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.
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