You see, I just figured I was Italian. Before traveling to the land of my grandparents, I attended an American school in New Jersey, learning the Italian verbs, adjectives and vocabulary, always making an A grade, and even learning °insider° cultural phrases like °in bocca al lupo° and °crepi.° What I did not learn in school was how to avoid the street gypsies or the hooting and hollering men on the street. I learned those things while I was in Italy, real quick.
All the preparation still had me fumbling through the language when I tried speaking to Italians, and when I started off my journey, I very much believed I was Italian on some fundamental level. After all, my blood was Italian. The very blood pumping through my veins was the same blood that pumped through the Baron of Beneventos veins not even 150 years ago. So you tell me who was Italian and who was not. I WAS Italian! At least in my own opinion, I was.
So I figured I must have some place in this huge country of Italy made up of 20 something provinces, soccer and mozzarella cheese, at least more than the role of the tourist was allowing me access to. This was MY Italy, and I was determined to make it mine, but when I got there I realized in my girlhood and ignorance of the language that Italy seems to belong to no one, not even the Italians, and without your family, you do not belong to it either.
So my advice, stick to what you know. Do not expect the real Italy to show itself to you willingly. The culture is full of subtleties that take years to perfect and understand, just like the language. If you have patience, this beautiful country will slowly open up before your eyes, and you will experience the food, the music, the wine and the people like never before. It is then that YOUR own journey of heritage will start to make sense, as you start to embrace the every day Italian mindset into your life.
And the journey begins!
