Be Italian (Border's Writing Assignment 1)

She turns her head around from the diver’s seat and whispered in a shy smile, “Ok, we are going to do a very bad thing.” I whipped my head around and stared straight into a row of cars’ headlights, praying that those were not going to be the last words I will ever hear…

Bella Roma, your differences in identities, cultures, and languages are all borders I experience in a medley of confusion, wonder, apprehension, and excitement. I am the outsider exploring the premises of your world, searching for a hidden door that leads to understanding and acceptance into your inner realm. What is Italian? Please explain, and let me in. That separation, a wall with a gateway I cannot find, unites the insiders of Italians and only admits those proven to possess competent qualities of “being Italian.”

It’s Thursday morning, a day after I moved into my new apartment perched atop the restless Campo di’Fiori. The market is just waking up, but I’ve been counting sheep for over two hours. Jet lag has never been a friend. My cell phone flashed the time, 8am. I need to do something. Run. Outside, showers of drizzle greeted me along with some puzzled stares. The aliens have arrived, me in my matching jacket and track pants and my running buddy in a t-shirt and shorts. Already the unspoken differences in cultures arose. Nowhere were the stares more apparent and uncomfortable than when we arrived along the river and started our jog. The stares never stopped; rather, more joined. To Italians, we must have been an odd sight, bouncing along the Fume Tevere (Tiber) at 8am, in the rain, and in such attire. No one but us was jogging.

The cultural differences did not stop there. A couple of days after the running fiasco, I joined my friends and their Italian friends for dinner. After a ten course dinner and hours of funny, albeit intense discussions on Italian culture, we all packed into an Italian friend’s car and headed for home. First destination: Campo di’Fiori. Zipping through traffic in a seemingly disregard of lanes is more of a distinct Italian driving culture. After a few minutes, I heard a yell. I looked to my right and knew. We missed our exit. It was a long stretch of road from where the car stopped to where the exit was. Now it comes: the turn of her head, her reassuringly serious but lighthearted words, my glance back, the blinding rows of lights behind me, and one car rolling by in the correct but opposite direction. As we swerved backwards to our exit, the cars behind seemed rooted in one line. When I finally arrived at the west side of the campo’s winding streets, our Italian friend assured me the ease of locating my apartment after some brief instructions. Apparently, I don’t have the innate Italian sense of direction, which resulted in trying to navigate the labyrinthine alleyways for forty-five minutes. After a series of pointing and hand gestures with passersby, Campo di’Fiori finally emerged.

These experiences spotlighted the differences in what is accepted, the norms, and what is expected as common knowledge to Italians. The differences serve as borders, the borders that define one culture from the other through language, culture, and norms. It is bizarre to run on the streets by the river; it is normal to drive with relaxed rules; and it is expected for one to know the way through complex alleys. I have only just begun to my walk around the walls that separates the Italian insiders and foreign outsiders. Crossing that border is achieved when one naturally understands and seamlessly adapts to the differences.

Until the next adventure, ciao!

Alexis