Straniera

"Si vede che siete straniere,"* observes the receptionist one morning as another teacher and I stand by the photocopier. I conduct a quick review of the past ten minutes in my head, trying to figure out what could have provoked this comment. It's only 10am, so I can't have committed the cardinal sin of foisting dairy (in the form of cappuccino) upon my digestive system after noon; I haven't done anything sacrilegious to any pasta recently... I'm stumped.

"Look," she continues to the other receptionist, "they're not wearing tights. Mamma mia, ragazze! Aren't you cold?"

I glance down at my feet, currently encased in brown suede ballet flats of questionable stylishness, across which fall the ends of my jeans - just slightly too wide to be fashionable this season.

This is how I know that I will never be truly Reggiana. Or Italian. Or even European. I mean, obviously - I'll always be plain old High Bridge with a (largely dormant) dash of Paris. But it's kind of funny, if you think about it, how obvious it is to others. I may show up to the opening of the cathedral and be just as excited as any Reggio native. I may complain eloquently about the rush hour traffic every tuesday when I drive out to my lesson in a nearby village. I may vaunt the qualities of erbazzone (a local specialty) to unsuspecting travellers. I may wander around the street vendors' fair on the local holiday, muttering my irritation at all the tourists who have descended upon us to partake in the quaintness. (Mulled wine and chestnuts under the portici, anyone?)

I may even become proficient in giving directions to the three or four major hotels to lost tourists. But that won't stop me from wandering around without tights under my jeans. (Really, though? Tights under jeans?) Or chewing on large chunks of bread while walking from one class to another (eating while on the go is not the done thing at all here). This inability to fit in makes things kind of awkward at times: there are morning when you just want a cup of coffee and lack the energy to give the barista a complete explanation of the various life decisions that brought you to Reggio (an often unavoidable discussion as soon as you walk into a bar and open your mouth).

On the other hand, it's not such a bad thing. For one, this gives you a bit of a buffer zone for doing strange things. I have, on occasion, ordered a cappuccino in the afternoon, and after a quick intake of breath, the lady manning the cafe served us with nothing more critical than an amused half-smile. And then there's the fact that, as a foreigner, you see everything with that first-time point of view: from the beauty of the local churches and the poetry of street signs in Italian to the array of hams in the local salumeria. Real Reggiani stride past their local basilica without even glancing up at it. They gulp down their espresso and take its precise strength and flavor for granted. At lunchtime they choose between risotto alla zucca (pumpkin) and prosciutto/arugula sandwiches without knowing that in other parts of the world, such things would be considered a treat. I walk in and am labeled almost instantly as an awkward American, but at least I enjoy (almost) every moment.

*"You can tell you're foreigners"