CLASSIC AMERICAN-EUROPEAN ENCOUNTERS....Type A, Type B.

So I will continue now with the Italy semifinal post game story, even though it is extremely untimely at this point, following their (cheap) victory over France in the final.

The streets in Pisa were CRAZY, you guys. I know I already said it, but I’ll say it again. Crazy.

My face was on perma-smile, as in a George W. Bush smirk – the kind that just doesn’t come off, no matter what you hear through the grapevines that the headlines are saying. Even though, when compared to Germany and Germans, or France and the French, I don’t particularly like Italy or Italians all that much, it was impossible to not be happy for these people. An Ethiopian who had been cryogenically frozen in 1935 and de-thawed right before kickoff would have still been excited for the nation of Italy. Aeroplanes and chemical weapons be damned … this was the spirit of a nation, rejoicing in the flesh.

Crazy.

After about ten minutes of simply trying to soak it all up, I remembered how heavy my bags were, and Micah and I headed over to post up on the wall overlooking the river that runs through Pisa. From there, more soaking-in occurred. I saw one fight unfold a few feet away, most likely due to someone spilling a drink on someone else’s girlfriend, but other than that, it was all love, all night, all the time.

They say Europe is in for a shock in about fifty years, when their declining population puts them at a disadvantaged position in a world breeding like one really big rabbit. Well, Italy solved the entire continent’s problem that night, in the final two minutes of injury time against Germany.

In nine months, the surge in birth rates in Pisa alone will make up for years of damage wreaked by birth control, (especially now that they went all the way…what a pun!). From what I could tell from my perch atop that riverside wall in Pisa, any Italian dude who wasn’t getting some that night was either blackout/fall-down drunk, or he was a priest.

Everyone else got laid, no doubt.

“Dude, the first two places I went were OUT of BEER,” I heard all of the sudden, jolted out of the mind drift I had floated into amidst the bedlam. It was Micah, who had been gone for over ten minutes in search of replacements for those free tall boys we got from our favorite Italian bar hop.

Out of beer, at two places, in a college town, in Italy. Now do you believe me when I say the streets were alive?

Good thing the third time was a charm, because Micah and I proceeded to just sit there, drinking beers, watching, talking and observing, for about two hours. And all was well in my world.

Eventually, we decided to make a move, not because the party was dying down – it wasn’t – but because we just did. And it was then, sitting on a bench across the river from our original spot, that we had the type of run-in that I have dubbed Classic American-European Encounter: Type A.

Classic American-European Encounter: Type A:

A dude who looked like John Belushi -- had he styled his hair like a native of the Samoan Islands -- rolled by us, two girls by his side, and could tell that we were new in town thanks to the heap of packs on the ground. Samoan Belushi then asked us in Italian where we were from. We said America. He didn’t exactly react in a positive fashion.

“Bad place. NO USA! Bad!”

I tried to shake it off and shake his hand, but he was intransigent, pulling his body away from mine like I had HN-51.

That’s when I started to really get irritated.

I figured if I stood up and informed him in words other than English that I am not George Bush anymore than he is Romano Prodi, it would make him realize that not everyone in my country was synonymous with our government, and the dab of irony that such a statement could be delivered in the tongue of the perfidious French would prove that we Americans aren’t as dumb and provincial as everyone thinks.

It worked – John Belushi from Samoa bristled at the notion that HE could somehow be associated with the mess that is the Italian government. What do ya know???? Citizens of a country may not have control over their leaders!

“But Al Gore got more votes,” he then said in broken English, fighting furiously to keep his head above water in his insistence that I was nothing but an SUV-driving, human rights-scoffing, Ugly American.

Great, so now the guy won’t shake my hand because the anachronistic electoral college system put a popularly unelected man in the White House nearly six years ago? Real profound, buddy. All you’ve proven is that you, too, have seen a Michael Moore film, and that you aren’t aware of how our presidents are elected.

But just wait. Don’t throw your spaghetti noodles against the wall in anger until you’ve finished reading.

Through talking to me via his French-speaking ladies, Samoan Belushi realized that this Texan wasn’t all that different from him, at least not in what we liked to do for recreation. And after about two minutes of trying to win him over, I succeeded. I changed his mindset. You know how I can be so sure?

He gave both of us man kisses.

Man kisses! Two of ‘em, one on each cheek. A far cry from his “I’m not gonna even shake your hands” days. MAN KISSES from Samoan Belushi.

I really think a small part of him learned -- even if he forgot it five minutes later -- that you can’t throw the baby out with the bath water when it comes to encountering Americans. That’s why it was a Classic American-European Encounter Type A, because the ‘A’ stands for Asshole. It’s what Europeans assume we Americans are; and it’s what they become in trying to pigeonhole us.

CA Double E Type A’s don’t always end positively, unfortunately -- but in this case, I chalked one up for the good guys, the Americans who don’t embody the stereotypes. No need for thanks -- I do it for you peeps back home who actually care what the world thinks of us. I am the ambassador of all who can say with a straight face, “Je n’aime pas notre gouvernement.”

You won’t believe it, but Micah and I had another memorable encounter with a group of Italians that night, less than 20 minutes later. But this one was different. It goes under a different category -- one I have coined Classic American-European Encounter: Type B.

Classic American-European Encounter: Type B:

You’ll see, if you scroll down, a picture of Micah playing guitar on the balcony of our hotel room in Florence. He is the lead guitarist for Jamison’s band back at UVa, and is hands down the best guitar player I can call a friend. That skill came in handy shortly before we were to jet out of Pisa, homeless for three more hours.

No place to stay? Nothing to do? Why not just cruise up and down the streets, slowly thinning out after a four-hour rager, and try to make my life seem like a music video? It sounded like a great idea at the time. And it was, mos def.

After going for about five minutes with Micah behind me, playing a Bob Dylan song I had never heard which described a night spent in Rome, we got to the train station and decided to turn around and keep going – up and down, up and down.

I always say that life is nothing but a reaaaaally long movie, with an ending that not even Roger Ebert has access to until it’s over. With Micah’s invisible shadow strumming his guitar and singing the mystery tune, making me feel as if I was all alone, stepping in tune to the perfectly-dubbed soundtrack, this was a scene from my movie that will definitely survive the editing process for the final showing at the Pearly Gates.

It was just as I was contemplating this fact that we ran into a group of nine Italian crazies who seemed just as excited about the 2-0 win at 3 a.m. as they had been at 11.

I had seriously JUST finished a feeble attempt at convincing Micah to put out a collection plate to fill his nearly-empty coffers when we crossed paths with the baseball team full of football fans. Had he listened to me, no doubt he would have come away at least 10 euros richer.

Naturally, the bulk of the group flocked to the music man, Micah, the Peace Prophet Part Deux, while two of them came over to the mysterious scraggle-beard strapped to a small house, known as an REI backpack in the States.

“Where are you from?” David and Simone asked me in broken English, knowing the answer wasn’t going to start with the letter “I.”

“America,” I said in an Italian accent, as if that would help make up for my lack of foreign language ability (we all do it…but it is really dumb, if you think about it. It’s still another language, and saying it with a twist isn't changing the taste of English THAT much).

I was expecting another CA Double E: Type A, having bid adieu to Samoan Belushi moments earlier. But these guys were different; less skeptical; less Michael Moore-ons.

“U-S-A!” the pair simultaneously exclaimed, causing me to brace myself for a Type A explosion. But these guys were Type B, not some assholes who think owning a tacky Ché Guevara shirt makes them revolutionaries who don’t shake hands with imperialist Yankees.

“How are you!!” each immediately screamed in succession, not realizing that their question came across as more of a statement. It was a statement, not an interrogative, because they really did not care at all how I was feeling, how I was doing, what my day had been like. That question really meant, “I think it’s really cool that I’m partying in my own city at 3 in the morning and we are meeting some cool Americans that are walking down the streets of Pisa, one with a guitar in hand, the other just chillin with a huge ass backpack.”

Prego.

And that’s when the fun started to happen.

Apparently, moments before the singing and dancing began, one of Micah’s “Don’t Feed the Bears” onlookers couldn’t resist himself, and blurted out, “Can you play dee A minor?”

The answer was yes. And judging by the reaction, I think they liked it.

“Duh-duh duh-duh duh-duh duh-DUH EE-TALEE-AHHHHH!!! Bum-bum-bum, bum-bum, bum-bum buh buhhhh...”

And it went on like this for over a minute, in a language I won’t even attempt to replicate on paper. When I took out my camera, it really did become a music video, because ALL of them were posing and flexing for the lens like they were at one of Jay-Z’s pool parties. All of them wanted in. Smiles, chest bumps, outstretched digits to let me know their prediction for Italy’s final game, flag-waving … and then there was the kid who outdid Samoan Belushi’s man kisses.

I never caught his name, but when you watch the silent video I took of it on my camera, it’s obvious when he takes my arm and starts leading me in circles, dancing about like his team had just advanced to the World Cup final or something. The shot just goes straight down to the ground for over five seconds, turning round and round like a carousel. Elbows locked, feet hitting the ground in a piston-like rhythm, the two of us did our little jig as the song continued for all those who knew Italian – which was everyone but me and Micah.

Now that was a trip.

But it was the manner in which our groups parted ways that made me feel even better about myself than the Samoan Belushi man kisses to the cheeks, or dancing with a tall, dark and handsome Italian mystery man. Without any prompting whatsoever, in a kind of ritualistic, group “Thank You” card to these two random Americans giving them a concert and snapping photos of them on their turf, the chant of “U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A!” took control of the quiet night air.

I’m getting goose bumps as I write this, because it was one of the nicest gestures I’ve ever received in my life's many travels.

“Grazie! Grazie!” we yelled. “Buona fortuna, Italia!”

(p.s. Just because we had a great experience with that one group of Italians does not mean that I feel that way about the entire country. I was rooting for Zidane and co. hardcore in the final. I hate the Italian team; I’m sorry. Not only the cheap shot to McBride’s face, but the “dirty terrorist” remark in the final to Zizou? I’m glad he head butted that little xenophobic bia-bia).