Reflections at Home (writing 10)

I can’t believe it’s been over a week that I’ve landed in Seattle. Somehow travel always entails countless dramatic events. After all the adventures, I know I have to return to my life at the university and reestablish a sense of a student’s “normalcy.” I miss the Roman sun, the glorious weather in the dead of winter. I miss the relaxed lifestyle, lazy pace from morning croissants to afternoon gelato. I miss the adventures, from Florentine dreamland to Neapolitan realities. Each step was a journey to a closer understanding of Italy, its people, and more personally, the growth I experienced as a person learning about different cultures. The lives people lead through the values they cherish, the conditions they live in, and the professions they hold all contribute to my appreciation of the differences in people and help me build a wider definition of the way life could be lived.

This growth cannot be defined in one instance, or a snapshot of a certain time of realization. Rather, it is a growth that has been developing for some time now. Ever since my first exchange abroad to China, I’ve began this journey of self-questioning and realization. I was so focused on the structure of my life—everything seems to be planned out, knowing exactly what I needed to do to achieve my career goals. Through my last program, I began to question what I really want, who I really am. I was changing then, but I didn’t realize that change happening until I left and was back in Seattle. I know I’m not finished with this development, so by returning I felt as though I put a halt to this self-discovery. I felt compelled to go abroad again, to rediscover that change. This time, I would be ready, ready to realize and reflect on this growth. I can take advantage of this new awareness of self-transformation and fully capture the change the moment it occurs.

Rome was the place I committed to build this independence and self-awareness to nurture my growth. I needed to interact with other people, very much different than I. That translated to exploring neighborhoods outside of Campo de’ Fiori and talking with the residents (Italians and immigrants alike) of those neighborhoods. If you were to ask me for a certain picture from my camera to represent my time in Italy, I wouldn’t be able to provide. My experience is not a concrete picture of a place or person. Rather, it is a more symbolic depiction of the journey, the transformation I cultivated throughout my travels abroad. Italy heightened and even cemented this awareness. So if I had to translate my experience in Italy into an image, I would choose the winding cobbled alleyways of Rome. My interactions with different people started with me walking around by myself. I love my walks. It clears my mind to think about my stay in Rome, but, at the same time, I also stop to observe my surroundings in more detail. I watch the people, admire the architecture, and soak the “Italian” culture through the sounds, sights, and smell. I miss those solitary walks though sometimes “interrupted” by welcomed conversations from passers-by.

I used to believe I needed to “escape” home—Seattle—to continue my growth. However, I’ve come to realize that I need to remember how much I have changed and grown and should continue this process at home. It is hard to do so when everything is so comfortable, so familiar. One would be tempted to adopt one’s old behavior and ways and retreat to the self pre-transformation. This is tempting, but I know I cannot always rely on traveling to “discover” myself. I must take what I learned from my experiences, and through reflection, as I am doing now, establish what I want to change and develop. Rome provided me with that realization. My previous exchange made me hunger for more self-discovery through leaving home, whereas experiences in Rome made me realize that I’ve grown and will continue to do so at home (through increased exploration and reflection of my values and experiences).

My bella Roma, I will always miss you. Thank you for a life-changing experience and all the memories!

Alexis

End of a Long Journey (writing 9)

Italy. I still recall the days spent at the Yellow Hostel near Termini when I first arrived. I left my comforts and familiarity behind, and now I must begin a new life for then weeks in this unknown world. Despite the proximity of the hostel to the train station, the absence of a map translated to a thirty minute journey of confusion and anxiety (let me just state now that it’s a less than seven minute stroll). Then began my days of: on-site art history lessons, visits to immigrant populated areas, excursions to museums of renowned masterpieces, and adventures from Italian cities to seaside towns.

Here I write to you, no longer lost, but one just finding the gateway that leads to the cobblestone road of understanding Italy’s culture, language, and people—overall the definition of what is Italian. Ten weeks have passed. I finally relax on the living sofa and scan around the room. Every surface has been swept, “swiffered”, wiped, and scrubbed. Italian Febreze scent anyone? The kitchen is no longer filled with possessively labeled food items and the bedrooms are rid of scatter articles of clothing. My suitcases are packed. Today is Thursday, the last day before my early flight out of Rome tomorrow. It is really over.

I am not ready to go back. Why is it always at the end that I began to understand a new environment, culture, people, and language? This happened during my last exchange as well. Physically, this experience of living in Italy is over. Mentally, how this experience has changed me has only just begun. Now begins my process of reflecting all my travels and encounters. I do not believe the Italian culture or people, even its language, can be lumped under one definition. Different regions of Italy have their distinct identities, so I will attempt to provide my perception of being Italian in each of the different places I traveled to.

My Roma. She was my home. Every time I left her, by the end of my trips, I missed her even more and welcomed my arrival at smoke-filled Termini. She was once a maze filled with strangers, but now I am proud to announce my mastery of her streets and alleyways and discovery of hidden gelaterie and pasticcerie. The city layout has became so familiar after countless spontaneous walks, at times solitary, through Trastevere, Testaccio, Ponte, the Vatican City, Trevi, Esquilino, and of course within the labyrinth surrounding Campo de’ Fiori. My Italian has certainly improved after weeks of Fede-style Italian and painfully embarrassing conversations with local vendors. Italians naturally accept you more if you speak the language (although not always the case with Esquilino immigrants). Sometimes I pretend to understand what sweet old ladies say to me in Italian. Smiling always works, which leads to even more Italian words I don’t understand. Sometimes I would have to disappoint them if they stop and wait for me to respond to some witty comment they made. Io non capisco. I suppose this is one way I’ve became more “Italian.” I will ask Mari and Alessia, bella amice, next time to gauge how “Italian” I’ve become.

I still can’t explain the Romans. Some are friendly, some indifferent, but the worst are the rude ones (even in service sectors!). Many a times I have discussed the attitudes of Romans towards foreigners with other Italians, specifically non-Romans. Both Alessia and Mari, parents from southern Italy but grew up in Rome, agree that people from the south are more friendly and accepting of foreigners. Through my travels from Florence and Venice to Naples and Amalfi, I tend to agree.

In Florence and Venice, every street, bridge, house, shop, and just place was pure art. People come here to dream. It is here my pictures found unearthly beauty—each photo dipped in rich chocolate and hung to dry on an olive tree bough. The people there seemed detached, unaffected by the beauty surrounding them. I suppose these cities’ magic is lost on their residents lucky enough to spend years if not lifetimes in such beauty. People here are wealthy. It is northern Italy after all. The fortunate financial conditions and frequent contact with foreign tourists seem to breed an apathetic attitude to outsiders. Some may even call this rudeness—when foreigners are not treated with open friendliness or warm hospitality.

A vastly different experience awaited me at Naples and Amalfi. Southern Italy was naturally poorer than the north. The cityscape of Naples filled with mounds of garbage, vandalized shops, graffiti walls, and animal excrements reflect the harsh realities of an economically unfortunate metropolis. Despite such conditions, Neapolitans never ceased to stop smiling. The word hospitality must have been invented here. Their friendliness was contagious. Where I once walked with nonchalance in Florence and Venice to fit in with the locals, I walked with a faint smile as I greeted southern Italians. This was especially the case in Amalfi. People in amalfi epitomized friendliness, as I remember my hitch-hiking experience. He drove from one place to another to find the best way for us to enjoy the beach and head home at night. Once when we stopped, three to four people rushed to help us find a bus and plan the best route for our day. Where do these people come from? The efforts they put in for strangers amaze and warm my heart (cheesy, but the truth).

All these travels eventually lead back to Rome. The Roman sights, sounds, and scents I will never forget. I threw coins at the Trevi fountain a few times. One time, I only threw in one coin. So according to the myth, I shall return to Rome someday. I did also throw in two coins another time. So maybe new romance? Either way, I can clichéd but honestly say this experience was life-changing—all the food, places, and people I will miss dearly but always cherish.

Napoli (Writing 7 & 8)

I am overwhelmed. I don’t know how to even begin describing to you about Naples. That place possesses an all-consuming, unapologetic realness. Every time I begin to write, words fail to capture the beauty in all the “ugliness”—a harsh reality of poverty mingled with a vibrant culture—that defines an unforgiving Napoli. This city compels me to be honest and scribble (or type) in a more “real” way—less than articulate words included—rather than the slightly contrived nature of previous city descriptions that paints Italy as a fantasyland. Naples exposes Italy. It has the Mafia, pizza, Europe’s biggest drug market, 448 churches, and countless other fun facts that I cannot list them all here. So here I begin to recount my adventures in Naples (and a bit on the southern part of Italy).

After a three hour train ride, we arrived in Naples under a citrus sun. as we tried to find our way to the bus that would take us to our “Hostel of the Sun,” the roads were filled with a massive gathering of people. Within a few minutes, we found out that there was a strike so no buses could operate around this area. People marched through the main streets shouting, smiling, and waving as if this was an everyday occurrence.

The shock of the blunt reality to live in Naples continued although a tad subdued even as I trudged along the roads to find our hostel. Finally my oasis appeared! It was on floor seven I was the only one with luggage. There was no hesitation about taking the elevator after an exhaustive walk through the chaotic Neapolitan streets. I pressed button seven and it didn’t move. The elevator is broken. A five cent coin dropped into a black box. What kind of elevator makes you pay? Neapolitan apparently. Already I sensed the economical practicality of Naples.

The hostel is perfect. After checking in, we ran out the door for an authentic taste of the famous Neapolitan pizza at Di Matteo before the huge 1pm crowd. Along the way, I peered into windows of antique, book, and pastry shops. The city was alive—grandmas chatting on balconies overlooking streets, boys playing soccer in front of churches, billowing sheets hanged to dry on porch railings, and men hollering to each other while making pizza. At Di Matteo, I went downstairs to witness the process of pizza making. We were ready to document this art of creating the best Neapolitan pizza. One pizza maker suddenly stopped putting pizzas in and out of the fire-brick, grabbed my friend and I, and posed. He was ready for his close up. They all were! After seeing more cameras, they rushed us behind counters, and we posed in the center of all the action (I know you, you who filmed this and caught my surprised expression). Never have I experienced such extreme friendliness that I almost felt an invasion of personal space that is so heavily guarded. They were so free, open to accepting and befriending strangers through words, touch, and genuine interest and offer to help you understand their beloved Napoli.

Ravished, I devoured that pizza, gloriously satisfying. Afterwards, the walk to the Archeological Museum helped to awaken my entre body from a food coma. It was comfortably warm outside—a perfect, lazy afternoon for a coffee on the rooftop of a charming café to soak up the sun with friends. Well, marveling ancient masterpieces of the Roman Empire is a great choice too.

A lot was accomplished in this museum: the famous Hercules sculpture we admired (pausing a bit more time from behind), the marble heads we “kissed,” the grand room where I learned to waltz, and the beautiful female scribe I finally found and stored to my camera.

When we exited the quiet confines of the museum, we again entered into the madness of Naples.

The sun was setting. I could feel it as the chilly air seeped into my light jeans jacket, the feeling before the entire night was submerged in cold and darkness. During these late afternoon hours, I joined Lisa, Julie, and Carisa on an exploration of the city’s old, antique filled streets. We went inside a few churches. One that was particularly memorable contained an ancient baptistery (with some of the most amazing gilded mosaic artworks) and housed the remains of San Gennaro, Naples’ patron saint.

The sun had set and the city’s lights flooded Napoli’s skyline, guiding us weary travelers back to our hostel. My hope for a relaxing break before dinner turned into an hour long fiasco of proper visa inspection by eight policemen. I’ve never experienced such a prolonged and extensive police bust of legal visitors! Nevermind, they were nice and I didn’t mind not venturing out into the rather dangerous “night-streets” of Naples.

The next day, we met up with a local Neapolitan, Alexander Valentino (an architect and a crusader for the plight of the poor and discriminated such as the Roma). He led us to the periphery of the city, where poverty abounds at every turn. Secondigliano. They were poor in their wallets, but rich in humanity. A random stranger joined our group and gave us a guided tour of one of the wretched public housing apartments. The miserable conditions of the place had children fallen to their deaths due to a lack of glass on windows. The friendly stranger decried of the lack of government assistance to help this community. People are finally moving out (to other more habitable housing) after surviving thirty years in such “shit.” That place, I will never forget. I reminded me of a place so familiar. Only as I was leaving I begin to realize to similarities and differences of Secondigliano to where I lived and travelled in China.

After the experiences in Naples and the cookie stealing, seaside bus ride, hitch-hiking, and taxi love lesson adventures from Pompeii to Amalfi, I finally returned to Rome. After a journey through Naples, one begins to understand and for some (like me) love the contrast of the grim conditions of economic realities and the warm hospitality of its people.

Before going to Naples, Italians and non-Italians warned me for hours and hours of the dangers of this city. For a person like me who doesn’t even need a thief to lose things, I was more than a little apprehensive about going (even seriously considering buying a new inner pocket filled jacket and purses worn inside clothes). I came with a mindset of never speaking to strangers, but the more time I spent around them, the more I am comforted by their inviting and genuine nature. I talked to Alex about this. He said that to him, people from the south tend to be more friendly and accepting of other ethnicities (Roma and blacks for example). From what I saw, I tend to agree. Coming back to Rome, I felt the shit to a more impersonal treatment of each other. At times the people in the service sector like the waiters or salespeople are indifferent to you. Alex described this occurrence, “They don’t care. It’s Rome. They will always have new tourists coming in. They don’t need you to like them. They can just get new customers because there are so many people that come to Roma and the more north in Italy you go, the more it is like this.”

This depresses me as I am now more aware of the difference in treatment of one another, especially to non-Romans/Italians, after experiencing Naples and hearing about it from Alex.

Besides reflecting on the differences in attitudes towards foreigners from the north and south of Italy, I asked more of what else about Naples I loved. Oh I remember briefly mentioning the connection I felt with Naples to China. I shall discuss about more in detail about this connection. It was a combination of the environment and people: the destitute conditions that the people had to live in with no running water, glassless windows, and garage everywhere; yet, they were happy. A teenage boy we met on the street wanted to take pictures with everyone (he particularly liked posing with a thumbs-up sign) and of course the sweet old man who took us around the run-down apartment building. That need to connect with others and hospitality in treatment, whether foreign or native, was also prevalent while I traveled throughout China. The miserable living conditions heightened the beauty of its inhabitants even more. I will come back again. Naples is real. No better words can be said about this place.

“Realness” is what I search for in places, people, and myself.

Ciao amici and I hope you find it within you!

Alexis

Rione: Testaccio

Intro/Reflection:

Testaccio: the two-faced neighborhood.

In the day time, Testaccio has a working class, proletarian feel. Instead of cobblestone, we walk on pavement. Clothes are left to dry on balconies and even in front yards everywhere. Testaccio feels real. Livable. Unlike most neighborhoods in Rome, Testaccio is not a disneyland. There are no attempts made to hide the mundane and sometimes harsh aspects of real life.

In the night time, Testaccio is a completely different place. The middle aged workers that crowded the streets in the daytime are replaced by young, hip party-goers. Instead of people dressed in conservative, modest work clothes, these teens are dressed in very chic, expensive, modern attire. The more chic, the more likely you are to get into the clubs –some of which are impossible to get into without paying a fortune regardless of how you look. The night is a stage for a competition to be the best looking, most desirable, and the wealthiest. This Testaccio takes on a very exclusive, modern, creative, youthful feel.

History:
Testaccio was once a river port where olive oil, wine, grain from Roman provinces arrived in huge terra-cotta urns. However, it is most well known for being Rome’s former meat packing district. In 1890, Mattatoio, a slaughterhouse, opened on Monte Testaccio. Animals were not only butchered, but also quartered there. Good meat was sold and the leftover “5th quarter” was given to workers as wages. The “5th quarter” is what they called the unwanted odds and ends. Eventually, these offal, hooves, tails, and snouts would turn up in a distinctive new cuisine born in Testaccio and still alive today in more modest trattorias. Common dishes included sauces made with pajata, baby veal intestines with mothers milk still inside, though today veal is often replaced with lamb for fear of mad cow disease.

When mattatoio closed in 1970s, the Scuola Popolare di Musica moved into abandoned spaces and grottoes of Monte Testaccio. Thus, Testaccio made a move towards becoming a more contemporary neighborhood.

Currently
Today, Testaccio has a flea market look and working class feel in the day time. The residents are the working class –the modest, average Roman. At night, a “new breed of young Roman, obsessed with la bella figura and in search of la dolce vita takes over the streets.” These are the visitors. Young Romans gather from all over Rome to visit Testaccio and enjoy the edgy clubs, galleries, and theaters with alternative music, art, and ideas. Testaccio also houses MACRO future, one of the vey few contemporary museums in Rome.

Coat of arms: Testaccio is the 20th rione of Rome, deriving its name form Monte Testaccio. The rione coat of arms depicts an amphora (type of ceramic vase with two handles and a long neck used mostly to store olive oil).

Route:

1. Park de la resistenza (+ memorial)
-Park of the Resistance of 8 September
-designed by garden architect Raffaele de Vico in 1939
-in the middle, there is fountain with an African Motif that represented the nearby Italian Ministry of African Affairs (today occupied by FAO). FAO stands for “Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations”.
-as you walk out of the park, you can see a memorial dedicated to those who fought to unify Italy.

2. Pyramid + Cat sanctuary + Protestant Cemetery
-Pyramid of Caius Cestius: Built around 12 BC as a mausoleum for a wealthy Roman magistrate. It also serves as a cat sanctuary. (It’s near the Porta San Paolo and the Protestant Cemetery. Porta San Paolo: one of the southern gates in the 3rd century to enter through the walls of Rome. The Ostiense Museum is housed within the gatehouse.)
-Protestant Cemetery. In the 1700s, the Pope allocated this stretch of unused land for burial of non-Catholics. Before the Catholic Church prohibited the burial of non-Catholics in Catholic cemeteries in Rome—non-Catholics visitors that were mostly British. Often referred to as the “Englishmen’s Cemetery.” It is the final resting place of non-Catholics (not only Protestants or English people). One of the most famous graves is that of the English poet John Keats (died of tuberculosis in Rome). It also serves as a cat sanctuary. It is best to go there in the morning due to the confusing afternoon closing hours that changes seasonally.

3. Memorial
(for soldiers of all nations who died in battles of the Italian Campaign)
-First special service force association June 1984.
-Started with United States-Canadian Force.

4. Testaccio Market
-Located in the Piazza Testaccio, it is unlike many Roman markets since the stalls are housed in a more permanent structure. Market is filled with fruit, vegetables, meats, fish, dairy, and even shoes. It has a more distinctly working class Italians as buyers. Open from 6:30 to 1:30 everyday except Sunday.

Why the market smells like stinky fish!

5. MACRO Future
-an annex to citys Museo d’Arte Contemporanea Roma took over 2 newly restored pavilions in slaughterhouse
-notice that the outside of the building is not contemporary at all. Contradiction!

6. Monte Testaccio
-In ancient times, much of the Tiber River trade took place here, and the remains of broken clay vessels (amphorae) were stacked creating this artificial Testaccio hill (called Monte Testaccio), which today is a source of much archeological evidence as the history of ancient everyday Roman life. The countless numbers of broken amphorae shows the enormous amount of food required to sustain ancient Rome—hill estimated to contain the remains of 1.6 billion US gallons of imported oil (amphora=18 gallons)

7. Clubs

-hottest clubs took over caves long ago dug into the side of Monte Testaccio.
-Writers, artists, young professionals embraced this area, even moving into the housing projects that once accommodated workers
-Specific clubs include Alibi (gay club with a great dance floor upstairs and a diverse crowd), Akab (underground cave, hip hop music), Charro Cafe (one of our favorites, different DJ inside and outside, free entry, very diverse music including everything from 70s to modern day music from all over the world).

Now all you have to do is go visit yourself!

Buon viaggio!

Alexis

Testaccio (Writing Assignment 6)

I woke at exactly 7:30am to only a little over five hours of sleep. My mind knew. This misty Tuesday morning nudged a reluctant me out the door and into the chaos of Roman alleys. I was ready: gloves, boots, Google walking directions, umbrella, and my black notebook. I trekked across the river, pausing every few minutes to discreetly check my crumpled directions. I refuse to remain as a lost tourist. After navigating through the Trastevere labyrinth for twenty minutes, pleasantly accompanied by near death street crossings, I crossed the Ponte Sublicio bridge to finally enter Testaccio.

Unnerving, who is that man on the motorcycle staring at me? I crossed the intersection. He followed on his bike. My pace quickened as I buried my face in my upside-down Google directions. I shall not bore you further with frivolous details, but rest assured that I bolted down Via Antonio Cecchi. Where is this Piazza Testaccio marketplace? I must have passed it in my escape mode trance. There was a small opening against a wall that seemed to blend into the graffiti structures of this neighborhood. I peeked inside. Shoes, stall after stall, greeted my first steps into this rather Italian market. I wandered behind the shoe shops to a spacious open market. Butchers framed the area while produce vendors dotted the space within. I recalled Mercato Esquilino. So different. The vendors, unlike in Esquilino, were Italians not immigrants from all over the world. I strangely miss the loud and vibrant immigrant culture that saturated my senses. Here in Mercato di Testaccio, people were detached from each other. Some vendors sat behind stalls, hidden from customers. Maybe it was the gloomy weather, an early morning, or a lack of customers that formed a more exclusive culture of interaction compared to Esquilino. Esquilino was more diverse. Everyone was a stranger in this foreign country so they interacted and tried to make friends with other “strangers,” fostering a more inclusive, outspoken culture. I tried to buy some vegetables to talk with at least one person here. Two red bell peppers. I was overcharged since he didn’t have any change. After a full fifteen minutes through the market, I pulled my purple umbrella over my head again and decided to explore the rest of Rione XX.

My aimless walk led me to the heart of Testaccio, defined by the Parco della Resistenza dell’Otto Settembre. Everyone walked their dogs here, petite girls with Huskies and burly men with Pomeranians. My stroll led to walls of graffiti and a conspicuous pyramid at a busy intersection. The pyramid is situated directly behind a post office, modern in its minimalist contemporary construction. This dirty white box served as a stark contrast to the ancient-looking pyramid. I stole glances inside the gated entry of the Piramide di Caio Cestia. Scattered stones and overgrown grass. A sign informed me of the purpose of this bizarre structure in such a location: a cat shelter open from 2pm to 4pm. A wall enclosed the entire compound. The sign built into the wall revealed that it served as a memorial to the American-Canadian First Special Services Force that liberated Rome on June 4^th, 1944.

Following a brief history lesson (many thanks to the memorial), I treaded deeper into Testaccio. Everyone was so Italian. I sensed a more real Italy here. This is where Romans lived, not in some idealized eternal city of ancient ruins and charming apartments. Buildings did not attempt to conceal their unkempt, industrial state. The gilded mask of Rome was partially lifted here.

Three hours had passed before I trudged back through Via Mamorata to Trastevere and eventually my Campo. Oh I must tell you of a quaint bakery I discovered! When the wind and rain relentlessly punished my feeble umbrella, I ducked under a covered window to save it from its tragic, upturned state. I turned and realized I was facing a sweets galore. I peered into the window, almost savoring the rich aroma of each pastry. My admiring eyes caught a glimpse of a kind baker man against the window’s corner, smiling probably at my drooling situation. I will return and find out the name of that place for you, or me!

Ciao once again until more updates on food!

Alexis

Independent Research Outline

For my part of the project, I will be discussing the stories of the immigrants I met at Esquilino. It will serve as the tread of the paper. When I bring up different issues that they encounter, my other group members will discuss them in more detail. For example, if I talk about the issues they face for employment, then the person focusing on employment will delve deeper into that area with research on immigrants’ employment issues. My story will serve as the lead that each of the three topics will begin their discussion. When one issue is covered, I will move on to the next part of the story that covers the following topic until all aspects we have chosen are covered.

Here I described so far what my second encounter with these immigrants entailed:

I’m a stranger. We are both strangers. This is what Rahmen told me when I talked to him the second time after our brief initial encounter (described in my Esquilino post). He described the familiarity he felt towards me and the need for “strangers” to connect. He wanted me to feel welcomed in this foreign land, since he was fully aware of the lost and confused feeling when he first arrived in Italy 20 years ago (in 1989). He was from Bangladesh and before he came to Italy, he worked as a sailor on a boat for 5 years. He has been to places all over Europe (Spain, Italy, Greece, etc.), Asia (China’s Canton, Shanghai, Hangzhou; Singapore; etc.), Brazil, and the U.S. Through his travels, he met a lot of people and made friends from all over the world. His experiences taught him the importance of building friendships with “strangers,” plus he enjoyed meeting and befriending new people (which provided him with a more worldly view). He introduced me two his friends around his shoe store (he worked for its Italian owner who had a Nigerian wife, Tomi): Raju (from Bangladesh, who sells clothes and shoes and been here for two years) and Sohel (also from Bangladesh and sells shoes and clothes).

One of the most interesting conversations I had was with Tomi. She is Nigerian, but she has lived in Italy for almost 30 years and is married to an Italian (the owner of shoe shop Rahmen works at). Both of them live around Piazza Vittorio. She met her husband as a student in Italy during her vacation (learning English and Italian in Nigeria before coming to Italy). Currently, she works at the Nigerian Embassy (concerning immigration) and is studying French so she can work in the French Embassy. We talked for a while and when I told her I will be traveling to Naples soon, she warned me for at least 20 minutes of the dangers of that area and how to protect myself (her stories were shocking but interesting). I felt genuinely cared for and protected from her, from Rahmen. Tomi was like a mother figure in the way she gave me advice (what to do to protect myself, who can be trusted, and if I need anything just call her). I told her of my depressing Italian ability. She nodded and smiled. Tomi: I know. I was once you, in your situation. Don’t worry, we are your friends. I will help you. If you ever need anything, just let me know. I will be here. They “were” strangers, but I feel familiar, comforted, and at home with them.

I adored her and her family and the way that she interacted with her mother-in-law(describing the funny situation of her mother-in-law speaking Roman Italian with another vendor speaking Neapolitan Italian) and husband. They were all so affectionate towards on another (Tomi, her husband, her mother-in-law, Rahmen, and vendors). I talked with them until the shop closed. Even when everyone had to leave, they stayed to joke, laugh, and hug before they finally parted ways (at least 15 minutes after closing).

Then Rahmen and I went to a café near the market (run by Chinese) where I had a cappuccino and a slice of cake (his treat). While there, I met another one of his friends who is Moroccan and talked briefly to him. Both kept on commenting on how I look do not like a Chinese person, more of a mix (maybe part European)—they’ve seen many Chinese immigrants around their area and don’t think I resemble them. After our conversation, he took me to the bus and said goodbye. He offered Indian food for my next visit! I will visit them again soon and I can’t wait to learn more about them!

Two Stories

“Back Alleys”

Where do babies come from? Shockingly what I used to believe as a gullible five year old resurfaced in “Back Alleys.” This story begins with a man thinking he would find a baby in the dumpster, which sounds strangely familiar. I start to recall what my parents told the five-year-old me of my arrival twenty years ago. Apparently, I was discovered at a dumpster near my home by my dad. The story continues even more outlandishly.

Ok enough about my parents’ bizarre stories of human reproduction. I shall get back to analyzing “Back Alleys.” The confusing storyline jumps from discovering babies in dumpsters to the speaker’s experience as a foreigner being checked by police for legal residency. The incoherent story progresses from the protagonist’s near fatal attack by a flying rat to a bladder emergency to the death of his annoying neighbor. He continues to write in a stream of consciousness style when imagining his neighbor’s death. The story ends with him contemplating moving his friend Piero into the dead lady’s place.

This work of writing seems to be a mesh of thoughts that the writer pieced together as his mind wonders. It is him scribbling down a day’s random musings. What does it all mean? The dumpster baby, immigration issues, Moroccan boys, flying rats, and a dead neighbor? How or do they tie together to form a theme or message for this story?

“The B-Line”

I have lost count on the number of times I have read and reread this barely two-page story. The first time I read it, I was confused at where this place was. It could be on a bus, train, ship, or any kind of transportation. The stops gave me clues, specifically “San Paolo Basilica” and “Termini.” The speaker must be in Rome. Then my question shifted to the title, “The B-Line.” Could it be a mistake and actually mean “Bee Line?” Raised in the internet generation, I naturally googled B-Line. Google has yet to fail me. Once again, success as Wikipedia reveals that the Line B was the “first line of the Rome Metro to be built." The stops that this line contains are each referenced in the speaker’s writing. She first gets on at Eur Palasport and eventually ends at Termini.

After I figured out the bolded words of metro stops, my focus turned to the speaker’s reactions following the announcement of each station’s arrival. The reader knows what she is thinking, but she does not actually speak (to say that she speaks while on the metro). However, one can sense that she is searching for words, but cannot find any word to truly express the depth of her thoughts and emotions. She needs time to continue her search for those “perfect” words. Until then, I almost sense that she will remain silent. The silence refers not to speaking everyday language. Rather, it is an expression of her soul as she describes, “It takes a long time to penetrate the fabric of the soul” with the correct words. She has yet to find the right words, so she leaves (Termini—the end of all stops) “wordlessly.”