as a banker’s apprentice in Naples as the happiest of his life.

Angelo laughed and said, “Ho capito. I tell you a secret that you must keep quiet. I am Sicilian! These Florentines are good people, but sometimes they can be troppo snob.”

About the Author: Danielle Oteri shares her experiences navigating Southern Italy with all of its linguistic and cultural quirks.