Once, long ago, I was driving home in Toronto late at night after playing cards with my sister Elizabeth and her husband Wendell, when a convertible full of young men swerved in front of me and stopped. I hit the brakes and managed to avoid rear-ending the convertible.
As I waited for the other car to get out my way, a burly youth got out of it. He swaggered over to my car window and snarled something about me being a Wop and how he was going to teach me to improve my driving. I suppose he figured I must be Italian since I was driving a Fiat.