I took my lunchtime walk today in a rainstorm. As the wind howled up the narrow vicoli perpendicular to me, I was walking north to Piazza Maggiore. Emerging out into a crossroad where the perpendicular gusts blasted me, suddenly unveiled from between the walls of buildings either side of me, the wind lifted a ten foot veranda umbrella clear off the ground and blew it over a tiny passing woman. Hearing the hefty metal arm dangle and spin precariously on one its edges, threatening to crush her completely, rather than coolly and pragmatically putting an arm out to steady the mast, or simply continuing to walk forward out of the radius of the falling structure, the woman gyrated and buzzed frantically, making loose, panicked noises. An unbothered man leaning against the wall taking a smoke break from the caffe who owned the umbrella simply reached out to catch the metal mast threatening to fall, not in any heroic way but a way that silently said, ‘why don’t you just steady it with your hand’. Don’t squeal and fuss, as if indignant that this ludicrous situation could happen to you, as if incredulous that a bar could allow its parasol to frighten you, you who are owed such an air of dignity. Her panic seemed entitled and litigious.

Italians, so far, seem like this to me. There is a sense of bolshiness and incredulity, an inference of disrespect at every turn. A judgemental gander at me walking down the street daring to wear white trainers, or god forbid, even sporty clothes. There is not much I can do not to stick out here. Even if my Italian was native level perfect, something about my comportment, my complexion, hair colour, or walk, would light the beacons to warn the townsfolk of the coming intruder.