Citizenship Journal Number 2: Of place and Space
Our class trip to Tuscany was educational, picturesque, and extraordinarily troubling. The Tuscan country side was beautiful, the food was incredible, and staying in a castle was more than I could have ever asked for. Moreover, the locals were fantastic. Their pride in their homes was so vivacious that I couldn’t help but have some of it rub off on me. Yet, on the train ride back to Casa Artom from Florence, I had a sinking feeling in my stomach. For a long time, it gnawed at me and I couldn’t figure out why I felt so bad. Then it hit me. Seeing how connected the locals were to their homeland struck a jealous chord in my heart. I haven’t felt that connected to where I have lived in years and it will probably be a long time until I do.
It started at our class wine and olive oil tasting in Siena on Friday. At this dinner there was a kind man who was teaching all of us how to make the most of our wine and oil experience. How to aerate our wine, the differences in olive oil, and which wine went with what kind of food was just the starting point of this Italian Cuisine 101 course. I found this meal fascinating. I had never realized how much detail the experts in wine and oil could pick out: the region, whether it was natural or artificial, etc. However, our gracious host did more than just lecture us about the wine and oil. He embodied it. You could tell, just by sitting in the table next to him that he truly lived what he was talking about. It seemed that his exuberance about these customary Italian products was a manifestation of his regional pride. He was truly proud to be from the Tuscan region, Siena in particular, and he portrayed this through his passion in wine and oil. Amazingly, he wasn’t even the most passionate local I met during this three day trip.
The following day, we stayed in a small Italian town called Pienza. Here we were given plenty of time to walk around and immerse ourselves in the local lifestyle. Considering how small Pienza was, the locals seemed to be really excited at the prospect of talking to tourists. The man behind the gelato stand was very interested in Venetian life. The lady who asked to take my picture was curious as to why I was in Pienza. Yet, the woman whom I ordered Pizza from best exemplifies the immense regional pride that I am discussing. On Saturday, we were allotted a free time for the day after we had finished our tour of the Museo Piccolomini. After hearing my stomach rumble for too long, I began to search for the nearest food that could be served to me the quickest. I spotted a small pizzeria on a thin side street. I approached the counter and noticed that I was the only one in the restaurant. I was a bit troubled and was about to leave when I noticed something. The woman standing behind the counter hadn’t even noticed I had entered her establishment because she was too busy rolling hand-made pizza dough. As a New Yorker, nothing gets my eyes wider and stomach emptier than the site of someone playing with pizza dough. I decided to go to the counter and order a Margherita Pizza. Since I was the only person there and because the woman, named Giada, spoke great English, we began to strike up a conversation. I was trying to be polite, and in the spirit of learning about citizenship, I asked Giada how she liked Pienza. Her eyes got wide and bright. An excited expression emerged on her face. She couldn’t even hide her smile.
Giada began talking about Pienza, but she had so much to say that she really wasn’t making any sense. It was a jumbled mess of happiness and pride. By not being able to say anything, she said everything. I knew that she deeply cared for her homeland and was proud to be from Pienza. Then, she asked me why I was in Pienza. I told her that I was studying abroad in Venice and that we had a class trip here. She then asked where I was from in America. I started to act like Giada; uncontrollable and giddy. I told her all about my birthplace, Port Washington, New York, how close it was to the city, and of course, how good the pizza is there. After finishing Giada’s pizza, which was delicious, I continued to wander around Pienza. It wasn’t until the train ride back from Florence that I thought about my conversation with her again.
I was sitting in my train seat on the way to Casa Artom and I was trying to figure out why I had a pit in my stomach. Rehashing everything that I did during the three day trip, my conversation with Giada started to replay in my head. I then realized what I had subconsciously done; I had talked all about where I used to live, not where I currently live. Giada was so happy to be from Pienza and all I wanted to do was match that excitement, thus I talked about Port Washington, New York, not Port Jefferson. I spent the first 18 years of my life in Port Washington and since then my family and I have bounced around in New York a few times, most recently landing in Port Jefferson. Port Jefferson is not Port Washington. It is more than two hours away from the city, none of my friends live there, and I feel no connection to it. This goes back to the space versus place discussion. A space is merely an earthly location; just longitude and latitude coordinates. A place, however, is a space with a deeper meaning. Pienza is a place to Giada. Port Washington was a place to me. Port Jefferson is not. Port Washington, like Pienza is to Giada, is my home. It was where I was at my most comfortable. I would give anything to feel how Giada feels about where she currently resides.
Overall, I wish that this was a story about how I conquered the pit in my stomach and am now comfortable living in Port Jefferson. I’m not. The areas that you define as your personal spaces help form your identity and mold you as a person. Giada’s identity has been formed. She is from Pienza. I am from Port Washington. That is who we are. I just hope that I one day find someplace that allows me to be the local whose regional pride rubs off on all the tourists.