I’m back in the “in-between” world, the space where sentences begin in one language and end in another.
It’s a world that I inhabited for
many years and then withdrew from (in Allentown, when I resigned myself to
being stateside, which was not a completely unfortunate occasion since it was also when
I discovered that Mexico, for example, is marvelous and that wherever I live, even Allentown, a part of that place will stay with me forever).
The in-between world is one I love and I loathe –
loving it because Italian quickens my pulse! I become Italian Jeanne -- who has the luxury of walking everywhere, yes everywhere, every day, which only serves to ratchet up my already overflowing reserves of enthusiasm and energy. I might just walk someone to death in Italy, purely out of the joy of movement in my adopted country!
I also loathe the in-between world because it plunges me into saudade. What was, what could have been, what wasn't. America is the land of opportunity -- but it is not, for the most part, a land with an excess of perfectly-planned, grand public spaces linked by achingly beautiful cobblestone streets to other perfectly-planned, grand public spaces, where you can be both with and without people. Where you can see something heart-stoppingly beautiful outside of yourself and something deep inside of you, too.
I walk through the streets of Torino
(or insert here whatever Italian city that I happen to be visiting) and I want to consume everything. Not
merely a panino or a gelato, the things one normally consumes, but buildings, nooks, mossy courtyards, caffes, signs –
especially signs, any vehicle for the Italian language that falls under my
sight. Also: cobblestone streets and the tight juxtaposition of shops and restaurants,
piazzine, too, which are tiny, often hidden lands frequented only locals. Yes, I want
to consumer those piazzine, those cortili (which especially in Torino seem to give access to worlds unseen), I want to mainline the way bikes cross
piazzas and how content and confident the riders appear. I want to inhale how
toddlers bound across the grand squares of Torino without a car in sight -- how Italian cities are made for children to be children.
I also loathe the in-between world because it plunges me into saudade. What was, what could have been, what wasn't. America is the land of opportunity -- but it is not, for the most part, a land with an excess of perfectly-planned, grand public spaces linked by achingly beautiful cobblestone streets to other perfectly-planned, grand public spaces, where you can be both with and without people. Where you can see something heart-stoppingly beautiful outside of yourself and something deep inside of you, too.
I walk through the streets of Torino
(or insert here whatever Italian city that I happen to be visiting) and I want to consume everything. Not
merely a panino or a gelato, the things one normally consumes, but buildings, nooks, mossy courtyards, caffes, signs –
especially signs, any vehicle for the Italian language that falls under my
sight. Also: cobblestone streets and the tight juxtaposition of shops and restaurants,
piazzine, too, which are tiny, often hidden lands frequented only locals. Yes, I want
to consumer those piazzine, those cortili (which especially in Torino seem to give access to worlds unseen), I want to mainline the way bikes cross
piazzas and how content and confident the riders appear. I want to inhale how
toddlers bound across the grand squares of Torino without a car in sight -- how Italian cities are made for children to be children.
Seeing these homespun creations, I
want to order 3 cappuccini, 4 ciambelline (like donuts but not), and also some other pastry that looks yummy and appena sfornata, a glass of acqua gassata, un bicchiere di vino rosso and maybe something else (I actually had breakfast twice every day I was in Italy this trip -- che golosa!).
It’s almost tender, how beautiful
Italian cities are (and how welcoming their public and consumer spaces are).
Made to be lived in, made for life outdoors, in the streets, in public. As if
the Italians’ need for picturesque boulevards and quaint eateries is something
they can’t help wear on their sleeves, as if it’s a remnant of the warm,
coddled world of their childhood. That need to be welcomed and wanted by the world around us, by the barista, the giornalaio. That need for human contact.
At the risk of repeating myself, it will never be anything else but thrilling that Italy is a
place I’ve called home, a place that’s still home to a very significant part of
my mind. Somehow I am lucky
enough to know this foreign country in the most intimate way. I didn’t simply
live in Italy – it lives in me. Every time I’m here, I’m thoroughly inhabited
by this bewildering, beloved, bedazzling country.
Inhabited in a way that makes me
spring to life, as if in Atlanta or America in general, I’m merely treading water, moving
ahead instead of bursting onto the street and through piazzas as I do in Italy.
You may grow tired of reading this,
and other posts that are similar, but I, at least, never seem to lose that
thrill of contact with the culture. Even in moments of difficulty – where Italians
insist on something absurd – this is still my Italy.
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