An English Tip

Italians know I'm not Italian. But in the rest of the world I can choose to embrace or conceal my Americanism. To foreign onlookers, other than my lack of puffy coat and athletic shoes, I seem Italian; my mamma mias are as authentic as the next guy's. Therefore, travelling outside of Itlay, I can decide which country I'm from.

I'm happy to accept my adopted nationality and keep my smile to myself when I hear a fellow American ask if their 10.15 train leaves in the morning or at night. I feel a little sad when I see them being refused at pizzerias because they're asking for dinner before the fire in the woodburning oven has been lit. And I cringe when they say stereotypically American things with a certain certainty that no one in earshot speaks English.

One place being red, white and blue is an advantage is in restaurants outside of Italy. I  learned this at a Greek diner in Berlin where I was instructed by an Italian to speak English with the waiter so we'd get better service. The room was so filled with opas that, at the table, our quiet Italian conversation (seems like an oxymoron) went unheard. Then when it was time to order more ouzo, I pulled out my best West Michigan accent.

Initially I didn't question the request to speak to the waiter in English. I  proudly imagined Greeks had a soft spot for Americans. But later I was reminded that I was the only one in Europe who had forgotten that Italians don't tip. Thanks to l'americana, we got good food and good service and the waiter got a good tip.

Last year I went to Vienna with an Italian student and his family. Unfortunately, I'd forgotten the importance of showing my real roots in European restaurants. We accidently entered as five Italians only to be greeted by an unhappy host and served by surly staff. When the disgruntled family quietly complained about their cold cutlets I confessed that it was probably my fault for not flaunting my stars and stripes. I told them that Italians are known as non-tippers and explained that in most countries waiters earn very little and rely on tips. The sight of five famished Italians meant only one thing; all work and no pay.

Several weeks later I met my travel mates for tea. We were joined by another family that had just visited England. They spoke more dramatically about the restaurants' worthless waitstaff than the London Bridge and Big Ben. As I was about to explain why, the cold cutlet crew stepped in. Minutes later I had the name for my next intensive English course: Give Up on Grammar. It's Time to Accentuate Your American Accent.