I always thought that, arriving on another continent, I would feel more of a shift. A definite, tangible feeling of there we were, and here we are now. A difference; an enlightenment. In my twenty-two years I’ve seen a fair bit of the western hemisphere, crossing cultural borders and speaking a different language. But never more than two time zones away from home, the transition has always been fairly simple to manage. Three hours ahead or three hours behind, I always felt grounded, and knew where and when I was in relation to where I came from.
Landing on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean for the first time was strange… Very strange. Stepping off the plane in Rome, if you’d told me we were still in California I think I’d have believed you. I felt weirdly at ease; but at the very same time, for the first time ever in my travels, I felt as if the rug had been pulled out from underneath me and I couldn’t feel the ground. Totto, it may feel like it, but we're definitely not in Kansas anymore. For my entire first day in Italy I searched for something to hold onto, some footing to grasp and anchor myself down in a different time and place. I had absolutely no idea where and when I was. There was the shift I had expected – and oh, was it so much more dramatic than I could have anticipated.
But all it took was a visit to one of the oldest cafes in Europe itself, Caffe Greco. After dropping bags in the room upstairs, I made my way into the 250-year-old cafe, then stopped. There was a different process to coffee drinking here, and I took a minute to observe other patrons. It went a little something like this: Browse the pristine pastry case on the left; order an espresso and pay; take your receipt over to the bar on the right; watch the cute tuxedo-clad barista make you the most perfect shot; eat your prosciutto and mozzarella sandwich standing up, chase it with your espresso, leave a nice tip, and be on your way.
Okay, I’ve got this.
I did exactly as others had done before me, savoring every last bite of my delicious sandwich and teeny sip of the perfect espresso. I couldn’t help but beam with excitement, happiness, and pride. My dad and brother walked in and I explained the process to them, and from that moment on I had my footing. I was there. Italy was my oyster.
This might sound silly to those of you who are experienced jet-setters. But for me, Italy was a serious enlightenment. Before this trip, traveling to Europe seemed so daunting; long plane rides, different currency, language barriers, culture shock. There were plenty of reasons to keep putting it off. And yet, every time I did put it off, I felt an aching sense of nostalgia for a place I’d never seen. I didn’t know how that was possible until I finally found myself walking the cobblestone streets of Rome, tasting wine in Tuscany, sitting on the beach in Amalfi. Some innate, gut-wrenching heartstring had been pulling me to Italy for as long as I can remember. Chalk it up to my Italian heritage, my love for food and wine, the scenery, the history, whatever – I recently learned that when you follow your heart, you’re never far from home.
