Ciao! Or, hello, as you Americans call it. But, why, you may ask, am I speaking Italian and why do I not refer to myself as fully American? Well, technically I am American, but the years I spent living an hour north of Venice were some of the most influential years of my life and have led me to associate as partly Italian. Those of you that have ever visited the great country can understand why.
There is something magical about Italy that stays with you, even years after the last time you’ve been there. Maybe it’s the dangerously narrow (but famous) cobblestone roads, that weave through colossal buildings, or the ancient architecture, built on centuries of Roman European history, which make you feel like you’re walking through the pages of a history textbook.
Whatever it is, Latin students that have signed up for the summer Europe trip will get to experience it, and I am jealous. I would love nothing more to revisit my old home, marked with the Italian “beware of dog” sign (attenti al cane) and the rows of dirt where we grew strawberries, squash, cucumbers, radicchio, eggplant, etc. Unfortunately, this usually isn’t the Italy that tourists travel to see.
The touristy Italy includes the Colosseum (which looks as if it’s going to collapse at any moment), and the city of Venice, which is the best to visit during Carnevale (the Italian equivalent of mardi gras with extremely elaborate masks and costumes and cascarones), among other prominent places. But, to me, nothing could be more beautiful than the town I grew up in, Polcenigo, Italy, which has its fair share of ancient buildings and streets littered with cascarone shrapnel.
Hopefully, someday I will be able to visit my past home in real life, rather than just picturing it as I saw it last. I’ll be able to walk down the cobblestone roads, feel cramped by the tall buildings, and become recultured- this time not as an Italian citizen, but as a tourist, sporting Carnevale masks to fit in. Until then, however, ciao, Italia, spero di vederti presto.