Sicily — On Belonging
Of course I find myself in Piazza S. Anna right as I begin to doubt whether this is a city that will welcome an American who doesn’t speak enough Italian, who barely knows how to convert Fahrenheit to Celsius, who forgets to cover her head during a church service where every woman is supposed to wear a white veil. I’ve been kicking myself every time I say “good morning” instead of “buongiorno” or have to use google maps to navigate myself back to my apartment. I’m beyond frustrated when my bus runs late but even more frustrated that I still expect some semblance of reliability from Italian public transportation. This week alone, my bus to the beach was an hour behind schedule, I had to wait for a cashier to chat with everyone in the cafe before ringing me up, and my cooking class stretched two hours past its anticipated end. I certainly anticipated culture shock but without the buffer of company, Sicilian idiosyncracies are far more daunting.
With other people, learning curves are something of an adventure but today, I am alone in Sicily where I will be completely alone for the next three months. I’ve made ample mistakes before (in Florence, I forgot to validate my bus ticket and got fined 50 euro) but I am suddenly wondering if I am capable of overcoming and laughing at those mistakes by myself. I said goodbye to my mom at the train station and suddenly, the next three months feel incredibly empty. I don’t know a single person in this city, I don’t even know how to get home. Instead, I wander in the general direction of my apartment, toward the water, until I am completely lost and meandering through deserted alleyways in a city I must now navigate by myself. Is this something I can actually do? This. Living here, writing here, starting my postgrad life in a city of strangers when just three months ago, I had access to 4000 potential friends all within a few miles.
It’s not like moving to New York after graduation where even if you don’t know anybody you know a friend of a friend. It’s not like Boston or DC or even rural New Hampshire where you’re bound to find something in common with somebody you run into, bound to bond by a similar interest, a shared commute, a happy hour after a job indicative of the city. How could I find a roommate to split rent with in Palermo when I can’t even rely on mutual language or a common culture? Plus, I’m living on an island but am allergic to shellfish and I absolutely hate the taste of coffee, Italian fuel.
Though my grandfather grew up in Palermo and I want this adventure, I’m doubting for the first time my own strength. After all, it’s not like I have a set program through which I can meet people - my only job is to write and learn and grow, which is going to be amazing. But it’s only now hit me that the tasks I have set for myself have an end goal while the days in between are abstract, lonely, and scary.
I think about this as I look around and take a break on a piazza bench, pulling my shorts down. I’ve already made a mistake with my bare legs and am sweating in clothing far too revealing for a city that thrives on wandering eyes. Whenever I walk alone in Italy I like to think I’m fooling everyone around me but I know, at least right now, I’m no more than a lonesome tourist.
But, scary or not, I don’t really have any other choice. It’s not like I’d rather be in America than here and I can either stand out or I can immerse myself. I can rely on the roots I’ve come here to discover, banking on my dark hair and tan skin to let me blend in and appear just as Sicilian as everyone around me, just as Sicilian as I claim I am back home.
But when am I going to actually belong and actually feel like this is my home? It’s not in this moment where I am alone and have an apartment to get back to decorated with furniture that is not mine. It’s not tonight when I have no dinner plans and sit alone at a restaurant even though food is the primary means of community here. Is it this week when I start to write and realize my 9-5 is the kind of job that starts and finishes whenever inspiration strikes, whenever I - the sole employee - make the call?
I don’t have an answer. These next few months, I want to try this thing where I don’t plan because if there’s any place to live a life opposite of the only one I know, it’s here. And as I look around on my bench, I notice the sign across the way. It’s small and rectangular and next to an overpowering church but there, on the street, is my name. It’s not the first time I’ve seen Anna around. It’s written on the boats in the marina and spoken by the shopkeepers who recite my name back to me with an entirely different pronunciation as though I am mistaken, I have introduced myself improperly.
The name on the wall is for someone who knows this city. That Anna already knows to avoid that big pot of beef on the streets no matter how enticing it smells because it’s actually spleen and she’s not ready for that yet. She already knows that the library on Via Emanuele has an accessible and free public bathroom - a rare find in an Italian city. She already knows that the best sandwich in town is ricotta with oregano found at a deli in Ballarò market, sundried tomatoes optional though highly recommended, and no matter how good they make the olives look, she doesn’t like olives and no amount of time in Italy will convince her otherwise.
And she - I - will become someone who recognizes Palermo as a city that calls to me at any time of day - in the morning when I awaken to the push carts below my apartment, in the evening when I can’t fall asleep because dinner is at 10 p.m. and my street is nowhere near closed. I like to think that this is a city that can be mine simply because I am here and I am going to give it my all.
I’m not sure I’ll accomplish all I’m looking to do but at least I don’t need to look for my name. Besides, even if (when) I mess up, at least there’s no one here to hold me accountable.