On Being an Italiana

Walking back from 57th with my Yogoccino in hand (not even a fifth as good as the Happy Shake I got last week), I stopped into a shoe store on Madison Avenue. After a look around, I decided it was time to leave. I went to the door and there was a family of Italian tourists there. The father noticed that I wanted to leave and held the door open for me after his family had already walked through that door. The son then saw that I was leaving as well and opened the outer door so that I could leave before his family. I turned to him and said, "thank you." He turned to his family and said, "Italiana!"

Me mistake for an Italian? Oh, wouldn't be the first time...but I have one even better. When Miryam and I were in London, we had to take our pictures in these little booths for our metro passes. I went into one, leaving Miryam to wait with the luggage, at about the same time that a group of five or so Italian men were walking in our direction. Ecstatic at having found another Italian in the English country, they attacked (yes, attacked) Miryam with a flurry of hugs and kisses and shouts of "Italiana! Italiana!"

Miryam tried pushing them off with explanations that she only speaks English, but they were relentless. They thought she was Italian and they were determined to have her admit to being Italian. It was a party. :)