Yankee-Diddly-Doodle

Have you noticed how the Yanks dominate the expat forums? In the interest of getting and giving help on matters concerning expat life, my wife and I joined an expat forum for our country. It was a busy group with lots of questions and answers being posted daily. Unfortunately when we tried to get involved, we were basically cold-shouldered by the American contingent which had formed cliques with their own indecipherable code.

The only questions which were answered were those put by the US members who all seemed obsessed with finding the latest ‘cool’ places to meet up in. Most of the drivelly conversation consisted of partying and who was seen drunk with whom and there was a self-appointed arbiter of ‘good taste’ who would rubbish anyone whose views differed from hers.

In the end I butted into a conversation and was asked which state I was from. That finished me off. I pointed out that while the Great American Unwashed (and a lot of the ‘Washed’ too) might consider Britain to be a small island off of the coast of Uncle Sam Land where unwanted missiles could be conveniently be located to fend off perceived attacks from the Communist hordes, it was actually an independent monarchy. I wasn’t quite sure why we should be fearing an attack from behind the former Iron Curtain – perhaps these infidels wanted to get their red hands on the apple pie and turkey crops. I also said that I had a degree in advanced flag-burning. That got me drummed off the forum – something which I don’t regret.

What is it with them that they have to invade wherever they go?

Two anecdotes from when I was in my twenties that, perhaps, illustrate my comments.

The first was when I was in Germany. I’d just landed at Frankfurt airport and was desperately trying to find the tube train to the main railway station. Unfortunately there must have been a dozen different tube trains sitting in the underground terminus, none of them displaying where they were going and no platform signs either. An American woman asked me if I knew which train went to the main station – she was going there too. I said I had no idea but would ask a guard. She replied that she would get on ‘this one – it’s bound to be going my way’. Why should she think that the train would go where she wanted to go and ignore the other passengers who ‘must have got it wrong’. I later found out that she headed off in exactly the wrong direction.

The other thing that springs to mind is when I was going to do Voluntary Service in Africa. Our course leader was at great pains to tell us that there were three good ways of ending up in the proverbial missionary’s stewpot. One – get involved with a native lady (AIDS), two – tell the village elders that you don’t approve of women doing all the work and that they should get off of their collective rear ends and help out or, three, associate with members of the Peace Corps. The last of the three being the most dangerous.

I fully expect some xenophobic accusations from this but I stand behind it. My wife is half-American and she agrees with me.

Ex-pats

Oh how I try to avoid these people (for the most part). They come out here with their heads full of ‘La Dolce Vita’ and behave like a load of American Peace Corps volunteers. They patronise the locals, are completely naive about the way of life and if anyone dares to say something is less than perfect (and Italy has plenty of things which are far from perfect), they self-righteously pronounce, “This is Italy” as if for some strange reason the fact had escaped me.

Here’s an example of how embarrassing they can be. Some time back we’d stopped at the local pizza restaurant in our village for – guess what – a pizza. We know (as in to speak to) the lady who runs it with her husband. They are very quiet-spoken and, once they get to know you will chat about ‘general matters’ with you. They are friendly but not effusively so. This is typical for our part of Umbria.

A group of middle-aged British ex-pats arrived. 50 years old with IQ’s in single figures. The women were done up to the nines (this is a pizza parlour and most people here wear jeans or some casual attire) and the men were in suits and having mock fights with each other. When they reached the counter, the manageress asked them what they wanted and they replied in spaghetti-English until it came to the drinks. She did the usual – Coke, Fanta or Beer. With that the men sprouted pogo sticks and bounced up and down shouting ‘Birra! Birra! Birra for me!!!!!’ The manageress looked even more embarrassed than we did.

She came over to us later and asked if we were from the same country. My wife said, “Io sono francese’ and I said, ‘Io sono tedesco’. No way were we going to admit to being British.

We’ve lived here for 5 years now and our experience is that Umbrians are generally very friendly but they are largely self-interested (who isn’t?) and they like to be able to wave, smile and exchange pleasantries with you but without having you in and out of their homes.

People coming out here are expected to believe it is all perfect and are criticised heavily for saying otherwise. As I have said elsewhere in this blog, Italy has a lot going for it and I am not sorry we came here. That does not mean that I have to act like the world’s sole surviving brain donor when confronted with Italian culture or customs nor do I have to think everything is wonderful – it isn’t!