“Come Si Dice ‘Foreigner?’”
By: Kali Blevins
Davidson College
This article is the journey of a small town girl thrust into a bustling European city. It describes the difficulties I had with adjusting to life in Rome, Italy and the valuable lessons I learned about myself, the countries I visited, and the definition of home.
Foreign Country Meltdown #1: Che Cosa E?
All I wanted was milk. I stood in Carrefour staring at the pink and blue labels in front of me. Latte scremato. Latte intero. Latte parzialmente scremato. I fingered impatiently through my neon yellow dictionary trying to decipher these strange new words. I had “tourist” written all over me.
Feeling the intense stares of those waking by, I quickly grabbed what I thought was low fat milk (do they even have an equivalent to that here?) and rushed to the checkout line. And I waited…and waited…and waited, listening to the locals chatting around me. I was suddenly very conscious of my choice to wear flip-flops and shorts today. I stuck out like a sore thumb.
Finally, it was my turn at the checkout line. Following what everyone in front of me had done, I nervously put my small pile of groceries on the conveyer belt. The cashier looked up at me. This was my chance to fit in. “Buonasera,” I said with a smile. The cashier replied with an emotionless “Ciao” and began ringing up my items. She grabbed my bag of apples and scrutinized it. Then, she thrust the bag in my direction as she asked me something grumpily. I froze. I had no idea what she had said. Seeing my panic, she silently got up and disappeared somewhere in the store with my apples. When she returned, my bag was labeled with a barcode. Note to self, figure out how she did that.
“Diciannove, settanta,” the cashier said as she slid my last bit of groceries to the end of the checkout line. I glanced at the screen behind her to figure out what she said, and then shifted through my bag for money. Am I supposed to give her exact change? I handed her a twenty. As she gave me my change, she asked if I wanted “buste.” Again, I gave her a blank stare. She just tossed a bag at me and began ringing the next person up.
I bagged my groceries, said a quick “grazie,” and bolted out of the supermarket. I could only hold the overwhelmed, jetlagged tears in for a few blocks. This was the fourth day of my semester in Rome. And the first of many foreign country meltdowns to come.
When I arrived in Rome, I had no idea how tough the transition to Italian life was going to be. The first few days were deceptively euphoric: site-seeing, learning my way around, discovering the culture. Any mistake I made, I had the excuse of being a tourist. Then real life began to set in. I had to figure out how to grocery shop, buy metro passes, send mail, and purchase shampoo, all in a language I could barely speak. I had to build a new support system, battle with homesickness, and find different stress reliefs. Oddly enough, my most difficult transition was adjusting to city life. This was my second meltdown of the semester.
Foreign Country Meltdown #2: Dov’e Il Parco?
If I hear another honking car, I’m going to lose it. After crossing the six-lane street near Temple University Rome, I realized I had finally started to master city life. Three weeks into my semester, I no longer feared waltzing into streets in front of cars or pushing my way through crowds. Unfortunately, other adjustments were not happening as quickly.
Rome was the first city I had ever lived in. Until my semester in Italy, you could draw a forty-mile circle around my life. I was born in Charlotte, NC and spent my early childhood living in one of the city’s suburbs. When I started kindergarten, my family moved to Mooresville, a whopping thirty-six miles north of Charlotte. Nicknamed Race City USA, this small, southern town is known only for its race team headquarters and its proximity to Lake Norman. Of the 25,000 townspeople, most are second or third generation Mooresvillians. The simple task of going to Wal-Mart entails seeing at least three people that you know. I made the decision early on in high school that I would get out of this bubble and see the world. So logically, I decided to attend college fifteen minutes away. The town of Davidson, home to Davidson College, has one main street and only 9,000 people. Thus, my worldview had consisted mostly of quaint, southern, small town charm.
Rome’s constant hum of engines and horns was too far beyond that southern comfort for me to handle. Although I was proud of crossing the street without dying or even flinching, I could not fool myself into believing I was now a city girl. I needed my peace and quiet. I needed greenery. But where to find it?
Before beginning the forty-minute walk home, I stopped on the bridge across from school to look at the Tiber River. Its brown, opaque water seemed unusually appealing that day. I carefully walked down the rusted stairs nearby and found a bench by the wooded riverside. I cracked open Dante’s Inferno. I had found my peace and quiet, or at least I had thought.
Unfortunately, no amount of rushing water can erase the sound of impatient Italians. I could not seem to tune out the sound of the honking cars or the rickety tram tracks. “Before me were no things -honk- created, but eternal; and eternal -honk- I endure: leave all -clack, clack- hope, ye that enter.”^1 This constant noise pushed me over the edge.
Cue foreign country tears parte due. Overwhelmed, I grabbed my stuff and huffed back up the staircase. At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to be home. I missed the sound of birds. I missed seeing the stars. I even missed hearing the cows moo when the wind was just right. And more than anything, I was wishing public transportation was not such a necessity in this city. It was a long walk home.
Until that day I stood on Ponte Matteotti sniffling back tears, I was not aware of the sheltered, small town life I had lived or the values it had instilled within me. Who knew greenery was so important? Although I had chosen to go to Rome because it would be a new experience for me, adjusting to the sights and sounds of city life was an aspect of culture shock I had not anticipated. But I eventually found my peace and quiet. Not far from my school was a beautiful park with a small pond, wooded walking paths, and a busy street running right through the middle of it. After all, it would not be Rome without this last feature. Once I discovered this green oasis, I often found myself wandering its gravel trails, appreciating my newfound love of city life and my quiet childhood. Rome taught me the importance of my two distinct sides.
Foreign Country Meltdown #3: Andiamo…in French.
It took a month to adjust to life in Rome. After a few meltdowns, many one-sided conversations, and a disoriented adventure or two, I felt like I was ready to face the world. So I did. I began to travel.
After adjusting once to a new culture and learning how to work everyday situations, traveling seemed simple. I discovered the lessons I had learned in Rome transferred throughout the country. In Florence, Milan, Venice, and Verona, I could speak the language and understand the customs. I knew where to get cheap food, how to ask for directions, and whether or not to drink the water.
However, once I broke out of the comfort of Italian culture, a world now familiar to me, traveling got more stressful. The basic words that were necessary to know in any language were beyond my vocabulary. Questions were always present: Do I tip? When does the metro close? How do I get money from the bank? Fortunately, because I had already experienced the transition to a new culture, I knew how to find the answer to most of these questions. Knowing how to say “please” and “thank you” can get you a long way.
Unfortunately, the polite travel skills I had gained were not enough to keep the French happy. No amount of “bonjour” or “merci” could compensate once I broke out into English. I was snapped at when I did not understand how to buy tickets for the Arc de Triomphe. “Do you want the student discount or not?” the women at the ticket counter barked at me without even looking my way. Even most taxi drivers drove off when I did not give directions in the correct language. Being unfamiliar with the mentality of the French, I found it difficult to have any public interaction without feeling like an incompetent tourist.
I was relieved to get back home after that trip. Home to Rome. Without me realizing it, Italy had become a safe haven for me. I felt comfortable in that country, a country that a few months ago could overwhelm me with a simple trip to the grocery store. Sadly, my European adventures of self-growth and exploration had to end eventually. There was a life calling to me, in English, across the Atlantic Ocean.
Foreign Country Meltdown #4: Grazie…I Mean, Thank You
All I wanted was milk. I stood in Food Lion staring anxiously at the large containers and their prices. How much do things normally cost here? This seems expensive when you convert it. Wait, I don’t have to do that anymore. I sighed and grabbed the smallest generic brand of milk I could find and hurried to the checkout line. I felt conscious of my inability to work my own country. I could no longer remember how to buy produce or request fresh meat. And now I had to compensate for tax again.
Standing in line, I lost myself in the conversations going on near me. It was strange to understand every word. Looking around, I realized I was the only person not in sweatpants. Wearing heels to the grocery store now seemed like a poor decision. Suddenly, I was the next person in line. The cashier smiled and said hello. There was a split second delay before I answered her. Italian was the first thing to go through my head. But I knew that was not right. “Hi,” I responded awkwardly. I was aware that my delayed response was rude.
The cashier continued cheerily to ring up my groceries and bag them for me. I wincingly handed her a torn, dirty, boring twenty-dollar bill. I grabbed my change and my groceries and headed for my car. The minute I sat down in the driver’s seat, tears welled up in my eyes. This was my second day back home in the United States. And the first of many foreign country meltdowns to come.
^1 Alighieri, Dante. The Divine Comedy. New York: Vintage Books, 1950. 22.
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Rudy Maxa and Allan Comport judged the RateYourStudyAbroad.com Fall 2010 Travel Writing & Photography Contest. Rudy Maxa is the host of PBS‘s RudyMaxa’s World, a former Washington Post reporter and the former host of NPR‘s The Savvy Traveler. Allan Comport is a professor of art at the Maryland Institute College of Art (MICA).
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