The Life of a Local…
I have been living here in Verona for a few months now. I no longer consider myself a tourist in this city. I know the bus routes. I know the street names. I know the places to avoid, the grocery stores to go to, the places with the best views, and the hidden restaurants with unbelievable Italian cuisine. I also have befriended many of the store and bar owners. I stop by each day I go into town to say hello and usually get a free cup of café or extra aperitivo plate of pomodoro secchi.
I didn’t realize how acclimated I have become with this quaint town until just recently. In the past few weeks I’ve had more interactions with people on the streets of Verona than I have in the past few months. Why, you ask? Simple—it is officially tourist season. And to these tourists, I apparently look like a local. I was approached four times this afternoon by tourists speaking to me in terribly broken Italian and asking me if I spoke their language (German and French were the two I encountered today), or if I, myself, was Veronese. Each time I had to simply shake my head no and ask them where they were trying to go so I could point them in the right direction. It is times like these that I wish I was fluent in multiple languages. After living in Europe, knowledge of various languages is not only intelligence, but also power.
My favorite tourist however, is the real tourist. The camera-clicking loud-mouth, wearing hot pink flip flops, shorts and holding a map. Don’t mistake this stereotyping as rude. It’s just truthful. Yes, the lovely person I am talking about—the American Tourist.
My heart really does go out to him. He is befuddled. He is bewildered with the foreign scenery and street signs. He doesn’t know how culturally inappropriate his behavior is in this town, yet for some reason, I can’t help but smile when I see the American Tourist holding up the check-out line, or making people angry when they’re asking to sample every batch of gelato, or ordering a PBR at the bar in Piazza Erbe, or asking what every item on the menu means, or walking in huge groups blocking the intersections. For a while I too was annoyed by the American Tourist, but now I’m simply entertained. I can’t let myself forget that I once went by that name.
So since we all speak the universal language of emotion, I put myself in the American Tourist’s shoes. I remembered my frustration, oblivion, and confusion when I first arrived in Verona. When I hear him speaking English behind me in line, absolutely lost, I listen for a second, and if he doesn’t approach me, I approach him. I let him know what the menu says, or the flavors of gelato or how to get to Guilette’s balcony. I order for him or count out how much money he owes to the store clerk.
Sounds like the sweet thing to do right? Well of course I’m not going to leave my fellow American behind in the lion’s den. However, I would be lying if I said I didn’t take a hot minute to absorb the entertainment the American Tourist provides. When it comes to European sources of comedy, Will Ferrell and Tina Fey are obscure. The real funnyman to the Europeans is the American Tourist himself. I know it sounds a little rude to wait just a second before answering their questions or letting them know I speak fluent English, but in a world of non-smiling Italianos, I have to find comic relief somewhere or other!
Regardless of my shameless source of amusement, I’m proud that I finally feel like a local. It’s refreshing, comforting too. I am even more flattered when others assume I am Italian. Who would have thought this Georgia girl could be so worldly (or at least fool others into thinking she is!)? I guess the Italian culture seeped into me without my being aware. But strangely enough, I’m glad that I’ve subconsciously embraced it. I’m thankful for the process of cultural osmosis. It has undoubtedly shaped my perspective on things. And interestingly enough, I look forward to seeing what other molding and additives God plans to use in my personal sculpture of vita.
...Ciao!
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