Euro Summer. We’re all familiar with it. Once you hit 20, it seems like everyone you know miraculously manifests in Europe. Spain, Greece, France, you name it, and a 20-something college kid is somehow there, sipping on an Aperol Spritz (which is nasty, by the way) and taking in the sights of the world while you’re at home. It’s not even jealousy that arises when you see the pictures, but more confusion than anything — how can you afford that? You don’t have a job, and you have student loans to pay off. You can’t afford to go out to dinner, but you can afford to go to Croatia? Sure, it makes perfect sense to me.
The aesthetic of a Euro summer has always intrigued me, as I had never been overseas before. Everything about a European summer seemed so glamorous and unattainable, and that made me want to experience it even more. Both sets of my maternal great-grandparents were Italian immigrants who came to the U.S. via Ellis Island, thus instilling a desire to travel to Europe. I wanted to know where my family came from and be able to build a connection with them, even though we had never met. But life got a little busy, so it didn’t seem to be in the cards. That is, until this past summer, when my parents and I visited Florence, Italy.
Learning about my then-upcoming vacation felt unreal: I was finally going to Europe! Italy, of all places! I would finally join the club of people my age going abroad. While my excitement was off the charts, my inquisitiveness (and anxiety, let’s be honest) was also running rampant. What’s the weather supposed to be like? Where are we going and what are we going to do? What will I wear? How will I learn basic Italian in such a short amount of time? What’s the culture like in Central Italy? All these questions and more raced through my mind, but there was one central question that tied all my thoughts together: How will I fit in?
Fitting In
Whether studying abroad or simply on a vacation, I constantly hear about the desire for fellow Americans to “fit in” while going away. This could vary on a case-by-case basis—manifesting itself as buying an entirely new wardrobe to appear more European, or even adopting a different demeanor while overseas—but the idea of fitting in has always stressed me out, and yet seemed so intriguing. Yes, I understand not wanting to embody the “ugly American” stereotype and act poorly in a foreign place where I’m merely a guest, but I find no point in desperately trying to appear like something I am not. I’m already relatively stressed trying to fit in as is, and I was not about to ruin my vacation by worrying about looking like a tourist!
Look, I know I’m American, and there are some extremely American things about me that likely won’t change wherever I go: I prefer freezing cold air conditioning, I enjoy a lot of ice in my water, and I hold these truths to be self-evident. This might signal to some Italians that I’m from the United States, and while our nation is going through an interesting phase, to say the least, I’m okay if people can clock my Americanness while I’m on vacation. This isn’t to say I didn’t learn basic Italian phrases and didn’t use my manners, because of course I did (my parents didn’t raise a rude child, thank you very much), but I was still me. I wore my usual all black wardrobe, I carried a handheld fan around to combat the oppressive heat, and I relied on Apple Maps like my life depended on it. I looked like I wasn’t from Italy, and for once in my life, I was okay with sticking out a little bit. And yet, even as I rejected the urge to completely conform, part of me still wondered why I longed for the residents of Florence, Pisa and Cinque Terre to accept me for who I was.
My Cultural Identity
Some of you might be wondering, “Okay, why does this matter? Why should I care?”, which is fair, to be quite honest. I appear to be complaining about going on vacation, which I know is quite the privilege, but I promise I am not. What I’m really trying to get at is how my own cultural identity played a huge role in how my vacation went. For as long as I can remember, I have been told that going to Italy is probably one of the best things you could achieve in your lifetime. It’s always been a “Oh, one day…” type of destination, and the way it was talked about by my family members made it seem like some sort of mythical place. It was heavily romanticized and idealized, and because of this, unattainable.
It’s no one’s fault that this was the message they were teaching me — it’s what they were told, too! Both sets of my mother’s grandparents were Southern Italian immigrants, and I know that all four of them reminisced about their former home. They then passed down this same narrative to my grandparents, who, of course, passed it down to my mother and her four other siblings. Do you see where I’m going with this? If not, no worries, I’ll clue you in: my mom passed it down to me, as well as my aunts to my cousins. I grew up very Italian-American, and for a long time, I thought the way I grew up was the norm. Seeing my extended family on the regular was routine, not just something reserved for holidays. I called my grandparents twice a day, every day, and saw them multiple times a week. A large Sunday dinner was as ordinary as a regular dinner consisting of just my parents and me. Everywhere I looked, there were traces of an evolved and adapted culture I was so familiar with, stemming from a place that was so foreign to me.
Preparing for my vacation to Florence in part felt like a strange sort of homecoming, even though I had never been to the country—I was from there, but I wasn’t from there. But I should still fit in, right? I proudly wear my cornicello to ward off the malocchio, I regularly use the Sicilian and Calabrese dialect my grandparents used, and believe in the superstitions that were taught to me as a child. Everything seems good, no? Except, there’s one slight problem: I don’t speak the language. Oh, and I don’t know the real culture. Plus, if you didn’t already know, I’m not from Italy. And I’m so far removed from the country generationally that I’m just like every other American tourist who claims Italian heritage.
La Bella Vita
Did I have a great trip? Yes. But did I also feel a strange mix of guilt, alienation, and sadness? Yep, I sure did. Taking in the sights, sounds, and culture of the ancestral homeland (which, again, where I visited is nowhere near where my family comes from) felt a little sad at times. The people who instilled my love for a place I knew nothing about are no longer alive and can no longer impart their fondness for their parents’ home to me. They were my ties to this place, and without them, I was just some random New Englander on vacation. The crux of the matter stems from the fact that I’ve always existed in a gray area of being a little too cultural compared to some of my friends, while also being so detached from the place where my family originated. I knew I’d never fit in, and overall, I was fine with that, but there was that nagging voice in the back of my head that desperately wanted to feel accepted. We’re supposed to be paesanos, so why was I so fixated on whether I looked like or sounded like I belonged?
I’m aware I’ll never be Italian enough for the true Italians, but part of me will always be a little too much for the general non-Italian American population. It’s a fun little dichotomy I’ll most likely live with my entire life, and for this reason, I find no point in trying to fight it. I can become as well-traveled and cultured as I want, but I will always be the same at my core: a girl trying to find her place in two worlds that don’t necessarily reject her, but also don’t completely accept her either.
So here I am, in all my Italian-American glory. I may not look Sicilian or Calabrese, have a name that alludes to my heritage, nor know the once-former native language of my relatives, but I represent everything that my ancestors immigrated for. I am both the bridge that connects the world that my predecessors came from, and also the gap that separates us. I am equally as Italian as much as I am American, and this tourist wouldn’t have it any other way.