An American in Faleria

      I didn't know that I was American until I moved to Italy. In fact, prior to that I had probably never before even said the phrase “I'm American”. Now that may strike you as odd, but consider the fact that I grew up in a predominantly white, upper middle class town in the suburbs of New York City, and that I was born in Italy, spoke Italian, and had a mother with a very thick Italian accent. People have definitely been labeled “Italian” for far less...just take a look around New Jersey. So if ethnic classifications came up, I always said “I'm Italian” (or “I'm Jewish”, but that's material for another blog).

      To be honest, I loved this detail that set me just ever so slightly apart from my peers. It was my thing. When we'd visit family in Italy and they would refer to me as “American”, I felt robbed of an integral piece of my identity. I just did not identify with being something as boring as “American”.

      But when I moved here, I realized quickly that I could no longer get away with saying “I'm Italian”. I became The American, and little by little I have come to embrace it in almost the same way as I had embraced my previous label. And actually I feel far more exotic here as an American than I ever did in Westchester as an Italian. Of course this may have something to do with the fact that we bought a home in a small town with a population of roughly 2,000 and a median age of about 91, where most people have only ever seen an American on TV. To a good portion of these people my husband is a foreigner and he grew up one town over.

      Now almost all of the Americans that I can think of can imagine nothing more romantic and picturesque than moving to a small rural town north of Rome where I can step outside of my door and within five minutes be walking down a dirt path surrounded by a landscape of olive groves on one side, hazelnut trees on the other, and rolling hills in the distance. Up here it's just a short drive to your average, quintessential, medieval hilltop town or to natural springs where we can fill our own bottles with restaurant quality sparkling water. Our village even has it's own abandoned castle.

      But talk to my fellow Falerians, and it's like telling someone you've just moved from Paris, France to Antimony, Utah. They just think I'm crazy. Which is why I get the sense that everyone knows who I am, in a suspicious, waiting-for-me-to-make-trouble kind of way.

      I had been so used to being relatively anonymous all my life, that when I first learned of my notoriety I was taken a bit off guard. It was last Spring, shortly after we had officially moved into our new home. I was out on our front patio taking advantage of one of the first warm, sunny days to hang some laundry outside to dry. A woman that I had become friendly with stopped by to say hello as she was passing by so I had the front gate open to the street. As we stood there chatting, an elderly woman who I had never seen before walked past with her grandson. The standard “buongiornos” were exchanged before she said, “So you're the young couple that finally bought this house.” I nodded and smiled. Then she added, “You're American aren't you?” I nodded and smiled again, but inside I was thinking, “What the-?”

      When she left I turned to my neighbor in shock. “How on earth did she know that?” I asked rhetorically.

      “Oh, everyone knows everything around here. You don't think it's big news that an American moved in?” she responded with a smile and a twinkle in her eye.

      After that I started noticing the way people would stare after me wherever I walked, especially the little old ladies sitting on the sidewalk in their folding chairs or on benches gossiping with one another, whose chatter would suddenly fade as I approached and whose eyes would follow me until I turned the next corner. I started making a point of smiling and saying hello in an effort to become That Nice American Girl, but each time it was like they were seeing me for the first time and I gradually stopped.

      Instead I accepted that no matter what I did I would be The Eccentric American Neighbor. So I stopped being careful. I pet the stray cats and put food out for them regularly, I did yoga in front of my kitchen window where anybody walking by could see me, I sang at the top of my lungs, and I hung my skimpiest and most colorful underwear out to dry.

      Then one day as I was just getting out of the shower I heard someone yelling outside. At first I thought it was merely someone calling casually to a friend from a window. But then the words and the voice got to me. It was my next door neighbor, Wilma, yelling for help, and there was nothing casual about her tone. I threw on the first thing I found and with my hair still dripping wet and disheveled ran out of my front door and up the stairs to hers where she was on the landing, supporting her elderly mother who appeared to have lost her balance and slipped from her chair. Apparently she had been yelling for several minutes but no one had come until me. Together we got her mother situated back on her chair as other people finally started showing up, curious about the commotion. As each new person arrived Wilma, still frazzled, told of how she had been yelling for help and how I had come running straight from out of the shower.

      Unfortunately, it was obvious that her mother was still not well and as several people moved her indoors I went to call an ambulance. Later that day I learned that she had had a stroke.

      To be clear, I am not in any way making light of this situation. It was a tragic day that luckily didn't end in further tragedy. As for my part, I don't believe that I did anything extraordinary. But let's just say that in the same way as the gossip about an American girl moving in travels fast, so does the news that that same American girl came running to the aid of her neighbor in need. Perhaps it was just my imagination, but for weeks afterwards I felt a difference in the stares that followed me. From suspicious and guarded, I felt them soften into something warmer and friendlier.

      It didn't last. Sure it boosted my public image for a moment and at least one other first responder continues to acknowledge me with a smile when we pass one another, but for the most part the town memory, especially of the older citizens, is short and has apparently defaulted back to suspicion, wariness, and general unmasked curiosity. It would probably take a great deal of personal interaction and town involvement to crack this shell and I'm certain that I do not possess that level of commitment. So I fully accept that I'll probably always be the The American.