Escaping My Former Self (Travel Writing #24)

As I sat in the airport waiting to board the plane to Amsterdam for the first leg of my trip to Italy, I fantasized about my imminent stay in Rome. I imagined myself strolling along the Tiber and then rushing past the Colisseum on my way to class. My limited Italian would not hold back my complete assimilation into Italian culture for five weeks as I lived in the heart of historic Rome. The ultimate test of my authenticity would be whether other tourists identified me as one of their own or as a local who had lived in Rome her entire life. My daydream was abruptly interrupted by the flight attendant’s announcement that the flight was boarding soon.

I quickly gathered my belongings and stood in line at the gate with the mass of people trying to board the plane. I looked around at my fellow travelers and I noticed that they were all Indian. Many of the women were dressed in traditional, brightly colored saris and were talking about what they would do first when they arrived in Mumbai, their final destination. As a second generation Sri Lankan-American, I had often made these trips back to my parents’ homeland where I stayed in the same place and did not explore the cities at all. I pitied these travelers because they were clearly not trying to have their own adventures in a new, exotic country. They would never venture out of their comfort zone to create a new cultural identity, like I would during my stay in Italy. I boarded the airplane and said goodbye to my old life.

After two weeks in Italy, I realized that assimilating into Italian culture would be much more difficult than I originally thought it would be. Everywhere I went, I was constantly reminded of how I was different from true Roman citizens. Indian men walked uncomfortably close behind me and whispered “hello, miss India” or “ciao, mama” as they passed by. A grocery store clerk handed me a bottle of curry powder while I stood in front of the selection of spices in the store, trying to find seasoning for my pasta. Even the server at San Crispino’s looked at me for a minute and asked, “where are you from?” as he handed me my cup of honey gelato that I had ordered completely in Italian just two minutes earlier. I was still desperately trying to be adventurous and truly belong in Rome, but I could not break through the cultural barrier that separated me from the authentic Romans who were never mistaken for tourists as they traversed the city.

Now I look back on my time in Rome and I know I was able to assimilate into Italian culture as fully as I ever could. I am still disappointed every time the baker at the forno asks for three euro in English after I order my tramezzino di prosciutto e fichi or when the purse vendors in the street try to attract my attention because they think that I am a wealthy tourist. Nevertheless, I have had more Roman adventures than I ever dreamed about and it is time for me to return home and embrace my Sri Lankan, American and now Italian sides.