Hillary Ford
The View From Here
la dolce vita
PrintI began the fall of my junior year of high school ready to become a foreigner. I believed that the American Dream was a thing of the past, something realistic only to Marcia Brady. My future lay in Europe. Having spent the previous two years at Choate, an über-preppy boarding school in Connecticut, I felt stifled by the notion that pearls and a pink-and-lime-green ensemble are as perfect of a couple as Brangelina. I got off the plane in Rome for my trimester abroad and I looked around as if I were ready to crack my knuckles and dig in to a tremendous bowl of spaghetti.
I am not as American as apple pie and Wonderbread. My parents both immigrated from Europe. My mother came from England in the ‘80s to attend Barnard and my father ventured across the pond from Lake Como, Italy to further his career as a chef in Orlando. The fact that I grew up in New York City, arguably the most international city in America, only added fuel to my Europhile fire.
During the orientation dinner on the first day of school in Italy, I made new, albeit American, friends. I needed to rectify my red, white and blue situation—and luckily, an older boarding student, American but Italianized, took my new friends and me under his wing. As the first night was a Saturday, we ventured out to experience the crazy European nightlife. Several shots of absinthe later, I was hoping to see some kind of green fairy. Instead, my new Italian-esque friend introduced me to his day student pals. As I tried to make jokes about their small cars, called macchinettes (which are like Smart cars, but less powerful and much less cool), images of the ever-friendly Italian were being squashed in my head: I wasn’t what you would call a complete hit.
As I settled into my new routine, I felt something that I had never felt before (especially not as a blonde, white girl): discrimination. I could not comprehend it. It was explained to me that it was simply because I was an American, and therefore must be a Bush Republican. Ironically, I had always thought that Italy was a Catholic, very conservative place. It turns out that in Italy, religion and intellectualism are not mutually exclusive. (Evangelists, take note!) Although the Italians may not be pro-choice, they act liberal and look down at America as the cigarette they just put out with their shoe. Not even my status as a New Yorker could gain any points with them.
Sharing their views, although not to such an extreme degree, I aimed to distance myself from America. The first thing to go was my clean-cut, Connecticut boarding school image: My smoking, which had been a minor flirtation in New York, became a deep sordid affair, initiated when I realized that I hadn’t been inhaling before. I watched and learned the Italian way of life from my classmates, pretending of course, that I had known the whole time. My Italian citizenship became important, as did my Italian family, to score me brownie points. Anti-American social climbing efforts aside, I was in Rome, the most beautiful city in the world, and I was the happiest I had ever been. My trimester abroad became a two-year-long commitment, and my Italian self blossomed.
Soon my favorite things about Rome had gone from the low drinking age to the local music. Specifically house music—it was techno, but not like I had ever heard before. There were no words, just beats. I would wake up in the morning to the sound of the school café’s espresso machine being turned on and the boom boom boom of the music. I thought everyone was crazy to listen to drug-popping tunes at 8:30 a.m., but they invigorated my mind. They woke my senses— or maybe it was just the cappuccino.
I also fell in love with the counterculture. The passions that rose with the mechanical hands thrusting into the sky at house clubs could be stimulated for any kind of protest; they cared and they defied. I watched as students casually rolled a joint in daylight or walked around with a Peroni in their hands as if it has always been there. Smoking on the school’s terrace, banned as a boarding student, was a cultish ritual.
Steadily I was assimilated into Italy, becoming a house-listening, chain-smoking, wine-drinking Italiana. I became that crazy dancing girl, flailing my arms to the beat. I was proud to say that I was no longer on study abroad. I was so ingrained in Italy that when my high-school graduation came, it was as if I had been in wonderland and was being jolted out of paradise. Italy could no longer be my first love; it was demoted to a secret mistress you see on holidays.
Dreading Barnard and my return to America, I wheeled my big blue cart into Sulzberger with disdain. I had managed to bring something back from Europe: snobbery. While all of these wannabe hipsters in skinny jeans and scarves were still living with mommy and daddy, I had been places.
I quickly realized I had to lose the attitude unless I wanted to spend the next four years alone in my smoke-filled room. I began to make friends (and luckily, this time, no one expected me to denounce my citizenship). I remembered what it felt like to belong somewhere. I had finally returned to the city where I had lived for 15 years, and I re-experienced all the ridiculous and wonderful things about it: crazy people on the subway, sitting outside at restaurants, four different kinds of maple syrup (a scarce commodity in Italy), the ability to order Japanese at 2 a.m. Plus, there were the added excitements that come with starting college. I was no longer a foreigner.
I have exchanged smoking for organic foods and the pizzeria for Koronet, but there is a part of my soul that will never fully forget my time abroad. You never really forget your first love, especially if it has a dashing Italian accent.
30 April 2009
vol. 6, issue 12
More FEATURES
The author of Hippo in a Tutu: Dancing in Disney Imagination talks about hippos, ducks, and the implications of choreographed animation.
Zach Dyer talks to Mark Doty, who made history as the first American to win the T. S. Eliot Prize for Poetry, about New York City's power as a muse.
kelicia hollis interviews jeff johnson
Comments
We're looking for comments that are interesting and substantial. If your comments are excessively self-promotional, or obnoxious you will be banned from commenting. Consult the comment FAQ and legal terms.