The scene was just as I’d imagined: me, alone in an outdoor café, perusing the kind of menu that would wither The Olive Garden. Maybe I’d have a gelato later. Maybe I’d find the perfect leather jacket. Perhaps a cute guy in an Armani suit would wink at me as he sped by on a Vespa. 

I was in Rome on a day trip from Palestrina, the Italian village where my sister Alison lives with her family. I had traveled to Italy to meet my 4-month-old nephew, Sean, for the first time. Alison and I spent the first few days of my visit cooing at the baby and watching satellite TV. But after seeing the Missy Elliot episode of “Cribs” for the third time, I was ready to strike out on my own. I’d been to Italy three times, but what did I really know about it?  This is where my nephew would be raised, the country where my great-Grandma Puglio was born. I wanted to learn about the culture, and making fun of Dr. Phil wasn’t going to teach me a thing.

So there I was, a 30-year-old single New Yorker lunching alone in the great city of Roma. Anything was possible.

And yet I was starting to miss Alison, Sean, and Dr. Phil.

Sitting in the café, I watched people in the piazza wearing sneakers and clutching tour books, and wondered where all the Italians were. I hardly saw any. I promised myself I’d speak Italian at every opportunity, but my every “Ciao!” was met with a “How may I help you?” If no one would allow me to practice, how would I ever make the transition from Spanish-with-an-Italian-accent to actual Italian?

I was supposed to feel at home there, but my Italian (okay, half Italian-American) upbringing left me ill prepared for the mother country. So much of my family life centered on “Italian” traditions - baked ziti on Sunday afternoons, a love for Frank Sinatra, quality footwear. But until my sister married an Italian, none of us had ever been there. Were the born-and-bred Italians hiding in shame because their cousins in Connecticut hawked fake Prada bags from Chinatown? Did it bother them that cappiccola somehow got mangled into “gabagool”?

The few Italians I had seen regarded me the way I look at tourists in line for a Wednesday matinee of “Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.” It was hot enough to bake focaccia on the cobblestone, and my face shone with a patina of grime.  My synthetic-fiber shirt clung to me as if I were in a wet T-shirt contest for modest people. I had developed a slight limp. Running my fingers through my damp ponytail, I conceded that only the least discerning of Armani-wearing Vespa riders would wink at me, and even that seemed unlikely.

I ordered bucatini all’Amatriciana, in English, from a Pakistani waiter. After an incident involving one particularly stubborn noodle, some tomato sauce, and my eye, the waiter brought a spoon. Feeling like I’d failed Italian-American 101, I left money on the table and snuck away with a passing herd of Japanese tourists.

On my way to the Metro, I stopped at McDonald’s to use the bathroom. Not only was it air conditioned to shivery perfection, the place was brimming with Italians. So this is where they were. While the Americans melted in sidewalk cafes enjoying cappuccino like “real Italians,” real Italians elbowed through a crowd to order McRoyals with Cheese.

The last night of my trip, I went to Gigi Pizza, the local hangout in Palestrina, with Alison and her husband Emiliano’s family. They ordered without even looking at a menu. I tried to keep up with the frantic, hand-flailing conversation as I slurped gnochetti with porcini mushrooms that made the bucatini I ate in Rome resemble Beefaroni. After we finished, the waiter placed aperitif glasses and bottles of grappa on the table. We poured shots, our conversation making up in volume and hand gestures what we lacked in comprehension.

Alison held Sean, who was looking at me intently. I leaned in and he took hold of my ears, gently pulling my nose into his mouth. And I thought you - Italian, American, and Italian-American - you’re the one who will make Grandma Puglio proud. You’ll understand this culture in a way I never will. Perhaps you’ll even wear Armani, ride a Vespa, wink at unkempt Americans. Someday, after I’ve learned Italian, I will take you to McDonald’s, and we’ll talk and talk and talk in whichever language you choose.

O’Flynn lives and writes in New York City. Her first story for World Hum, Pura Vida, appeared in 2001.