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Published: February 9th 2008
This is the first of many assignments my program has given us, I think I did a damn good job
Dear Friends and Family,
Having never been to Italy before, my preconception of the Italian landscape and architecture of Parma were based off images made familiar by classic Italian artists like Leonardo Da Vinci and Michelangelo. Before coming to Parma, my only first hand encounter with true Italian culture was at the Giovanni’s Pizza place I frequent back at home. That being said, actually arriving here to see the multicolored stacked houses and winding cobblestone streets for myself was a sight both surreal and extraordinary. While Parma is a relatively quiet city in comparison to Italian metropolises like Rome or Florence, it is by no means lackluster in beauty and culture. The town is split in half by the river of Parma. Each half of the city is connected by a series of gorgeous bridges, making for a very picturesque sight.
Piazza Garibaldi is the main center of town, or as the Parmigianni say, “il centro”. It is here in that most of our group meetings take place because it is quite difficult to get oriented in this city. The winding streets and little storefronts start to look the same until you find yourself lost in a maze of never-ending cobblestone. In order to best explore my surroundings, I have taken a liking to jumping on a random bus going to a random corner of the city; after all, only by getting completely lost will I be able to somehow find my way around.
My street, Via Saffi, is made up of a series of Technicolor townhouses and various businesses. After being here for two weeks, the daily walk past these buildings has made them both familiar and welcoming. The cigarette smoking shopkeepers that sweep their storefront every morning have begun to recognize me as they tip their hats when I walk by. It is with this acknowledgement from the community that I feel like I will be able to eventually become part of it myself. From Via Saffi, I walk onto Via Repubblica, one of the main streets in Parma. Walking down this street is comparable to a fashion show runway. The pin thin Italian women glide by me with vivacity, determination and clicking stilettos. I must stick out like a sore thumb with my dirty worn converse and style that barely even passes as acceptable in the US.
Aside from the many things that have changed my preconceptions of Italy and Italian culture, the one thing I was right about was the food. Though it may be a stereotype, Italians truly do eat an impressive amount of pasta, pizza, and other various carbohydrates. I think I’ve eaten pasta at least once a day since I have been here. In fact, my first night here in Parma my host mother was slaving over an endless amount of pizza in the kitchen. After finishing the typical primo piatto (first course) of pasta, out came the most delicious Neapolitan style pizza pies I have ever seen. She must have made about eight different varieties. I laughed to myself as she brought them out of the oven; what a perfect first meal to start my new Italian life. Around every street corner is some sort of pizzeria, pasticceria, or café where all kinds of delicious edibles are put on display. Passing these storefronts on my walk to the bus in the morning is too much for my eyes to handle; if only I could walk with my eyes closed.
Another thing I’ve had to get used to is the strange business hours of the shops here in Italy. If you find yourself in need of something between the hours of 13:00-15:00 (I’ve also become quite fond of military time) you can forget it, everything’s closed. The first day I was here I thought I was walking through a ghost town. I thought to myself, “How do these businesses make any money, nothing is ever open?” Apparently this hiatus in business hours is for shopkeepers to go home and enjoy a lengthy lunch. Although it’s an inconvenience, it’s nice that life here moves a bit slower than the Starbucks paced life I am used to. Speaking of Starbucks, another thing that I have noticed here in Parma is that no one drinks their coffee “to go”. I think that if I asked for an espresso in a cardboard cup the barista would look at me like I was crazy. In order to enjoy my daily coffee I must stand at the counter and sip my caffeinated beverage out of a small porcelain cup like the rest of them.
All around me I hear people talking with each other in Italian but sadly am only able to recover bits and pieces of words I remember learning in class. Because I have selective hearing for familiar words, listening in on a conversation between two Italians sounds a little something like, “Ciao…wha wha wha si va bene. Wha wha wha wha pizza wha wha pasta wha grazie.” Now I know what Charlie Brown felt like when tried to make sense of the adults babbling gibberish. Hopefully as time passes, I will learn enough Italian to fill in some of the blanks.
While I previously thought that my Italian-esque hair/skin tones would work to my advantage here in Italy, I couldn’t have been more wrong. Why you ask? Well, because I look Italian, Italians address me quickly in the language and assume that I will be able to respond as any normal Italian girl would do. However, instead of casually speaking back in Italian, my entire face turns red and I mumble something that sounds like a combination of botched Italian and a dialect that predates the Homo Sapien. Luckily, if I keep my mouth shut I can pretend like I’m a member of the pack. While many Italians are patient with the fact that it takes me five minutes to deliver a sentence, the baristas at the local bars are not always as friendly or accepting of the fact that Italian is not my native tongue. Because of this, I am sometimes discouraged to buy anything that I don’t know how to say. Luckily, I learned the word “brioche” this week, a word that’s used here in Parma for a sweet pastry. With this new addition to my vocabulary, I am able to go into a coffee bar every morning and ask for my café macchiato and brioche. The one thing I have noticed however is in every place, “brioche” means something different. I guess this makes things kind of interesting, I never know what I’m going to get. Luckily for me, working at Starbucks last summer taught me a little something about various beverages; so at least I can order a coffee like a pro.
The Italians I’ve come into contact with are for the most part extremely welcoming and as excited to learn from me as I am from them. The program has found a couple Italian students our age to show us Parma from a local perspective. These students speak English really well and have been extremely accommodating thus far. I must admit, going out to bars and stuff with a legitimate Italian makes sitting in a restaurant a lot less stressful. Although, as much as I want to practice my Italian, those that speak English are just as eager to practice which definitely puts a damper on my rapid improvement. Nonetheless, language barriers are continually being crossed and broken down as my stay here continues.
Another surprise I have run into here is the attention (both good and bad) I get when speaking English in public with my American friends. Never in my life have I had to feel embarrassed of speaking above a whisper in my native tongue. Not that the Anti-American sentiment is undeserved, I just never know if the stares I get from speaking English are from curiosity or disgust…perhaps a combination of the two. On the bus to school every morning, I feel like I constantly have to tell my friends to speak more quietly because I can’t stand the dirty looks, the negative attention. Speaking English here makes me feel like the American flag is tattooed on my face with a super-sized McDonald’s meal in hand. This cultural estrangement is the closest I have ever come to being able to view America objectively, and what a strange sensation it has been. To make matters more frustrating, it’s difficult to prove that I don’t fit into the American stereotype (rich, loud, and stupid), especially because I don’t yet have the communication skills to form any kind of legitimate connections. However, as they say, “in time this too shall pass.”
Being abroad really puts into perspective that home is not only a tangible location, but a state of mind. In trying to overcome the immense loneliness that comes along with being alone in a far away place, I remind myself that just because I left home doesn’t mean that home left me. With this sentiment, it really is possible to become comfortably acquainted with new surroundings and ultimately feel at home from just about anywhere. And with that proverbial cliché, I’ll end this letter.
I love you and miss you all very much,
Michelle
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taylor
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can't wait to see what you think of america itself when you return! the perspective shifts are the real reason they send so many kids abroad, i think. good stuff.