My number was up. After several hours of sitting on a cold, hard, metal bench, it was finally my turn to speak to someone. But as I stood up to regurgitate the speech in flawless Italian I had prepared while waiting, I froze. And the illusion that I was just an ordinary Italian girl who wanted to buy a train ticket was shattered. I was marked. I was an American.
The travel agent greeted me with his best English and, feeling incredibly embarrassed and humbled, I caved in and used my native language. We chatted while he printed out my ticket to Munich. Everything was fine until we reached the critical moment when he began to copy my name onto the ticket. And the inevitable question spilled forth:
"Not Camilla?" the travel agent asked as he looked up at me from his desk.
"No, it's Gamilla," I replied, a little bewildered that he would think I didn't know my own name.
"Because Camilla is Italian, you know. Isn't your family from Italy? When you go home, tell your parents they made a mistake. It should be Camilla," the agent said.
I assured him I would do so. How was I supposed to explain that my name wasn't common in any language, that my parents hadn't made a mistake in naming me -- they were just weird? As I left the travel agency, I glanced down at my ticket for the next day. Sure enough, my name was printed out as "Camilla Gutman." I guess I knew from the beginning that our little dialogue would get me nowhere.
I endured the same struggle throughout my eight months in Florence, and eventually I waved the white flag and surrendered to being called a different name. In fact, I grew so accustomed to the incorrect and much longer version of my name (everyone here calls me Gami) that when someone actually pronounced my name right, it felt foreign and awkward.
In fact, as the months passed, everything associated with America began to feel a little foreign and awkward. I got used to banks opening a half hour later than their stated time, to trying on pants that wouldn't make it past my left thigh, to the lack of a microwave and dryer in my home and to coffee that came in cups the size of a thimble. I no longer considered cars a convenience. Instead, I dodged them with great trepidation as I walked down the narrow streets back to my apartment, arms loaded with bags of groceries from the ipermercato Esselunga.
No more did I run to the gym to join the ranks of stick thin girls trying to burn off every last calorie. Instead, I took long walks up and down the hills of Florence's outskirts and took lazy walks along the Arno River, carefully avoiding the strange mutant rodents that swim up and down its turbulent waters. My normal diet of instant oatmeal and macaroni and cheese converted into one of fresh bread and tomatoes smothered with chunks of creamy mozzarella and olive oil. My obsession with "Jeopardy!" slowly subsided, replaced by a daily dose of "Passaparola," possibly the greatest game show of all times. And yes, I even started listening to Kylie Minogue and Tiziano Ferro, or what my mother lovingly refers to as "Eurotrash."
My attempts to integrate into Italian society -- though never complete -- eventually paid off. I took a class at the University of Florence and passed the oral exam. My friend and I met two Italian guys who didn't speak English very well, and together we all played soccer in the piazza at 2 a.m., watched Italian films without subtitles and discussed the subtle difference between the words "beach" and another certain "b" word in the English language.
My last day in Florence was rainy and cold -- I guess it mirrored my feelings as I watched the clock tick toward the fated time of departure. At 5 a.m., after a long night of watching Italians learn the fine art of beer pong and listening to Vasco Rossi sing "Ma dove vai?," I shoved my bags into the back of a taxi and sped away into the night. As I boarded the plane, I started to cry. I realized that for all the "conveniences" and "luxuries" of the U.S., I wouldn't have traded one single day of my time in Florence. And that if I could, I would be "Camilla Gutman" forever.
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