So another observation about Italy: everyone seems to know where everyone else is from based on his or her last name. In as much as Americans are frequently first identified by their region, as in the case of the South, or in the case of Texas, their state, or in the case of Boston or Chicago, their city, or, in the case of New York, their borough, people in Italy seem to be first Romans or Milanese or Venetians before they are Italians. Remarkably, a half dozen people have actually recognized my last name as hailing from Calabria. How in a country of 56 million so many people can identify the source of my genealogy is remarkable, if a little spooky. I kept expecting someone to recognize me.

That being said, however, it gets a little frustrating when all those people, who after learning you cannot speak Italian, feel compelled to express their obvious disappointment with you.

Look, I’m disappointed all your ancestors decided to strip the coliseum to its shell and support the Nazis in WWII and stand by silently while Americans created stuffed-crust pizza, but I’m not bitching about it. So for all you Italians who just might be reading this, allow me to explain ONE LAST TIME.

ONE HUNDRED YEARS. That’s how long my family has lived in the United States. Four full generations now have been born as Americans, not Italians. I am NOT Italian. As much as I bitch about my country, I am now, and for the foreseeable future, unless I lose too many more freedoms under our current and hopefully soon to be exiting presidential administration, will remain an American. My ancestry may be Italian, but my history, my parent’s history, my grandparent’s history, is American.

So if you choose to turn your nose up at me, turn it up because I am American, don’t turn it up because my great-grandparents chose to become American.

Me? I’m just going to turn up my nose at the almost unbearable stench coming from the toilets in this goddam train. Pardon me, but in my country, first class smells like first class. Not like number one.