Italia vs. Italy

In La Bella Figura, Bebbe Severgnini wittily describes the Italian culture and disposition. He strives to chisel away at that the American fantasy of ‘Italy’, with its olive trees, wine vineyards, luscious food and speedy romances. Severgnini says, “Let’s get one thing straight. Your and Italy and our Italia are not the same thing.” He makes it clear that ‘Italia’ is difficult to understand and is thus a good place for poets to speculate over its realities.
In response to Severgnini, let me get one thing straight. Although, I am a straniera, I am not a tourist. After a year, I feel that ‘Italia’ is my second home. While I may have arrived with some preconceived notions, I certainly did not expect to experience the Italy Francis Mayes creates in Under the Tuscan Sun.
As a straniera, I must agree with Severgnini. The way I perceive ‘Italy’ is not the way my Italian friends perceive their country. While ‘Italy’ is my jungle gym, ‘Italia’ it is their office. I am told constantly told that I do not understand ‘Italia’. To an extent, this holds some truth. I do not understand what it’s like to have an entertainer for a president, or why one accelerates at a pedestrian crosswalk. I do not understand why I cannot lick my espresso spoon and why a couple living together for seven years do not just get married. I do understand why the Italian men take longer to get ready than I do, or why I have to wait until after 8pm to eat dinner.
Sometimes I am still perplexed about Italian culture. After almost a year in Italy, one would think things would start to click. However, I still find myself getting frustrated at things that I should just accept as ‘Italian’. I should know that a stop sign in Italy is just a suggestion, not a requirement. That way, when the for the fifteenth time a car rolls through the stop sign, barely missing me as a moving target, I can just exhale instead of yelling furiously at the driver who looks as innocent as an angel. This is his road and I am simply a straniera jogger in the midst of his daily routine.
Nevertheless, I do understand a few things for which Severgnini does not give his audience credit. I understand I cannot change the things I do not appreciate about another culture. Instead, I must change my perception in an attempt to adapt. Also, understanding the culture does not make me any more Italian than not understanding the culture. I will always be an outsider and observer in this curious “maze”. I must be conscious of my identity as a straniera and I embrace it.
There are things I love about the true ‘Italia’ and I have come to really appreciate at face value. Therefore in some ways I have merged my ‘Italy’ and Severgnini’s ‘Italia’. I understand the value of the slow food movement. I am fond of how families stay together for a lifetime and how children are not expected to move out of the house at age eighteen. I understand the tradition of grandparents being the daytime caregivers. I now even enjoy the journey of getting somewhere and not just the destination. Since I am not a tourist, they have become part of my daily life. When I return to the United States, these are the true things I will cherish about Italy. Besides, when an American driver stops to let me cross, I may actually be disappointed that I do not have to dodge a near death experience.

A weekend in “Il Mezzogiorno”

On Thursday all the residence of Palazzo Alberti, minus Jenna, squished in a mini bus to head for an adventure in La Foce and Matera. La Foce is a plantation in Val d’Orcia (in southern Tuscany). For our literature class we read a war diary written by the owner of this plantation, Iris Origo. During WWII Origo and her husband helped the partisans and allied troops who roamed through their 7000 acres of land. We had the chance to visit the villa and gardens of their plantation. This land was beyond picturesque. The landscape was intriguing and watching it roll out before me was as if the book was came to life. The land has not changed much since Origo described it 70 years ago. Origo’s description of the farm both prepared me for what I would see and also helped me to reason what I was seeing once we arrived.

“We live on a large farm in southern Tuscany –twelve miles from the station and five from the nearest village. The country is wild and lonely: the climate harsh. Our house stands on a hillside, looking down over a wide and beautiful valley, beyond which rises Monte Amiata, wooded with chestnuts and beeches. Nearer by, on this side of the valley, lie slopes of cultivated land: wheat, olives and vines, but among them still stand some ridges of dust-coloured clay hillocks, the crete sense- as bare and colourless as elephants’ backs , as mountains of the moon.” – Iris Origo, War in Val d’Orcia

I often wondered what she meant by these “colourless elephants’ backs”. However when we arrived in La Foce, it was not hard to clarify. There are large patterns of erosion that zigzag down the valley in russet bare slopes. These slopes penetrate the landscape and attract the curious eye. The whole scene is more like a painting than reality. La Foce host many celebrities, designers, and politicians on luxurious vacations. Benedetta, our tour guide and the event planner for the plantation, told me that it cost 7000 Euro to have a wedding in the garden. If you decided that you want to rent the villa and the garden, it would cost 22,000 Euros. My mom always said that she wanted me to have a “destination wedding”. I have decided this will be the perfect place one day. And relatively speaking, it would cost less than one year’s worth of tuition at Meredith. It is all relative, right Mom?

We spent Thursday night in a small village close to La Foce, Montisi. The hotel was an old house renovated from- I don’t know…like really old! Hannah, Sam, Vi and I stayed in room number 7, or the attic to be more precise. The stair case winded around and ended at our room with a one platform step. It was like something out of a Steve King novel. I was afraid to open the door because the darkness heighted my sense of imagination. What is going to pop out at me on the other side of this door? I felt like I need to be carrying a candle with me.
Much to my dismay or maybe appreciation, nothing but a queen bed and cot was on the other side of the door. However, our bathroom was complete with a creepy crawl space and sky light. Did I mention it was soon to be Friday the 13th?

On Friday, we woke up early to begin the six hour drive to Matera. I had the opportunity to sit in the front seat and practice my Italian with our handsome driver, Marco. He has become somewhat of our regular chauffer around Italia and also my language partner. Marco is especially qualified for the job because, unlike my other Italian friends, he speaks little English. For this reason, we have established Italian as our communicative language. This validates my hypothesis that once you establish a language with someone it is hard to change. But, it is always difficult in a second language. At dinner on Saturday night I acted as a translator for Marco. Dr. Webb and I had been talking about how in Morocco typically a dentist performs circumcision. From there we talked about castrating bulls. Now that I look back on it, this was not actually appropriate dinner conversation. My grandfather would allocate it as equal to discussing diapers or bras at the dinner table. Anyhow, I think we were relating it to the subject of pain and diversion from pain. We joked that in Morocco, you can have a two for one. The whole table burst out in laughter and Marco looked at me inquisitively. I then mistakenly explained to Marco, in Italian, that in Morocco the dentist also performs “castrazione” (castration). Marco’s eyes got big as our dinner plates and my face turned beet red. I did not realize what I had just said. Between choking on bread and laughing, Chelsea pointed out that I really meant “circumcision”. I did not know the word for this in Italian therefore trying to explain circumcision was more awkward and embarrassing then my mistake. “Bambino” “Nascire” “un intervento”.

Matera is where Passion of the Christ was filmed. It is appropriate because the city looks like it is in Israel, not Italy. The sassi, literally meaning ‘stone’, forms a cave like feeling to the city. As we walked around, or slipped around on the glassy slick cobble stone, I was set back in time. The lighting and fog at night added to the mood. Most of the buildings are formed from caves in the rock.

On Saturday we visited Aliano, were Carlo Levi, author of Christ Stopped at Eboli, was exiled during WWII. Along the way, we stopped to buy clementines. The breakfast at the hostel was complete with bread and more bread. We were happy to consume some fruit for the sake of resisting scurvy. However, I did more than resist scurvy. Last night I went to shower and thought I had a case of bed bugs by the looks of my thighs. I ran down stairs to announce my diagnosis to the professors. If it was bed bugs, surely the whole palazzo would need to be exterminated with Clorox. My assumption was shot down and my disease clarified as overindulgence in clementines. Dr Webb likes to call anything of this nature the “epozootacus”. This could mean a rash or the runs. In my case, it materialized as “acid rash”. I think I’ll be watching my citrus intake for the week.

Sunday we made the long 9 hour drive back to Sansepolcro. Being away from Sansepolcoro really gave the word “home” a whole new meaning. Home is a state of mind, not a physical place on the map. A weekend in the Mezzogiorno, the south of Italy, allowed me to see that Tuscany and more specifically Sansepolcro has become my home this fall. Giacomo called last night and I answered the phone with a joyful, “I’m home”! I am already in denial that in three weeks time, I will be leaving this home for my other home.

Morocco

I temporary fell off the blog radar. I got lost somewhere between Bergamo, Italia and Fes, Morocco. I hear that the Bermuda triangle is always moving, so maybe that was the force that pulled me away from writing. However, I am more positive that it is the things I saw that metaphysically kept me from recounting my experience. I vacationed in a parallel universe to my usual one. Being in Morocco was as if I walked back in time and then took a step sideways [as Dr. Webb put it]. Nothing about my experience was normal, or “giusto” as the Italians would say. It was compelling, yet had an adverse effect of homesickness. Being in Morocco revealed dark parts of my heart and showed me that my experience is not the only truth of this world. I found myself questioning ideas which I have been reared to believe as concrete. Even now, 6 days later, I find myself trying to process it all. I have avoided Microsoft Word like an ex-boyfriend. I know that as I begin to recount these events I will have to deal with it somewhere within myself. For this reason I think it is best to share some journal entries I wrote while in Morocco. I will not alter anything, except for a few grammatical errors, in these accounts. This is Nicole uncut, from Morocco!
28-10-09
It is as if I have stepped into era, another dimension. Everything is different. The weather, the fashion, the flora (yes, Dr. Swab would be proud), the traffic pattern, and especially the language are foreign to me. I am no longer in Europe. Indeed, I am in Africa! I arrived at the Fes airport forty minutes ago and I am now sweltering in 90 degree weather at the “gare” (train station in French) as I wait for Ethan. However, I am not complaining because I am in great need of a little vitamin d. I was beginning to look a little too Northern European, on account of my exuberantly white skin. This, along with my clothing, gives away my identity as a foreigner. I am neither dressed correctly nor speak the right language. I would not make a good spy here in Fes. It is also humbling and frustrating that I have worked for one year to understand another culture and language, only now to arrive in yet a completely different culture. I can speak English and Italian. Some days I think I speak better Italian, especially when I examine my English grammar. Anyway, I digress. Knowledge of English and Italian does not benefit me here in Morocco. I have already realized that nothing in my education will serve me here. I am going to have to be imaginative. Morocco has two official languages (as well as a multitude of Berber languages): French and Arabic. I am officially adding learning French to my academic to-do list, because Arabic already seems impossible. However, I have just learned that because I speak a second language, I can pretend to be who I want. It is a naughty game, and a confusing one at that. With one slip of a word, the truth will be revealed! In forty minutes time I have already tested this game. At the airport, I spoke to a woman in Italian and she responded in French. So I had to resort to pen and paper in which I wrote “16” and drew a picture of a bus. Elementary methods will have to do. This gesture found me the bus where I paid for my ticket speaking Italian. When I did not know where my stop was, I asked for “il stazione”. Almost everyone got off the bus at the Medina and I was the only woman left on the bus. For a moment, I was nervous. Then the bus driver spoke to me. “Do you speak English?” “Yes. And Italian”, I proudly proclaim. “At the station it is finished.” “Grazie”, I replied! This was a conglomerate of languages. I knew I had confused the driver when he then asked “Italiana”? No, I responded, “Americana”. The bus stopped and I jumped off. “Grazie!” Thus I chose my identity: an American woman who speaks Italian in a French and Arabic speaking country. Boy, this is going to be fun!
After hopping off the bus I realized I must cross a very busy street with an unknown number of intersecting roads. There appeared to be no set traffic pattern or pedestrian-driver relationship. I figure my best bet was to cross with a man who looked as if he knew what he was doing. My man was tall, appearing to be around 65, wearing a traditional Arabic jellaba, and sporting a long white beard. He was the sort of fellow that John Rose would call a “good looking” one. His looked clean, which probably does not reflect the amount of times he bathed this week. I only had about a minute with this man but I am so thankful for his presence because otherwise I might have been a pancake in the Fes intersection. It is interesting the encounters one has with foreigners. You may at any moment count on someone you previously disregarded because of difference or prejudice.
29-10-2009
Morning -
I am living in a daze. Time and people move around me but I am caught in my own thoughts. This is not the western world, but I am not completely removed from its influences. I am discovering slowly another definition of modesty. I feel naked in 90 degree weather with only my wrist showing. And heaven forbid my sweater not cover my whole bottom. However, I believe there is something to be said about adhering to another culture’s standard of modesty. I remember reading an article about Muslim women who cover their hair and thinking how awfully persecuted they must feel. Now that I have witnessed it first hand, I have decided that this is not the case. Covering the head in the Arabic world is more about being modest than traditional. Ethan has an American friend in Fes who covers her hair for this reason. Although she is not Muslim, she covers her hair as a symbol of respect and awareness of sensuality. She conforms because as a modest Christian woman, she purses modesty in her own culture and thus must do the same in Morocco. I am not sure if I agree with this.
Evening-
I cannot seem to find another word besides “interesting” to describe all the new things I am seeing. Every time Ethan informs me about a new piece of Moroccan culture, all I can seem to respond with is, “interesting”. I am completely muted due to pure culture shock.
Last night we walked through the Medina (the older part of Fes). Ethan tromped through the winding city as if he was guided by an internal GPS system. Without him I would have surely been lost in the maze, as was its original intent. Similar to Venice, except without water, the Medina makes you feel like you could get lost and never be found. The roads darken to winding staircases and then round out to roads that seem to climb uphill forever. According to Ethan the Medina has two major parallel roads. For obvious reasons they are nicknamed “the big climb” and “the little climb” (translated from Arabic).
The smells are intense in the Medina. In fact, everything in Morocco has a smell. Some smells are more pungent than others. I decided the combination comes together to smell something like cilantro, mint soap, and burnt rubber.
The sounds are equally as intriguing. As we were walking through the Medina we heard drums and the roar of a crowd coming from a dark alleyway. Our curiosity caused a two hour detour from the plan. Before I knew it, I was being pulled onto the dance floor in a pre-wedding celebration. Next, I was being served mint tea containing a half cup of sugar while I talked to the bride-to-be. Apparently a wedding in Morocco starts on Thursday and does not end until Saturday. Thursday is a henna party for the women, Friday a formal dinner, and finally the wedding is on Saturday. Traditionally, the marriages are arranged. However, this couple met on the internet. I told you I wasn’t completely removed from western culture.
30-10-2009
I have just learned what “couch-surfing” is. Allow me to inform you. It is a formal online group of very serious travelers who network around the world for a place to stay and a cultural experience. Now let me inform you what it is not. According to my very serious couch surfing friends, it is not a free place to spend the night. You are expected to interact with the community, attend meetings in your area, and host people who have hosted you. It sounds more like a cult to me. But, I am withholding my opinion for this experience.
According to Ethan we will be “couch-surfing” this weekend with a Berber family in a village in the Middle Atlas. He has stayed multiple times with this family and made friends with the son, Rashid. We will be catching a ride with two other “couch-surfers” who are renting a car in Fes. Other than that he did not say much. I am too dazed to ask about details.
And now, I find myself in the most unlikely of situations. I am sitting in the back seat of a car, riding through the Moroccan mountains with an Italian, a Spaniard, and another American. Between the four of us we speak English, French, Spanish, Italian, and Arabic. Besides that, three of us are not living in our country of origin. This is the kind of thing I will brag about to my kids one day. I will use only the vaguest of descriptions in order to intrigue them about the world.