Picture courtesy of Tamara Barton at www.tamarabarton.com
Years
ago, I immigrated to California with not much more than a prayer in my pocket
and the promise of a new life awaiting me in the arms of a man I had fallen in
love with. I was young. I was savvy. I was head over heels.
I was either brave or crazy, or both.
I
boarded a flight in Milan and landed halfway across the world in a beautiful
and peculiar place I had long thought of as “exotic:” San Francisco. It was beautiful alright; quirky, too,
but it also set off alarm bells in my head. I went from eating focaccia, touching the arms of people as
I spoke with them, calling out ciao
bello! across lively boulevards to navigating a land where bread came from
gigantic supermarkets, people kept their distance, and strangers spoke up only if they were lost or homeless or
worked in customer service.
At
first it was fun, and also funny. With
two people living inside of me (the Italian me, and the woman I was aching to
become), I’d have entire conversations with myself. Like: “This food is
awful! How can I possibly be
expected to eat this stuff?” Or, “He is cute but I don’t have a clue what he’s
saying!” I’d use my hands to
ask for directions and the only one who seemed to understand me was my
tail-wagging, doe-eyed dog, Luna.
We were great friends, Luna and I.
And hers was the only language I genuinely understood in California.
I
moved into a house with six twenty-year old guys (one of them was my boyfriend,
and he eventually became my husband) in suburban Silicon Valley. Mind you, even though I flew in from
Milan, I am from Florence, where every district is a small city onto itself,
with colorful local cafés, bakeries on every corner, and antique churches on
each block. The suburbs left me
dry-mouthed and starved for friendship, culture, and the rhythm of a
cosmopolitan city.
The
energy in Florence is contagious, thanks to the gregarious Italians who fill
the street. We love to be around
others and we thrive on a strong sense of community and belonging. There is a solid reason why Elizabeth
Gilbert traveled to Italy to rediscover her appetite for sensory pleasures: A
large part of our lives revolves around languid meals where we reconnect and
recharge.
Not
so in America. Even though I was
in a pretty unusual, and, one could argue “socially-padded” situation, during
the first few weeks of my new life in California I watched in amazement as my
roommates spooned ravioli out of cans, dressed them with brothy sauces (also
out of cans), and ate them COLD at 10:00 pm when they returned from work (they
were all students but worked part-time after their classes). When I tried to make fun of them or
crack a joke, all I could muster was a simple, stunned question like:
“why?” To which they laughed and
said something I couldn’t understand.
Meanwhile, inside my head I had formulated twenty hilarious jokes, a
couple of disgusting comments, and an essay I was planning to have published
once I returned to Italy. The
spoken/written word became the trophy I was determined to hold, and also my
biggest challenge.
When
a few months later the time came to get a job, I realized that mastering the
English language was paramount to everything else. I had a prestigious position in Italy as a marketing
manager, but I had to settle for becoming a customer service representative at
a large semiconductor company. For
months I shared an office with two obese women who ate Twinkies all day long
and polluted every other sentence with the F word. I knew ten times what they knew but my impaired language
skills reduced me to the level of a semi-capable person with an IQ of a nine-
year-old.
What
kept me going in spite of my challenges was, in order of importance, the
following:
-
the great love I felt for my oh-so-apple-pie-American
boyfriend
-
the fact that I could ALWAYS go
back to Italy
-
the desire to explore new
territories
-
and yes, the dog, whom I adored
from the moment I saw her
Despite
the list, which I kept on the forefront of my mind as I bustled my way through
crowded supermarkets to find fresh produce, I knew I wouldn’t give up no matter
what. I remember to this day
wanting to say “No wonder!” (which in Italian is figurati and doesn’t’ translate in the least), and never being able
to crack this kind of idiom until much later. I’d go to a bar and ask the guy at the entrance whether he
wanted to see my AIUD (when I meant ID), or telling people that they were ducks
(when I wanted to say turkey). These mistakes, which were thought of as either
endearing or confusing by others, went on, and on, and on.
One
day, tired of being less than what I was, I began taking classes at a junior
college. Not in English As A
Second Language, but in English as in “I am from here and I am taking the toughest
courses that are offered.” Almost
every night I bid goodbye to my boyfriend and his roommates and headed to
school. Two years later, I
obtained an Associate Degree (with Honors) in Literature. I also found a job that was comparable
to my previous position in Italy, and soon became a top performer for a
well-known high-tech organization.
I was, as they say, On My Way.
The
challenges of being in a foreign environment didn’t disappear overnight. I’d stare in wonderment as my roommates
put on jersey shirts and headed out to play basketball at dinner time, when in
Italy sitting across from one another at the table to eat took precedence over
everything else. I felt the
heat rise up on my face every time I opened my mouth and asked a question, my
accent always giving me away.
People would turn and stare, sometimes smiling, sometimes wondering (I knew what they were thinking!) where I’d
come from and what an interesting accent
I had. But being from Florence
also gave me an advantage. All I
had to do is to say the word, and I became their best friend at once.
And
friends, I thought, I made easily.
Some would call several of them “fair-weather friends,” a term that
bewilders me to this day, and which presented me with one of the biggest
hurdles I had to overcome when I immigrated to the US. What struck me a great deal was how
casual and insincere relationships seemed to be. Someone would say: “I’ll see you Thursday.” But Thursday would arrive and this
person would neither call nor show up.
This is relatively unheard of in Italy: We show up where we say we’ll be;
we call when we say we will. Here,
it is often brushed off. It is No
Big Deal. People would say they
loved me, when I had met them only an hour before. The problem was that I believed them, and at first thought I
had died and landed in a small section of heaven where everyone was kind and
generous and loyal and great fun. With time, I came to recognize the difference
between what was meaningful conversation and what was not.
During
those first few years I cried. A
lot. I cried knowing that I wouldn’t see my friend Graziella
for who knows how long, that my
mom was thousands of miles away, that my family members were living lives that
had little to do with me, that I was conflicted about the choices I’d
made. That I had, at long last,
left the country that had brought me so much grief and yet so much joy.
My
envy for tightly-knit cultures was acute at times. I yearned to be a part of the large Latino families that
populated the Mission district, who gathered together to celebrate quinceaneras
and Day of the Dead. I scoured the
streets of San Francisco looking for Italians who might want to join me in
creating a home away from home, but found only octogenarians whose parents
hailed from Italy and who taught their children regional dialects I couldn’t
understand. I searched for Italian
restaurants that served authentic fare but came up short. I’d return to my roommates, deflated,
and settle for boxed spaghetti with sauce from an aluminum can.
It’s
been many years since I’ve visited the part of Silicon Valley I once lived
in. For all I know, the house has
been torn down, and a small Italian bakery that specializes in cappuccinos is
now in its place. But I do know
that I’ve grown fond of this land I immigrated to as a young woman eager for
adventure, knowledge, love, family.
When I see canned ravioli at the grocery store, something in me
stirs. Sometimes I pick up a can,
as it reminds me of the difficulties I overcame when I came to the US. It also reminds me of the challenges I faced when I lived in Italy under harsh circumstances and was so desperate
to get away that I found a way.
To here, my adopted land, my beloved
California, where I learned that the only true home is in our hearts.
Italian Meatballs
Last week, I posted the
first of ten of my most beloved Italian recipes, all of which I learned from my
grandmothers. My maternal
grandmother, Nonna Ida, a tiny, feisty woman from Florence, favored recipes
that were simple but delightful.
Below you’ll find the recipe for her famous Italian Meatballs, a
scrumptious main dish that I faithfully make for family and friends.
Ingredients
1.5
lbs ground turkey (or ground beef, if you prefer)
1 egg
¼ cup
flat parsley, chopped
2
garlic cloves, finely chopped
1
slice of white bread soaked in milk
¼ cup
of grated parmesan cheese
½ cup
breadcrumbs
Pinch
of salt, pepper, nutmeg
3
tablespoons olive oil, divided
¼ cup
dry white wine
tk cup
chicken broth
Mix
the first 8 ingredients in a bowl. Form the meat into small balls and coat them in
breadcrumbs.
Cooking Options
OPTION
1: In a nonstick skillet, heat the olive oil. Brown the meatballs on both sides (approximately 2 minutes
each). Add the white wine. Reduce the heat and add a few
tablespoons of chicken broth (be careful not to drown the meatballs in the
broth, as they’ll become mushy). Once
it is completely absorbed, remove from the heat and serve. TOTAL COOKING TIME: 15 minutes
OPTION
2: Replace the olive oil with vegetable oil and fill a frying pan to the
top with the oil. When very hot,
deep fry the meatballs. (The
meatballs will be much crunchier, but the calorie count will of course be higher!) TOTAL COOKING TIME: 10 minutes
OPTION
3: Omit the breadcrumbs and place the meatballs in simmering tomato sauce. Cook the meat slowly, and serve over
pasta. TOTAL COOKING TIME: 30
minutes