I saw the Other yesterday. She had brown hair and big, brown eyes. She looked straight at me. In fact, every time I looked at her, she was looking at me. I didn’t recognize her at first. She had a type of smile I’d never seen before. Her facial expressions always seemed to almost reflect my own feelings and thoughts –but not quite. She even frowned when I frowned, though again not quite the same way I imagined I was frowning. I talked to her but she didn’t care to listen. Instead, her lips moved while I was talking. How rude! I tried again. Her lips moved again. I got upset. I motioned to her, only to see her mimic me. I reached out to grab her, to knock some sense into her, to make her listen. She reached towards me at the same time. We almost touched but someone walked up behind her just as I heard my name called from behind. I turned around and left. I still see her once in a while, staring right at me. I think she’s trying to tell me something. I think she’s trying to show me we’re the same. I think she’s trying to show me, me. Perhaps grass is still grass no matter what side of the fence it’s on.
“The grass is always greener on the other side”
I have spent most of my life living in Bellevue and dreaming of everywhere else. I dreamt of the sun in California, the big-city bustle of New York, the open spaces and country-side of Texas, the vibrant culture of Spain, the food of Italy, the religion of India, the language of Paris –everywhere but home.
Be careful what you wish for. Eventually, my dreams became reality. I visited the places I yearned to see, only to find the best place of all was home. The longer I stayed away, the more I started to miss Bellevue. Things I once regarded as flaws became what I yearned for most. I missed the way people venerated the sun on the rare autumn days it chose to shine. I missed the open lakes and tall snowy mountains. I missed the sunny month of August and the rainy month of March. I even missed Seattle –a city filled with crazy drivers and confusing streets. Most of all, I missed the friendly people and the ease with which I discovered eternal friendships. To fall in love with Washington, I had to leave.
Unfortunately, the human mind forgets as much as it remembers.
How many times must I learn that grass is grass no matter where you are?
I made the same mistake again. After having been in Rome four weeks, Florence became my greener grass. I looked forward to it like I look forward to dinnertime after two hours of talking about Panini in Italian class. When the time came, I stepped off the train in Florence smiling excitedly, prepared to feast on the city. I hoped that Florence would offer all that Rome did not.
At first, it did. If Rome is beautiful, then Firenze is resplendent. The people seemed younger, vibrant. The river was endless and sparkly. I could walk everywhere and I could read the names of streets! I hardly ever got lost. People were friendlier, it seemed. Everywhere I went, I was surrounded by gold and leather and water and light reflecting off gold and leather and water. But I was only looking for the good.
Within a couple days of being gone, I realized Florence is small and filled with tourists. I became annoyed with the gold and leather and water –with the pushy vendors that I could not escape no matter how hard I tried. I disliked the way stores and restaurants and clubs catered to International (ie. American) students. I disliked the Disneyland of ridiculously overpriced everything. I was even unhappy with the fact that I had learned my way around the town so well that I could no longer get lost. I predicted that a longer stay would eventually leave me little to explore. I missed my Rome.
I missed my Campo and the contemporary concert it put on everyday.
I missed the mixture of colors of oranges, apples, tomatoes, lettuce, meat outside my window.
The taste of fresh produce.
The different rione. Getting lost in them. Getting lost with them.
Trying to find the shortest path to the Pantheon and getting lost every single time.
Trattoria Moderna. Gioletto
The sunlight –the warmth.
Speaking Italian and having people respond in Italian. Being laughed at for my mistakes.
Adventure.
Feeling uncomfortable.
The joy of finally getting where I wanted to go.
But Rome has flaws as well. Both Rome and Florence are filled with tourists flocking to see the historical sites and precious ruins. At times, I’ve been so angered by this blockade to my Italian experience that I almost wished those ruins did not exist, or at least that only our class knew of them. However, going to Prato, I learned the value of the ruins. Prato was…gray. The inhabitants were indifferent. When I think of Prato, I think of industrialization, tall buildings, and boredom. Prato lacks all the beauty of the ruins of Rome and Florence. So Prato taught me to love even those things I so disloved before. I wonder where I would have to go to learn to love Prato?
So now I wonder –what is a city?
A city is people. People are language, actions, mannerisms, habits, facial expressions. Romans speak Italian and English. They walk with intention –except on weekends when they strut fashionably up and down the streets, in and out of cafés. Men shake hands and women kiss cheek to cheek. Everyone gestures. They drink café every day, and eat Panini and kebabs. They smile sometimes (when I make mistakes speaking Italian) and they frown sometimes (when I go places I’m not supposed to go). Rome is Italians, Romanians, Chinese, Africans, Bulgarians, Americans, and more.
A city is landscape. Rome is ancient, artsy, and expensive. Rome is beautiful. It is lit up at night by candles, and lights, and beautiful monuments. It is lit in the day by the sunshine. Rome is open spaces and crowded streets. Rome has few trees and parks, but a beautiful Tiber river –at least it is beautiful in the night when the color of it can’t be seen. Rome is busy streets, fast drivers, inconsiderate pedestrians, and strange parking jobs.
A city is climate. Rome is sunny, but cold. I’ve heard it is almost unbearably hot in the summer. I do not know that Rome.
A city is Art. Rome is Art.
A city is food. Rome is gelato, pizza, spaghetti. Four euro kebabs from the Indian man who has lived her five years. Red Sicilian oranges from the Roman man at the Vittorio Market. Pizza from the man from Senegal. Rome is cheap wine and red champagne. It is Trattoria Moderna, Giolitti, and Magnolia.
A city is not grass.
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