I was waiting in line at the train station in Florence when the man in front of me started to chat me up in Italian. We told each other what we were waiting in line for and so one. We were both in line for sigarette. Diana Sigarette for me, just like my name. Then he asked me where I was from. “Di dove sei?” I interpreted his question as an American and proceeded to tell him my family was from Italy, Austria, Sweden, Honduras and Mexico. He shook his head no, no, that can’t be. You can’t be from all those places. Where are you from. “Oh, sucsi. Chicago. Io sono di Chicago.” You would have thought I cursed his mother to the devil in Italian. “Americana? Americana!” he exclaimed. “Si, sono Americana.” He spun around and ignored me the rest of our waiting time. My sigaretta didn’t taste as good when I finally smoked it.