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I have had the fortune of spending a month in Italy for two years running. My fortune comes from having a brother that
is a naval officer stationed in Naples, Italy. My fortune also comes from having a mother willing to foot the bill for airline
tickets. My mother, brother and family, and I have seen artistic treasures, architectural wonders, cultural oddities and beautiful
countryside. My brother, sister-in-law, and I have also learned that our mother is the ugly American.
Upon
learning that I was to go to Italy the first time I prepared for my trip the way I always prepare for trips abroad. I bought
books on the history, art, sights, and language of Italy. I learned the basic grammar of Italian. I learned to speak basic
pleasantries of hello, goodbye, please, and thank you. I learned of the history of the regions I was to visit. I tried to
get a grasp on regional customs. My mother did not.
We had always tried to think of our mother as an open-minded
soul, tolerant of others, willing to embrace the differences and similarities of others. Boy were we wrong.
Our first clue that Mom was part of that group of Americans we despise was when it came time for her to make her first purchase
in Italy that first year. “How much is this in American?” She intoned in a voice loud enough to be heard
three blocks over. As we cringed we realized that mommy dearest hadn’t even bothered to learn the exchange rate
before leaving home. Second clue was the complete and utter lack of Italian that should have come from momma’s mouth.
She didn’t speak so much as a grazie or a prego even once. We could only watch in amazement as she babbled egregiously
in loud English at stunned and confused Italians, who could only stare at her blankly and then look to us for guidance.
We hoped that as the visit went on she would pick up a couple of words, a few social graces. We pined for a time when
she would be able to change Lira into Dollars and back. Alas it was not to be. Soon we were resigned to our fate. After a
couple of weeks we didn’t even flinch as all of St. Marks Square learned of the baby’s need for a toilet.
We barely batted a lash as when she expressed to uncomprehending shopkeepers – yet again – that we didn’t
have such things in America.
That first visit ended as we heaved a sigh of relief and put her on a plane
back to her beloved USA.
For visit two we had high hopes. She’d had a whole year to prepare to
visit anew, twelve months to bone up on the place she’d said she’d enjoyed so much. Like many of life’s
hopes these too were dashed. Moms hadn’t so much as glanced at a map in the interim.
So it was
on to another round of: “ It sure would be nice if they made these signs in English”, and “I
can’t read this menu”. Europe had taken care of one problem for us; they’d switched to the Euro,
which, by the grace of God, was trading one to one for the dollar. As for the rest, we fell back in to our weary poses and
tried to enjoy ourselves. And once again we heaved a heavy sigh of relief as we put Mom on a plane. The ugly American had
left the building.
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