I love the taste of blood oranges. The burst of citrus liquid trickling down my throat reminds me of an edible honey day; that day’s warmth spread over my bare legs peeking under a flowing summer dress. Its succulent flesh squeezed a sourly sweet juice that spilled across my palms, and I shamelessly licked its path down my fingertips. A woman with kind eyes gave me seven. Grazie. Gathering my blood oranges wrapped in brown canvas paper and my bag of red bell peppers, I disappeared into the market crowd. The air was perfumed with the sweetness of fresh ripe fruits strangely mingled with the pungent aroma of raw meat, live fish, and the nutty scent of eastern spices. An intriguingly fragrant invitation made my nose tingle and steps falter as I stumbled through this chaotic open-air market that embraced stall after stall of deliciousness. Benvenuti al Mercato Esquilino.
The market’s vendors had a few Italians but were otherwise mostly immigrants. I succumbed to a dizzy descent of the senses: first my eyes, nose, and now ears—ears that endlessly hummed with unwanted remarks from the vendors. A chorus of “Ciao bella! Come ti chiami? Di dove sei?” was interspersed with random greetings in other languages— English, Japanese, Korean, and Chinese. Uncomfortable, alienated, and trapped by invisible walls of awkward words, my pace quickened as I raced through the market desperate to find a familiar face. Deliberately averting eye contact and pretending not to hear or understand, I scurried past more strangers with strange words. What a laudable decision independent girl, wandering around the market by yourself. I need to stop, breathe, and feel. The golden morning light, hovering above the crowd, settled and glowed on my skin. Bathed in its warmth, I welcomed relaxed senses and an eased mind. I laughed at the silliness of my anxiety. This place is foreign, these people are foreign, and such behavior is foreign. I began question the walls I erect against this foreignness.
The root of my discomfort stems from a fear of the unknown, the unfamiliar. Most of the vendors are foreigners as well, immigrants residing in a foreign land. Where are their walls? They seem at home, whether temporary or permanent. My steps slowed in front of a butcher shop. Three men smiled. I smiled back. Each of the three butchers had a distinct ethnicity: Italian, Egyptian, and Bangladeshi. Our brief, lighthearted conversation revealed that the two foreign men had lived in Italy for two years. I was impressed. They spoke Italian with such fluidity, teasing and laughing together like brothers. Despite different backgrounds, they seemed to have adapted into an immigrant culture, a synthesis of various nationalities. The market possesses a natural system of mutual understanding between all its participants—vendors and consumers. The marketplace has its own identity, distinct from the Italian identity outside its walls. It is a stage of cultural collision. However, instead of a “clash of civilizations,” these identities melt within each other, united in their differences and shared experiences as outsiders. After a few clicks of my camera, I greeted the blinding midday sun.
Saturday, I returned to Esquilino. Great, I’m lost as anxiety knotted my chest once again. I ran around, circling the edges of Piazza Vittorio. You must have thought me mad. Don’t worry. I knew. I saw the strange and worried stares. I ran past shoe, bag, and clothing shops before standing breathless at the entrance of the bustling market. I was a dying man in a desert who just found his oasis. It was exactly 3:24pm. I am embarrassed to admit that I had wandered for well over an hour since leaving Termini. This time, I was determined to converse with the immigrants and ask them about their experiences. Oh great, ciao bellas. Maybe I should search for a person not shouting at me. I need some conditioner. The guy who sells it seemed quiet enough. Unfortunately, he was too quiet. His lack of English skills and my tragically poor Italian meant less than two exchanged phrases in five minutes. After moments of awkward silence as I tried to sign language my questions, I dejectedly gave up and left. He was from Bangladesh, been here for two years, did not know anything about immigration, and didn’t understand me (so he said). Now I’m stuck with a huge bottle of conditioner I will never finish in six weeks. Perfect. Nevermind. Onto my next target. This time, a chatty one. Good news: he spoke English! Bad news (since I am researching on immigration): he’s Italian. Fine. I will try the bag shops since I might even need a new purse. Within the covered rows of shops, a few shoe vendors approached me. I remember one of them calling after me in some Italian earlier, but I was too distraught and lost to care. Now they tried again in English, “Where are you from?” Why do I always get that question? They spoke English well. It seemed that they were confused about my ethnic background. Strange. Here I was pondering the same questions about ethnicity of the vendors and they are just as curious about my origins. I suppose now is the time to reveal that I’m Chinese and grew up in the States (if you didn’t know already). They were shocked. To them I did not look like the Chinese around their area (a lot of Chinese people lived and worked around this market). Their guesses ranged from Japanese, Korean, Indian, and even part Italian! After some funny inquires about my background and theirs, they welcomed me to come again and continue our conversation. I promised to return, excited to converse again with the Bangladeshi man who lived in Rome since I was born and spoke excellent Italian and English. I love people with stories, and I know he will have amazing ones to share.
The sun had set and taken with it its radiant fire. My glowing lamplight coils around my bed as I write to you. I am vaguely recalling home. Maybe the market was their home, where these immigrants found acceptance with each other. I will go back again, but now it is midnight and sleep beckons as I sink deeper between my sheets.
Buona notte amici!
Alexis
No comments:
Post a Comment