Italian encounters

Today's ramble has been more of a meander, due to the over indulgence last night of wine, pizza and chocolate cake. I don't usually splurge quite so much in one evening but I was celebrating my son's 17th birthday with my family. So due to the fact that I am a little cake laden I had more time today to take a peek into other people's lives.

My journey this morning has taken me through the mainly Italian populated area of Peterborough, known as Fletton. During the 1950's, thousands of Italians moved to the area to work mainly in the brick industry, and although the business of bricks is still ongoing, the Italian community have of course spread their wings and now work in many areas of varying businesses.
As I walk amongst their homes I never cease to be amazed at their sense of community, family and general good neighbourliness. Their houses are immaculately presented, their garden's pristine and their own appearance always smart.
As I passed the Italian bakery, trying not to stop and purchase bread and pastries, the chatter from within was all Italian, but I know that as soon as I entered, had my resolve not been so strong, they would've immediately stopped and carried on in English. They have an amazing politeness about them that I have never encountered in any other nationality of people before.

I remember as a 13 year old girl going into town to meet friends, and most Saturdays would encounter a lovely, short, typically Italian Mama. It was like I had a beacon on my head or some sort of homing device that enabled her to seek me out, because without fail she would always find me. The amusing thing was, she thought I was Italian, she would always stop me, kiss both of my cheeks and babble something that I couldn't understand, then after another two quick kisses would be on her way. This kind of greeting was of course readily accepted as normal. How would I have felt had it been a large, sweaty, fag smoking woman? I assume my trips in to town would've very quickly come to an end.
I often wonder what happened to her, I also wonder what she was saying, did she think I was rude for not answering her in her mother tongue? Maybe she was just some loony old lady that thought I was easy prey, and her family now have her safely locked in some attic room. Either way, I actually liked the fact that she thought I was Italian, it made me feel exotic, especially as I'm a Lincolnshire yellow belly! (Although there has always been a story floating about that I'm an Egyptian throw back, but that's a tale for another time!)
So what, I wonder had changed? How was it that as a teenager I could easily pass as Italian but now I'm just as easily accepted as not? I still have dark brown hair, thanks L'Oreal, I still have dark brown eyes, though occasionally they need glasses, and much to many other people's frustration, naturally dark skin.
Is it that their community is so tight knit that they know I'm not one of them? Or is it that as I've got older I've become less Italian? I haven't shrunk by two feet, I don't wear only black clothing and as of yet haven't adopted the lovely waddle that they seem to have.
Whatever the answer, I am happy to live near them and walk amongst them, I feel safe in their community. I also love their bread, pizza, pasta, parma ham, wine.... mmm, maybe I could be an honorary Italian? Maybe if I carry on eating as they do, I too will one day waddle.