The woman from Sicily

Her olive eyes peered over the miniature cup of espresso as she asked me, "Why didn't you speak in Italian?"

I turned to the short squash of a woman and with a smile explained, "Because I don't know it!"

It was about 7am on Sunday morning and my friends and I were waiting for our 8 o'clock train back to Perugia from Florence. I decided to go to the station bar (café), arms heavy with bags, to get a cup of coffee and cornette (croissant).

"You don't?" she seemed surprised.

(When ordering my breakfast, I asked the lady behind the counter if she new English, in Italian. Although she didn't I was still able to fumble with the words that I do know.)

"Nope," I answered and then immediately felt guilty—"well, I'm learning, but I don't know much yet."

"Well, I should be talking to you in Italian then!" she said in her confusing accent. (It played strongly of British and a hint of German as I later found out.)

Her salt and pepper frizz infused hair brought back flashes of home and she continued to talk to me in very clear English through her missing front teeth.

There was something that struck me about this lady—or I wouldn't bother writing about her. Immediate (and shameful) impressions would have concluded that she was a bit crazy. However, as I continued in what turned out to be a 30 minute conversation with this lady from Sicily—her razor remarks and outlook on life quite captured me.

And her story:

From what I gathered, this lady was born and raised in Sicily. For one reason or another, she lived in Germany for 30 years and then in England for another 10. (Presumably this is where she was currently coming from.) As she is now in Florence and headed south to Perugia, I can only assume that she was on her way to the famous island of Sicily.

However, this lady has run into a concrete problem.

She is returned to her home country, of which she is so proud, yet the Italians ask her where she is from.

"They asked me if I was from Poland!! ME? From Poland?!!" she scoffed, apparently aggravated. "I'm a foreigner in my own country!"

I could see how offended and appalled she was and talked about this situation of hers for about 80% of our conversation.

It wasn't just once. "They asked me if I had my papers! I was BORN here, I tell them. Me, a foreigner!!"

Traveling alone, back to her 100 year old aunt, back to Italy, her sad eyes told a story of a divorce from her husband. She put her arms up in a what-can-I-do-now way.

The lady from Sicily seemed as though she felt very misplaced. She knew that she belonged somewhere, but was quite unsure of where that was. I felt really bad, but was quite unsure myself—of what to tell her.

I tried to say that perhaps it was her accent that made people think she was a foreigner. It seemed as though she and not considered herself to have had an accent, and this was a great possibility.

"Well, I have lived in Germany for 30 years, so I must sound like it by now," she considered to herself.

"Yes you do," I reassured.

However, for the remaining conversation, this chatty Kathy explained to me why people should not believe in Walt Disney and his version of Pinocchio.

She went on to say that the story of Pinocchio came from Italy and was told the real version as a child.

"But the puppet master was never a mean man, oh no! Don't believe in that cartoon stuff," she told me. "The puppet master was happy that the puppet wanted to go back to his dad."

She said that she had just been to the library in Florence where the fifth edition of the original Pinocchio story was kept. She begged them to let her see it. Eventually they gave her a card and let her touch the "fragile pages" under their supervision.

Anyways—it was certainly an interesting encounter. The woman from Sicily soon thereafter, told me that she must get going before she talked my ear off. It was a surprise to find out that we were both on the same train to Perugia and we did say "Ciao" in the train station after our 2 ½ hour ride home.