Commuting with Christina

A couple of bus stops down Via Cassia, I spot Christina, waiting to board. She's tall, has intense blue eyes, and a thick mane of curly blonde hair. Complete with her tight, brown-leather pants, she looks quite striking.
Excited, I think, Now I’ll have someone to sit with and talk to during my long commute to Centro di Roma.

Like most of my coworkers at the American Business School, Christina grew up in Rome. She's Italo-Americano, with an Italian father and an American mother. We are both in our early 20s, and she’s the first sort-of American I’ve met in Rome besides Mrs. Latini.

As she nears me on her walk down the bus aisle, I say "hello," loud and clear. She does not respond, however. She instead strolls past me, head held high and eyes focused away, deliberately pretending not to hear me or to see me.

Slighted, I figure that here in public she wants to be all-Italian. Speaking English with an American like me would reveal her American identity. And apparently, this does not fit her desired image.