On facing the hard truth.

An Italian gentleman.  I  was hoping to  be mistaken for one.  At the airport in Rome. But I was in for a rude awakening.  There I was. Seated.  Munching  on an ice cream bar. In a gentlemanly manner, I thought.  Self-satisfied.  Maybe a little arrogant.  As I strolled away.  When suddenly I heard a man yell in American English, ‘Hey, where did you get that ice cream bar?’  Of course, I told him. Pointing to a nearby restorante called Ciao. Then I muttered woefully, ‘Do I look like an American?’  Yes, he said.  Because of the ice cream bar.  Italians are more likely to spoon gelato from a cup.  Especially if you are a gentleman.  But there’s probably more to it. I simply look American. Even from a distance. To my chagrin.  I tell my Italian true love that maybe I should go in for a nose job. For a Romanesque nose. Or maybe it’s that I ain’t properly dressed. I have Italian shoes and an Italian sweater and an Italian belt. And I occasionally sip an espresso. Anyway, the guy that spotted me was an American. A gentleman from Iowa.  Seated next to his wife.  Maybe he took me for a Minnesota gentleman. I didn’t ask. Maybe it’s that I don’t like facing the hard truth.    –Jim Broede