Who the Hell Are You?

Had a bit of a setback on my efforts to build on last year here on my side of the hill in Italy yesterday.
A little reality check, shall we say.
Went to the coffee bar I decided last year would be MY coffee bar.
I told you that Italians always have their coffee bar, the bar they go to everyday, sometimes several times a day for their jolt of java.
Always standing up at the bar, cappuccino in the morning, caffe macchiato, mid-morning and then just plain caffe later in the day.
Like clockwork. Their place.
The comforting rigid rhythms of Italian life.
So, last summer -- and then the month I was here in the winter too -- I set about making this bar my own. It's the closest coffee bar to us, just down the hill.
A big hang-out for locals. Not a tourist in sight.
So, I chatted amiably to the baristas every time I went in, who were either the forty-something son or daughter of the owner, who by now is an elderly woman. She works the bar too, but much less than she used to.
This past winter, I chatted lots to her son, who had just had his second baby, another boy. Two sons like me, something we had in common.
He would always greet me with a smile and a comment or two, as his sister was starting to too.
It all takes awhile in Italy.
Like years.
I mean, you're a foreigner, always, if you're not from this town.
Doesn't matter if you speak Italian.
If technically, you are Italian.
But I was breaking through.
Stopped at the bar yesterday for the first time. A little later than usual, more into the lunch break time.
The elderly owner was working the bar.
She served me my coffee and I asked her how her new grandson was, who I knew was now about six months old.
Since it's been six months since I was here.
Since her son told me about his new baby.
I've seen this woman dozens of times over the 15 years we've owned our little slice of an Italian hill. And she greeted me with a warm buongiorno when I walked in.
They're nice, this family, part of the reason I've decided to favor this bar above most others. Not all Italian shopkeepers are nice. Trust me on that.
But when I asked her about her grandson, she looked at me quizically and asked plainly: "Who are You?".
Italians can be very direct.
Deep breath. Big warm smile.
"I live up the hill. You remember me, signora!"
Long stare. No real recognition.
Still aways to go, folks.