Times They Are a-Changin

When I read food blogs, I get a very strange feeling. I really cannot tell if it’s the spark of young passion, awe, fear, my stomach growling, or simple jealousy. It’s probably a pinch of all those things. Today for me has been filled with this sensation because, in Italian fashion, I didn’t go to school, slept in, and spent too many hours reading food blogs. This got me thinking. Reviewing my blog, I realized that I have yet to really talk about food. How unlike me! Maybe it’s because there are so many things about Italy I want to write about, or maybe it’s because I don’t have the time to really sit down and do it all justice. Nonetheless, the epicurean inspiration has returned, and I think I am going to slowly but surely take my blog in a foodie direction... But not right this second. I’m hungry and need my afternoon snack of an apple with plume marmalade and parmigiano reggiano.

Insieme

Today, I experienced mild surprise when none of my friends insisted on walking home with me. Well, they never really walk me home. They always walk me to the end of the street that we hangout on after school then turn around and go back to where they were sitting. We don’t really have a word for this sort of thing in English, but in Italian it’s called “compagnare,” and I guess most closely means “to accompany.” It exemplifies one of many Italian habits that result in almost no solitude. A typical Italian goes likes this: first, you wake up. For me, I share a room with my host sister, so this is done together. Then, I use the bathroom, wash my face, etc. This is usually done alone in the morning, but often times, the girls all go to the bathroom together. We eat breakfast as a family. I walk to school with Roberta. I attend all my classes with the same twenty something kids. After school, we go walk around the bridge for about an hour. I go home, usually accompanied by Roberta or one of my friends. We eat lunch as a family. Then, everybody gets on Facebook and chats with the friends they just left. O, and I forgot to mention that throughout the entire day, the average Italian teenager is sending and receiving millions of text messages. Really, the only time I spend alone is when I study.

This constant companionship, like many things I have come to observe, has both positive and negative aspects. It can get a bit annoying always feeling obligated to interact with people. It’s weird to watch my independence level regress, and sometimes I want to give a good, long lecture on the importance of respecting personal bubbles. On the other hand, it’s nice to have people there for you all the time. I can get a hug whenever I do and don’t want. My friends and family are sincerely concerned about my feelings and emotions. I am never without support. In the words of my stepmom, if I was looking to hold myself up and walk alone in the rain, I should have gone to a Scandinavian country (No offense Ellie). For now, I'm in the Latin world, where everyone is always "insieme" (together).

Che Mi Manca

Up until this week, I had experienced close to zero homesickness. It was actually a little weird how much I hadn't though about my life in Portland, but for some unforeseeable reason, Sunday morning while Skyping my mom, the tears started pouring out. At first, I had no idea why I was upset, which was bad for my poor mother, sitting on the other end of the computer, assuming the worst, but she and I both know that all of the important aspects of my exchange have gone flawlessly. I have been integrated into my family, school, and town with few complaints or mishaps. I really thought I had nothing to be upset about and that I was just being a tired, whiny little baby, who needed to go back to bed and count her blessings.

Maybe that was a little bit true, but upon further reflection and few more hours of sleep, I've realized that it's acceptable and natural to feel deprived as long as I don't feel that way all the time and let it take over my experience. It's okay if I get intense cravings for soy sauce during my 127th bowl of pasta this month. It's okay if during my Latin test I feel like crying because translating the word "silvae," brings to mind the damp, fresh smell of Oregon forests in spring. It's even more okay if I really just want a warm hug from my mom or to spend Sunday grocery shopping with my dad. My desires are fine because I know all of these things will be waiting for me when I get back. Here, I have to appreciate that the 127th bowl of pasta is just as delicious and perfectly al dente as the first and the 401st. The trees smell like citrus and are always covered with yellow and orange fruit. I get hugs from people who are practically strangers just because they felt like hugging me, and on Sunday, I can go to the open air market with my host dad or spend an hour drinking coffee and trying to explain the Easter bunny to my host mom.

Octogenarians

In Italia, I have two sets of grandparents. Now, as a person who generally pieties the elderly and likes to deny the inevitability of old age, it means a lot when I say they are possibly the most darling people I have ever met. A few Sundays ago, my family had the pleasure of hosting a lunch for this gaggle of octogenarians. Despite this being my third and second times meeting them, Roberta had to reintroduce me and explain that I am her American friend, who does not speak good Italian and doesn't really understand much. For the four, especially the two grandmothers, this concept was incredibly difficult to wrap their heads around, so they just went ahead and asked me questions in Italian. Luckily, I comprehended the first one and successfully answered that my name is Brittney. Since the "tttt neeee" is a sound never used in Italian, my name is hard for a lot of people to say, so I'm generally Brit, Bri, or Britty. So for about twenty minutes my host dad and Roberta enjoyed trying to teach the grandmothers how to say my name. All attempts at abbreviation and slow pronunciation ended unsuccessfully. I think to the grandmas my name is currently Bridgetta. Maybe I'll keep it for its Italian ring.