Racist? Me?

This blog entry, and the ones before it, are brought to you courtesy of the Laundromat in which I am doing my two weeks worth of washing right now.
Again - not being a fan of waiting in line (and everything in Rome seems to involve a line) I thought I'd get there first thing in the morning, as soon as it opens.
First thing in the morning may be a bit of an exaggeration. It opens at 10:00.
Anyway, 10:00 AM and I am at the place. It's still shut. I don't despair, and wait for the dude to show up. 10:10 comes and goes, as does 10:15 and 10:30. People come and wait and wait. Some of them lose hope and leave.
Ultimately there are just two people left waiting- me and this nice dark complexioned girl. We exchange pleasantries (she speaks no English and my Italian only goes as far as ordering from a menu, so the pleasantries are sorta wasted) but it's all very civil.
Then at around 10:45 this guy shows at the end of the street. I am pretty sure he's the Laundromat dude. So I tell her credo che e lui, to which she responds in a a militant tirade, the essence of which is - it is definitely not him, I know who works here and it is NOT him. You think it's him just because he's black. Not all Africani work in laundromats. etc etc etc.

Sure enough - the guy gets to us, pulls out his keys and opens the place. I never realised African ladies could blush...