IT SEEMS AS THOUGH Americans are all about extremes. The worst thing that’s ever happened—at least twice a day, the nicest person they’ve ever met—every other introduction, the slowest computer they’ve ever experienced—every time the clock face comes on the mouse on the screen. So, naturally, Americans constantly create stereotypes as soon as they meet someone or go somewhere and correct them as they go along. “Italians are so friendly!”—that is, until one of them doesn’t stop in their car to let you cross the street… then they’re vicious, impatient assholes.

I, on the other hand, being the model citizen that I am, have attempted to stray from the rude American’s natural instinct to judge a people as a whole based upon a single incident. In light of this brave attempt, I have become a sponge to the puddle of Italian culture, absorbing by observation every aspect I witness and rejecting any thought or judgment that seeps through my pores.

Thus far, I have been able to infiltrate the cultural barriers that generally cause the nose to crinkle and the mouth to turn down when Italians say: “the Americans”. I can sit in the wine bar with Seven, Domi, Francesco, and their Italian friends and watch them interact, like Jane Goodall in the forest of culture.

When Reid walks in the room I observe a sudden change in the atmosphere—in their attitudes—like a foreign species which the chimps must be careful around, not sure if they can trust the spider-monkey. Yes, we are all monkeys, but calling a chimpanzee and baboon is just as bad as calling an Italian an American.

-Rebecca Albert