What Italians Taught Me About Nothing
Five years ago, I moved to Italy — the hyper-romanticized country of pebbled beaches and soft old-world wines.
Growing up with grandparents who had immigrated from Italy three decades prior, I had continuously been fed handmade tagliatelle, slow-roasted peppers in polenta, and stories from the salty shores and glistening waters of Sardinia. My grandmother watched me on weekends when she taught me the Italian numbers, aggressive curse words, and almost a complete language of pure gesticulation. For years I breathed in their cigarette smoke and nostalgia and dreamed of a future life in Northern Italy.
Upon first moving to Turin, I was ready for the burst of fantastical euphoria; I loved the fig trees that grew from impossibly small cracks in the sidewalks, the almost otherworldly silence of monasteries, the fact that gelato was an acceptable midday snack for adults, and the lackadaisical yet passionate Italian culture. If my blonde hair didn’t betray me as a foreigner, my butchered Italian and ever-present girlish grin did the trick.
But the charm disintegrated into the muggy September air the first day the metro broke down. Two hours of waiting past nightfall led to a thirty-euro cab in the warm autumn rain. I woke up recharged to find my monthly metro pass had stopped working, resulting in my standing for hours in the Italian…
