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 reflect similar feelings to my own –almost identical 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.
The me I was spent most of her 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 art of Italy, the religion of India, the language of Paris, the food of Mexico –everywhere but home. I was and I am a dreamer.
Just like I need a mirror to see my own face, so must I look outside myself in order to see inside, and so did I have to leave my home in order to find it. Cliché as it may sound, “finding myself” was one of my biggest motives for coming to Rome: my travels are journeys of “inploration” caused by exploration. However, the recent discovery of “home” was wholly unexpected. Until now, I never really felt connected to a particular place.
In order to discover home, I had to leave it.
When my dreams of traveling became a reality, I visited the places I so yearned to see. Neither dreams nor words could explain the beautiful things I saw –beautiful in all senses of the word both external and internal. However, although I loved them initially, I soon discovered the best place of all was home. The more I saw, the more I missed my home. Things I once regarded as flaws became things I yearned for most. They are among the things I yearn for most.
I miss the way people venerate the sun on the rare autumn days it chooses to shine. I miss the endless open lakes and tall snowy mountains.
I miss the sunny month of August and the rainy month of March.
I even miss the craziness of Seattle –the horrid drivers and confusing streets.
In order to fall in love with home, I had to leave it.
When did Rome become my home?! After having been in Rome four weeks, I dreamt once again of other places. I looked forward to the shops and food in Florence and the romanticism of Venice. They became my greener grass. I looked forward to our class trip to Florence like I look forward to dinnertime after two hours of talking about Panini in Italian class. And when the time finally came, I stepped off the train 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, 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 and light. 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 and light. I was angry 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 even those things I once regarded as flaws.
In order to discover home, I had to leave it.
I missed my Campo, the contemporary concert it put on everyday, and the way it kept me awake at night.
I missed the mixture of colors of oranges, apples, tomatoes, lettuce, meat outside my window and the temptation it provided.
The taste and the feel of fresh produce. The awkwardness at buying from a new vendor from the first time.
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. Adventure in the rain.
Feeling comfortable. Feeling uncomfortable.
The joy of finally getting where I wanted to go after the anger at taking so long.
In order to fall in love with home, I had to leave it.
Is this unfair to Florence? Why do I feel this bias for Rome? Both Rome and Florence are filled with tourists flocking to see the historical sites and precious ruins. In both, I’ve been so angered by this blockade to my Italian experience that I almost wished the ruins did not exist, or at least that only our class knew of them.
Soon though, I fell in love even with those things I once considered flaws. 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 dis-loved before. When I went to Prato, I discovered I had a bias for Florence as well. I wonder where I would have to go to learn to love Prato?
Venice. The labyrinth that Is Venice is an incredibly quaint, confusing city with boats but no cars, street music but no nightclubs, Italian food but no Romanian restaurants, grocery stores but no refrigerators. At least for me, this is what Venice means. In reality, these things that I feel Venice lacks are not in fact things Venice lacks. In fact, no city lacks refrigerators! It is only my accessibility to them that these cities that are not my home, lack.
Venice did not make me miss Prato, but it did teach me what "home" means to me. It was in Venice that I discovered what a home is. Having missed Seattle when I was in Rome, Rome when I was Florence, and Florence while I was in Prato, I was very eager to see what would happen in Venice. I missed home.
In order to discover what home is, I had to discover what home "isn't."
Home is not 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 a home. Material things do not create a home. The existence of these things in Rome is not why I can now call Rome, home. In order to discover home, I had to first leave, and then return.
A home is somewhere you can find without a map. A place becomes home when you can find our way to it, to the homes of friends around it, to your favorite restaurants and nightclubs, to the best grocery store around the corner, and to your special, secret place. It takes time for a place to become home. It takes trial and error to find delicious places to eat. For me, it takes lots of trial and error to learn how to get to the places I love to go.
Home is an experience. It is an ease, a comfortability, a feeling of fit. Home is a place where you feel as though you play a part in the drama that unfolds. Home is also a place where you no longer feel as though you are the Other; a place where you have become one with the Other. Rome is no longer the Other for me. Neither is the Other I saw yesterday. I've seen her so much now that I've become accustomed to her. Time made me accustomed to her. I’ve learned her mannerisms, her face. I feel as though I know her now. She doesn’t seem strange anymore. In fact, I think I quite like her.
Time makes the Other, home.
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