Crazy American Lady

So, a couple in a car pulls over at the bus stop in front of my house. The lady rolls down the window and…    wow, this is starting to sound like bad joke.

Anyway, the lady starts demanding to know where the “stadio” is. She is speaking frustratedly to the kind, old Italian lady at the bus stop who is attempting to understand what this flustered woman is yelling about. Regardless of what you think, yelling words does not mean that they will suddenly make more sense. If there is a language barrier, you can scream the word into a microphone hooked up to ten different amps turned all the way up and the person attempting to understand will only end up with their hair on end and their eardrums ruptured.

Unfortunately, this woman was, you guessed it, an obnoxious American attempting to arrive to the center of Siena or at least some place where she could park her car. I knew almost immediately that she was American by the way she pronounced “stadio” and then began yelling about soccer, balls, sports, anything related to a stadium. The old, Italian lady repeated the American’s words without comprehension. I was hoping to not have to blow my cover—I hate having to use English when I am trying my best to blend in as an Italian—but this woman’s attitude was aggravating and she clearly needed someone to tell her where to go.

I intervened, and instead of being relieved, this American woman, stranded in a small town, in a country where she did not speak the language, begins to speak to me in the same rude, condescending tone of voice. She made a gesture and a comment similar to “FINALLY! Someone who can tell me something that makes sense.”

She asked me where the stadium was and I told her: “there is one in the center and there is the one behind us.” Well, this clearly was not the answer she wanted to hear. She became ornery. She did not ask but demanded where they could park the car. Well, not wanting to imitate her rude attitude I told her that there was no parking at the stadium but if she drove to the Fortezza she would find parking there. Apparently this is what she wanted to hear because she kept repeating “oh yeah, the Fortezza, that is where we want to go, the Fortezza… yes, I remember now.” I gave them directions to get to the Fortezza; mostly I told them to follow the signs to the center, described the general direction, described the Fortezza.

I barley had the chance to finish my directions before this woman was directing her husband to drive. She could not be bothered to repeat the directions back to me. She just kept repeating, “Fortezza, Fortezza, straight and right… ok! FORTEZZA!” She pointed violently ahead, reminding me of a fearless general charging into battle. The car sped off, the crazy American lady’s hair flying in the wind. I never heard a “thank you” or note any signs of gratitude. All I saw was the tale end of the car as it hit the first round about.

“Well I hope they figure it out,” I muttered to myself. I gave the old Italian lady an embarrassed smile. Perhaps they heard the part about following the signs to the center and assumed they could handle it from there. As easy as this may seem, it most certainly is not.

Italian signs are difficult, if not impossible, to follow. At one fork the center could be in either direction, one is just guaranteed to be faster. It is a crapshoot if you do not know which one is the fastest, and more often than not the difference can be as much as half an hour—so is Italy and its directions.

Chances are, those Americans are still driving around, searching desperately for the “stadio” the “Fortezza” or a place to park their car. The horrendous American woman is probably out there now, terrorizing the poor, kindly, old Italian citizens of Siena.