My Roman Holiday: An American’s Multicultural Experience in Rome

It was raining.  Buckets. Splashing our way through cobblestoned puddles, dodging umbrellas and the white-tarped tents of the market-filled piazza, and tugging our suitcases along behind us, we heard his voice for the first time. Looking up to see who was speaking to us—in English—we saw Antonio’s smiling face. Standing in front of a restaurant fronting the Campo de Fiori in Rome—and situated right outside our apartment’s piazza-side door—he was the official face of the establishment. He was the “draw,” so to speak, and over the next 10 days, we came to know his pitch pretty well.

“Ah, you are just in time! You must come in and eat.”

“Our food is excellent. You will like it very much.”

“Just a glass of wine?

“No? Maybe another day then.”

But at that moment, our thoughts involved nothing more than getting our jet-lagged selves and our luggage inside, out of the Roman rain. Nonetheless, appreciating the sound of our own language and his amiable smile, we promised him—and ourselves—that we would go back to eat at his restaurant another day.

~

A bit over a month ago, I took my first trip to Rome. A ten-day “mini” study abroad with students from all three of the University of Washington campuses, the trip was organized by the Seattle campus’ Office of Minority and Diversity, and my Global Honors fellow Amy and I were selected by the Vice Chancellor to be the students from UWT. As you might guess, a trip organized by the Office of Minority and Diversity was indeed culturally diverse, and I was apparently the token “old lady.” Except for my Portuguese-Jewish great-great-grandmother or British-bred great-grandfather who emigrated to the US by way of Jamaica, I was otherwise “unqualified” to be a part of this remarkable group,  some of whom were immigrants, the children of immigrants, or who spoke affectionately of “undocumented” family members, and all of whom were first-generation college students. They were an entertaining, enthusiastic group who accepted my presence with grace, included me in their daily adventures—and never once treated me like their mother. It was truly an unforgettable experience.

~

The purpose of the trip—aside from the obvious (we were in Rome, for goodness sake!)—was to discover Rome’s multicultural history. Through sightseeing junkets every morning and late-afternoon classes we learned about Rome’s past, and during our free time in between we learned about its present. Our professor spoke to us not only about the history and architecture of ancient Rome (I can now identify three types of columns and an assortment of architectural styles at fifty yards), but also about the fact that Roman society was historically a multicultural society. This was not just due to the fact that Rome took slaves from every land they had conquered, but because in their earliest history the Roman population was actually made up of four different people groups who had somehow come together in this one distinct place. Rome was birthed in multiculturalism.

~

In the midst of our first class session, just before the jet lag overtook us and the members of our group nodded off, one-by-one, I remember a comment our professor made about the way that Italians would know we are American. “It’s not because you speak English,” he assured us. “They know you are American because you are a multicultural group. In Italy, people of different cultures do not hang out together.” It wasn’t our language that would identify us as American, it was our enjoyment of each other’s company.

~

One afternoon, our professor invited representatives from CARITAS, an organization which works with immigrant populations, to speak to our class. Three women, each with an “iffy” command of the English language, talked about their organization’s work among immigrants in Italy. Anna, the primary spokesperson of the three, talked with us about the changes in Italian immigration since World War II, a time when most immigrants were leaving Italy for the United States; in 1985 all that began to change. Immigrants then began to arrive in Italy for the first time, and what they met was a closed and mostly unresponsive society, unprepared to live and work with those from other cultures. CARITAS began their work in Italy in 1991, involved mostly with the children of immigrants, helping them to learn Italian and their families to assimilate into Italian culture. When they began their work in 1991, there was a law that stated that there could only be one person of foreign origin per classroom, and today Italian classrooms are full of the children of immigrants who want to learn about Italian culture—yet those students are still not afforded the rights of the Italian constitution that they study.

Although understanding Anna’s words was sometimes difficult, understanding the immigrant’s hardships was not.

~

“You are going out?”

 “You will eat somewhere. Why not here?”

Every day—sometimes several times a day—we would pass Antonio in his post at the entrance of his outdoor restaurant, and every time he would call out to us as we passed, reminding us of our promise to eat a meal at his restaurant.

“Another day, then?”

~

During my time in Rome, I saw places that I had dreamed of seeing all my life—I literally wept at my first glimpses of the Pantheon and the Sistine Chapel. I walked through the Roman forum, gazing upward at columns that had been standing on that site for dozens of centuries, and gazing downward at myriad layers of history under my feet.  I stood with the polyglot of the faithful in St. Peter’s Square on Palm Sunday as the new Pope circled through the adoring crowds in his “Papamobile.” I actually touched one of Michelangelo’s sculptures at the Basilica di Santa Maria Sopra Minerva (with resolute yet respectful fingers), wandered awestruck through rooms in the Vatican museum painted floor-to ceiling by Raphael, and  saw remarkable samples of Etruscan pottery that were thousands of years old. I even took a high-speed train to Florence and stood face-to-face with Boticelli’s Venus. (I was an artist in my “pre-student” life, so these things are nearly earth-shattering to me). In so many ways, I know I will never be the same. However, it was what I discovered during our free afternoons that has changed me the most.

~

Italy, despite its ancient multicultural beginnings, has—at least in more recent history—been a largely homogenous society. However, the 21^st century reality is that Italy is now home to 5 million immigrants—about 10% of the nation’s workforce.  According to the online magazine Our Europe, by the end of 2001 the most common nationality of immigrants was Moroccan , followed by those from several eastern European nations, the Philippines, Chinese , Tunisians, Senegalese and even Americans. Currently there are also many immigrants coming from places like Mali and Bangladesh, areas wracked by war or political strife. Yet, in spite of the fact that immigration—legal and illegal— is becoming increasingly common, many who have become “2^nd generation Italians,” born, raised and entering adulthood in Italy, or who have lived there for decades, are still not considered Italian. In Italy, there is no “birthright” citizenship, and Italian-born children of immigrants must often fight for their right to stay in the country of their birth, even after many years.

~

“Ah, beautiful ladies, you are back!”

“Maybe you will have a caffé here today?”

Day by day, Antonio continued to ply us with conversation and his appealing smile.  Yet day by day, we resisted.  We were urged to avoid the places where the “tourists” ate, to find the “real” Rome instead—those places where the locals hang out. It will be better, we heard.

 “One day,” we promised again and again. “Soon!”

Just between ourselves, we teasingly agreed we would likely succumb to his invitation eventually and try the place out—if only to see Antonio smile.

~

Ambling through the narrow, cobbled streets of Rome, we found street markets and merchants everywhere. One brilliantly sunny day—on our way to the best gelato shop in the world—we purchased paintings from a chatty artist we met at the Piazza Navona, then stopped at a tiny shop near the Trevi Fountain that had an amazing selection of scarves at great prices. But wherever we went, we were constantly surrounded by street merchants selling fake designer bags, some bizarre toy that made a noise like seagulls, spray paint art (created with an almost dance-like process fascinating to watch), or any number of small souvenir items.

Many of these street merchants, we later discovered, were immigrants just trying to make a living at the only jobs they could find. (You could tell who was who because the “illegals” would scatter if a police officer happened by). Many of these people became illegal after coming to Italy legally as undocumented children—typically, refugee orphans—and then having their status changed when they turned 18, but couldn’t find a job. Although 11% of Italy’s GDP results from the work of migrants, and the jobs they take—for the most part—are those that Italians don’t want to do, many Italians are not happy about their presence in the country.

~

One day, Antonio’s engaging smile and banter finally won out and several members of our group stopped in for a late lunch. We shared a meal and a bottle of wine, and discovered a bit of Antonio’s personal history.

He was a somewhat recent immigrant to Italy. Born in Tunisia, Antonio speaks five languages, has a degree in tourism, and is now living in Rome with his brother while the rest of his family is still in Tunisia. He told us that although he loved Rome—“It is my home away from home”—many Italians were not happy with him living there. Although he didn’t say it directly, we got the impression that he believed it was only due to his language skills that he got the restaurant job—one of several similar jobs that he works to make a living. He was not angry at the attitudes of Italians toward immigrants—or so he said—but his face looked irritated when he talked about how he felt the Italian people perceived him. However, his countenance changed and his charming smile returned swiftly as he asked if we wanted some dessert.

~

The rapidly slowing birthrate among native Italians is leading to a situation where the immigrant population is growing much faster than the rest of the population. Groups like CARITAS estimate that in fifty years, the population of second-generation Italians (children of immigrants) could make up more than 15% of the total population. However, xenophobic policies on the part of some political parties and media hysteria are contributing to a fear of foreigners by Italians who accuse the immigrants of stealing jobs and business from them.

~

A day-trip to Florence where I had hoped to meet Michelangelo’s David, brought instead a different encounter, one that offered me a glimpse of what many Italians think of the immigrants in their country. Amy had just purchased a beautiful leather messenger bag—a gift for her husband—in one of the stalls of the celebrated Florence leather market. Eager to try her bargaining skills, she had managed to get it for 72 euros, and she was elated. As we worked our way back through the market, she paused to look for a moment at a similar bag hanging on the side of another stall. The merchant, doubtless sensing a potential sale, swooped in and said, “I will sell this to you for 60 euros.” Panicked that she had just been “taken,” Amy looked at me for confirmation that she hadn’t made a mistake in her purchase—and at this point her experience began to unspool rapidly. The merchant grabbed the bag, barked “Follow me!” and we (for some still unknown reason) dutifully trailed behind. For the next few moments, in his shop behind the stall, the man showed us all the good points of his bag compared to the “bad” points of the bag Amy had just bought. However, it was his diatribe that followed that was the real lesson.

“You Americans only want to know the price. You don’t care about the quality! You buy this bag and you only make bad people happy.”

His point, which he stated repeatedly and vociferously for at least five minutes, gesticulating madly all the while, was that the “foreigners” Amy had purchased the bag from (they were likely Bangladeshis) were bad people, and by buying from them, we had hurt the “real” Italians. It didn’t matter that he was the one who had offered the bag at a lower price, we were wrong for only caring about the price and buying the bag from “bad people.” Now honestly, unless he had been following us through the market, he couldn’t possibly have known where she bought the bag—but he was upset and wanted to be sure we knew it! It was an exchange I will not soon forget.

~

I’ve been home just over three weeks now, and yet there is not a day that goes by without memories of this once-in-a-lifetime trip wafting through my mind. Hanging on the wall above my computer is a small plaque I bought on our last day in Rome. “Piazza Campo de Fiori,” it reads. It is a replica of the plaque mounted on the wall of a 15^th century palazzo that neighbored the piazza I called home for ten incredible days. A return address label of sorts, it reminds me of morning markets, a bakery with the finest raisin bread I ever tasted, bars that served a morning caffé latte best drunk standing at the counter. And it reminds me of Antonio, the articulate and educated immigrant with the charming smile who worked as a restaurant host in a country that didn’t really want him there—as well as every other immigrant struggling to make a life in a nation where they contribute so much, yet feel so unwelcome. 

I can only hope these memories stay with me forever.