I work in a hotel. To avoid drowning receptionists in people, unofficially, I work as some sort of information guide. I give out advice to guests who might want to know how to get around the city or Italy, suggestions either personal or sponsored, and so on.

Guests usually ask reasonable things, but I have guests who vie for the “Least Possible Thing Asked” award.

Guest: “I’ve been trying to go to Trevi Fountain, but it’s really crowded, and I can’t have my photos done well in that chaos. Can you please send somebody out to shoo the crowd away for me? I’ll pay extra!” 

Spoiler: the answer was “no”.

This was relayed to me by a friend of mine working as a waiter. He works at a restaurant in Rome, Italy, where they cook only Roman cuisine, including the most obscure dishes, like skate (a fish) and broccoli soup or pajata pasta. “Only” is the operative word here: the restaurant doesn’t have a pizza oven and doesn’t serve quite a few other “General Italian Cuisine” staples.

One day, way before the Global Nastiness, a party of four tourists arrives and asks to be seated in accented Italian. After a bit, my friend comes back to them to give the menus, but after a quick scan, one of them closes the menu.

Tourist #1: *In Italian* “Do you have another menu?”

Friend: “Pardon me? What other menu?”

Tourist #1: “A menu with other options, like pizza.”

Friend: “We don’t make pizza here.”

Tourist #1: “What?”

Friend: “We’re a Roman cuisine-only restaurant; we don’t make pizza, which is Neapolitan.”

Tourist #2: *In English* “What kind of f***ed-up restaurant in Italy doesn’t have pizza?! It’s, like, the only thing you eat. That can’t be real. You gotta be saving it up for the locals.”

Tourist #1: “You sure?” *Switching to English* “Do you speak English?”

Friend: “Yes, I do.”

Tourist #1: “Good. So, you’re telling me that you don’t serve pizza in here, only pasta?”

Friend: “Not quite. We do serve something we call ‘pizza’, but it’s more like flatbread. I don’t think—”

Tourist #2: “See? You have that! Gimme some of that pizza! I want it with pepperoni!”

Tourist #1: “Well, if it’s called ‘pizza’, it can’t be all that different from whatever you think it is. Bring us some.”

Tourist #3: “Yeah, why are you being so difficult?”

Friend: “Our pizza has no toppings whatsoever; that is clearly not what you want.”

Tourist #1: “Well, I still want to try, even if it has no toppings.”

Tourist #2: “I’m not eating any of this stuff you have here, that’s for sure! Accommodate me, or I’m not eating!”

My friend, sighing, takes all their orders. Figuring that not putting anything down for [Tourist #2] would end badly, he puts down an order of focaccia and spicy salami to get around his requests.

The order is taken by the kitchen, cooked, and then finally brought to the table. The moment my friend is done placing down the dishes, [Tourist #2] gets red in the face.

Tourist #2: “What is this s***? I didn’t order flatbread and salami. I wanted my pizza, d*** it! I want your manager, now.”

The manager is begrudgingly summoned.

Manager: “Is there a problem?”

Tourist #2: “Yeah, your server refuses to serve us pizza. How can you let somebody who doesn’t bother to know the menu work for you?”

Manager: “Because we don’t have pizza. We are a Roman cooking restaurant; yes carbonara, no pizza or ravioli.”

Tourist #2: “Impossible! If you really don’t want to serve pizza to tourists, then f****** advertise it, d***ebag!” *Gets up* “I’m leaving, mates. I’m going someplace that doesn’t scam tourists like this!”

[Tourist #1] facepalmed as [Tourist #2] picked up his coat and slammed the door shut, causing two nearby wine bottles to fall and shatter. The other three refused to pay for the broken bottles or [Tourist #2]’s tab; they argued about it for half an hour. The whole thing exhausted my friend and the manager so much that they decided to close somewhat early that day, on top of instituting a policy of always telling tourists up front that they didn’t serve any other pizza than Roman “pizza”/focaccia.

I am a tourist at an art museum in Rome. I am admiring paintings that are hundreds of years old and most containing Christian themes. As I go around the room and look at the paintings, I notice a woman behind me, huffing and tutting, camera in hand.

I notice that she is trying to take pictures of all the paintings containing Jesus, and as I admire the paintings slowly, I keep getting in her way. This keeps happening, and eventually, a security guard notices.

Guard: “Madam, no photos allowed.”

Tourist: *Scowling at me* “I wouldn’t have been so obvious if he hadn’t been hogging all the Jesus!”

I’m on holiday in Rome just after high school graduation. I join a tour organized by the youth hostel I’m staying at. After a long trek through the Eternal City, as we go back to the hostel, a boy not much older than me approaches our tour guide.

Boy: “Excuse me, but I want to know: are you Roman?”

Guide: “Well, not quite. I’m Sabinian, but I’ve lived in Rome for years.”

Boy: “Oh, I see. So, can you tell me where I can find the reservation?”

Guide: *Puzzled* “The reservation? What do you mean, exactly?”

Boy: “Y’know, the place where Romans live, and they all dress up in togas and have gladiatorial fights in. Those reservations.”

Guide: “I… I’m pretty sure there isn’t one.”

Boy: “So they demolished it when they banned traditional costumes last year? That’s s***ty as h***. At least they’ve been protesting about it pretty well.”

Guide: “Wait, what? What are you talking about? There’s a law against people dressing up as centurions, but…”

Boy: “But what? Aren’t you proud of your heritage?”

Guide: “If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t work as a guide, but what does that have to do with anything?”

Boy: *Shaking his head* “Never mind, then.”

The guide shrugs and carries on as usual. When we all get back to the hotel, I approach the boy.

Me: “What were you trying to ask to [Guide]? I’m not sure I understood your train of thought.”

Boy: “I wanted to visit the Roman reservation, that’s all, but apparently Italians are too racist to treat the Romans any better.”

Me: “But Italians are descended from the Romans; how’s that even possible?”

Boy: “Explain yesterday’s protest, then.”

He then went on ranting about racism and cultural appropriation. I tried to look up the protest he was talking about, but, as it turned out, it was the 21st of April, which is Rome’s birthday, and has a parade of Roman-era reenactors going down the streets around the Colosseum. But I still don’t understand how he could even think Romans were still existing as a separate population!

I’m doing guided tours in the historical centre of Rome, leading a tour group out of the Imperial Fora and bringing them to the Colosseum. [Tourist #1] from the group approaches me.

Tourist #1: *In English* “By the way, I was wondering, did the Romans ever ask to fix up the ruins?”

Me: “Not really, no, most of Rome’s citizens think they’re better that way.”

Tourist #1: “I mean, I suppose so, but isn’t there a representative body around to protect their interests?”

Me: *Confused* “What do you mean, exactly? The city of Rome has a lot of mayorships in it, but there’s not really one standing one above the other.”

Tourist #1: “So, I guess that you just kind of keep Romans in reservations like First Nations, then? Because that’s what it looks like.”

Me: “First Nations?”

Tourist #2: “[Tourist #1], cut it out, the Romans don’t exist anymore; they can’t be represented in the city body.”

Tourist #1: “Ah, I suppose they all died in the Holocaust, [My Name]? Because I’ve read that ‘Romas’ died in it…”

I bit my tongue and ignored the question, getting to the explanation of the Colosseum. [Tourist #2] did try to offer me a pastry as an apology, but I declined.