Sometimes stereotypes are true. Old people really do eat dinner at 4 pm and hit the sack by 6, it really does always rain in Seattle, Washington, and Italians really do know how to watch a soccer game, excuse me, futbol game. This past Sunday I decided to take in a little Florence atmosphere and attend arguably the biggest soccer match of the year, Fiorentina against AC Milano.

For the pre-game activities one of my friends had an apartment about a five minute walk from the stadium so we decided to hang out there before heading to the game. Walking through the streets surrounding the stadium three hours before kickoff I could already see the makings of a chaotic night. Younger Italians milled around with their purple and white scarves. Older people had their matching umbrellas. It was like the quiet before the storm. I know right, scarves and umbrellas sound absolutely menacing.

After getting ready for the game and arguing about the game’s outcome, admittedly with very limited knowledge, (and no, Landon Donovan does not play for either of these teams) we headed out to the game. It was Mardi Gras out on the streets, insanity. Thousands of people attempting to squeeze their way past security and get to the promise land. Chants had already begun; I guess we don’t like Milano? But of course we wouldn’t be in Italy if besides the quasi-riots going on near the stadium we still didn’t have some Italians peacefully sipping their cafes gazing out of the bars and trattorias.

Once I got into the stadium things completely changed. No longer was the crowd united in their goal of just getting into the stadium, now it was a mad dash to get the best possible remaining seats in each person’s respective designated section. I unfortunately was naive to think that the seat number on my ticket would mean that indeed I was entitled to that corresponding seat. Instead I was forced to stand up in an aisle. A small price to pay if the people in your actual seat look like they might stick a gelato cone in your eye if you even brought up the fact that yes, in fact this small area of land was yours because yes, in fact you had paid for it.

Once the game started I could have cared less about me location. I was doing the Italian thing. I was singing along with the chants, in English and saying nothing to do with what they were saying, but I was still part of the crowd. Oh, and the poor visiting fans. For some reason we thought they were terrible people and put them in a cage. A literal chain link fence surrounded the Milano spectators. But as we all know words can penetrate walls so we all chose to sing to them in the language of vulgarity, which is universal so I got to chime in.

By half-time I was kind of tired but I couldn’t show any weaknesses in front of the Italians, so I bought a bucket of popcorn. The bucket cheered me right up and I was unfortunately blessed with a spectacular view of the other team scoring. We didn’t like the goal so everyone started to scream at the Milano fans using our favorite language of vulgarity and I realized that popcorn also can penetrate some walls.

That goal ended up being the only one scored the entire game so that meant we lost. I like being able to say “we” because I feel like I am a true resident of Florence. If you told me our best player, enter best players name here, had suffered a season ending injury I might be angry enough to give an intimidating fist pound to the nearest desk. This game has verified that I do live here; I bleed purple and white even if just for an afternoon.

One dilemma surrounding studying as a foreigner in a new country is struggling with issues of identity. Especially as an American in a world where most are skeptic of Americans, I’ve found it difficult over the past four months to answer proudly back when someone asks where I come from. Though I do appreciate my country, I’ve been feeling the need to shed my stars and stripes and lay low for the time being. I don’t like being a foreigner in . But does becoming a non-foreigner mean giving up my ties to the ?

The intersection of two major events yesterday, Super Tuesday and Martedi Grasso, set an interesting stage for this issue. As I went to Democrats Abroad to cast a vote in my first-ever presidential primary, I really was proud to be exercising my civic duty. Even from thousands of miles away, I was a participant in my government, a tiny voice from abroad. After filling out my ballot in a room decorated patriotically in red, white, and blue, I walked away with a sense of purpose and renewed hope in my country.

Yesterday evening my friends peer-pressured me out of the house to check out Fat Tuesday festivities in Florence . The streets of Santa Croce were packed with American students. It was a frat party, Florence themed. Every English word spoken seemed loud, rash, and obnoxious. I hated that these were my people—cringing with the thought that many times I was that annoying American. I was a hypocrite, and I knew it.

The weird thing is, I love being loud and boisterous at home. It just doesn’t seem right, respectful even, to transport my American self here, where the Italians have to deal with me. So for now I will speak softly in the streets, except for when it comes to politics, which I know my Italian neighbors will gladly raise a ruckus over.