Me Italian too

I must have been about fifteen or sixteen when I met my first honest-to-God Italians. They were three young ladies in their late teens or early twenties. They were in Devon with a throng of other kids from all over Europe to study English in summer school.

They stopped me asked me how to get to somewhere or other. I don't remember where it was they wanted to get to although I remember that it involved walking with them about a mile through the village to the front. I was too taken with their stunning good looks and, more importantly, the fact that they were Italian.

I took a deep breath ... and asked very formally "Loro sono italiane?" They nodded. I don't remember actually getting much out of them by way of conversation. "Mio nonno è italiano." (my grampa is Italian) I said, proud as punch. Proud that my grampa was Italian and proud that I was actually speaking Italian to real Italians. Their reaction was disappointing to say the least. My revelation didn't even provoke an "Oh, really." They were completely underwhelmed.

I walked with them down to the front (Combe Martin bay), showed them where it was they were going and they skipped off chattering and giggling between themselves.

I can't say whether I sounded like an Englishman speaking Italian or an Italian speaking Italian because I got no feedback at all ... although the extent to which my charges were underwhelmed may have been feedback enough. I was gutted.

I've always put it down to the assumption that they were Tuscan. Strange people the Tuscans. In my travels around Italy, they have appeared to be the least talkative. Of course, I can't say for certain that they were Toscane.

Strange people though the Tuscans. Anyone who says 'Hoha-Hola' for Coca-Cola has to be viewed with suspicion.