A Local Encounter that Changed my Perspective - The Other Side of the Street

disgraziato — Fri, 19 Apr 2013 02:01:24 GMT

I walked from the train station, hobbled over from the weight of my backpack, as I pulled a large suitcase behind me, the sounds of the wheels clanking with every step.

Getting to my destination was not easy.

Traffic signals seemed to be a suggestion to drivers, rather than the law.

My eyes stung as the sweat dripped into them. The Blue Jays cap I wore was soaked right through. The Roman sun was unforgiving that day.

I arrived in Monte Verde, a neighborhood full of apartment buildings riddled with graffiti. Children played out in the street, as their parents watched from the balconies above. I could see the heat rising from the concrete; the smell of gasoline filled the air.

I was almost there - just one more street I needed to cross.

I stood at the intersection, waiting for the traffic to calm. Mini cars and motor bikes zoomed up and down the street as if they were race cars and SUVs. The sounds of their tires screeched endlessly.

I stepped off the curb, and was nearly hit by two teenagers on a Vespa. They chuckled as they sped off. I attempted to cross again, this time cautiously stepping off the curb with my brand new Nikes, as if I was dipping my toe into cold water. A car whipped around the corner. I hopped back onto the sidewalk, tripping over my suitcase and scuffing my sneakers. Angry, I yelled at the driver, "watch where you're going!"

I bent down and cleaned the dirt off my shoes.

I attempted to cross once more, trying to kindly get the attention of the vehicles passing that I needed to get to the other side of the road! Nobody noticed.

Frustrated, I sat down on my suitcase and pulled a bottle of water from my backpack. I took a sip. It was too warm. I decided to light a cigarette instead.

As I smoked, an old woman shuffled passed me. She wore a black dress with a shawl on her head, her grey hair sticking out at the front. She was small, and walked with a hunch, her hands full with groceries.

She seemed unfazed by the heat.

Stepping off the curb with confidence, she stopped for a second, looked around and walked ahead. She needed to get to the other side of the street and traffic was going to stop for her. I tossed my cigarette, picked up my bags and quickly followed behind. She noticed me and nodded her head, letting me know to keep up.

As we made it to the other side of the road, she looked at me and smiled. I smiled back. We went our separate ways.

I never had a problem crossing the street again.

When in Rome.

My Scholarship entry - Understanding a Culture through Food

disgraziato — Sun, 22 Apr 2012 01:40:16 GMT

As I walk into the house, the sounds of loud thumps can be heard from the kitchen. On the table, a lamb carcass is being prepared by my Zia Fausta. She moves it on the red and white checkered table cloth, finding the best angle to slice into its torso. While cutting through the lamb's ribs with great force, slightly out of breath, she looks at me, smiles, and says, "I hope you're hungry." I smile back, thinking to myself: I hope she is not going through all of this trouble for me. It is my first night in Campotosto, a village nestled in the Appenine mountains of Italy.

She continues to prepare the meal. There are now pots boiling and pans frying, as the oven roasts the lamb. She moves around the kitchen with ease, entertaining the guests that have arrived.

We sit down at the table in the cramped kitchen. The smell of lamb roasting and the sounds of passionate conversation fill the room. The children at the table are restless and cry out that they are hungry. Their nonna scolds them, telling them to be patient. My travel companion from Canada turns to me and says, "It's sure loud in here."

Dinner begins with an antipasto dish of prosciutto and cantaloupe, followed by pasta all'amatriciana, a local dish. Finally, Fausta serves the roasted lamb, still sizzling. After every course, she asks if I would like seconds. I politely refuse, knowing that more food is on the way. As she brings out the desert, new guests have arrived for coffee. The door has now been left open for the flow of people coming in and out of the house. With the sun setting, the sounds of an accordion playing can be heard from the piazza.

The following day, I find Fausta in the kitchen preparing for the night's meal. The dinner that night was just as elaborate and the guests as plentiful. Some people from the night before were not at the table but new faces filled their seats. I realized as welcome as I was made to feel last night, it wasn't anything out of the ordinary. It was dinner time.

A Strange Journey

A Local Encounter that Changed my Perspective - The Other Side of the Street

My Scholarship entry - Understanding a Culture through Food