by Joanna Weinstein/Syracuse University in Florence
I awoke Monday morning to a frozen Mac laptop, showing nothing but a flashing blue screen. I thought my life was over. Pathetic, I know. I spent an entire morning in Florence searching for the only Mac store in town to find it was closed and then headed home in misery. I thought nothing in the world could cheer me up. But my host father Salvatore knew the perfect words: “Vuole mangiare il pranzo?”
I watched Salvatore grill chicken breasts with olive oil, cheese and rosemary in seconds, drowning the kitchen in a delicious aroma of herbs and spices. It was a simple dish, but the first bite made me feel a million times better. As I devoured the chicken, like I do to every meal in this country, I began to think how much these people have become my family, and how Florence has become my home.
Over three months ago, I arrived on Via Fiesolana and was introduced to Gina, my host mom, Salvatore, my host father, and Elisabetta, my 13-year-old host sister. My first dinner consisted of very few words. I’m not sure if it was because I couldn’t stop stuffing my face with the endless array of pasta, bread, sausages, meatballs, cheeses, and dessert, or because the only Italian phrases I knew at the time was Ciao and Ti amo.
Now, three months later, I feel I have lived hear all my life. I wake up to Italian bickering in the morning and I laugh. They fight about simple things like the dishes or dinner with such passion it makes you appreciate their loudness. I’ve watched 13-year-old Elisabetta become the annoying, loving, little sister I always wanted, but never had. And I’ve watched myself and my roommate become two additional daughters to the family. I think my favorite moment was my 21st birthday in January. Gina and Salvatore had only known me for about three weeks and still, the house was decorated with streamers and balloons, followed by a huge feast and home made Tiramisu and birthday cake afterwards. Although my friends and family were oceans away, I had another family to sing me ‘happy birthday’, and buy me my first gift in Italia: a Fiorentina hat to wear to all the games.
Despite the generous moments, I think it’s the arguing and the teaching that makes them my family. There was one night I slurped my soup, forgetting my table manners. Gina said, “Joanna, can I be your mother for a second?” I responded yes, a bit confused, as she explained to me not to make noises when I eat. Although a bit embarrassed, I felt more at home than ever. And then there were times I cut my meat wrong as laughs were shared and a whole tutorial on how to cut my steak properly became the topic of conversation at the dinner table. I think it makes me happiest to know I can be the klutz I am around my family and they can just laugh about it, rather than it being an awkward moment.
It’s gotten to the point where I can yell at my host sister to get her to stop playing copy cat with every word I say, or I can give her the biggest hug in the world when I return home from a weekend of traveling. Speaking of returning home, I arrive every weekend to a spotless room, a neatly made bed, and perfectly folded clothes from the last week’s laundry. I tried once to tell Gina that parents in America stop doing this for their children once they are teenagers, but that would have been plain stupid. I figured I’d enjoy the hospitality while I’m here. Besides, she says she loves to clean our rooms—she feels more like a mom that way.
The best part of it all is that my host family hardly knows English. Well, Salvatore has mastered the phrases “No problem,” and “Just a moment please,” while Gina loves saying the words ‘cloudy,’ and “amazing. My host sister is continuing to learn the English language in school. She helps me study for my Italian exams while we quiz her at the dinner table on her English vocabulary. Of course, taking Italian 4 days a week for two hours has helped me know a little more than just Ciao by now. Sometimes, I’ll have a whole conversation with Gina and realize I didn’t use one word of English. Sometimes it’s a success. But when it fails and our conversation is a mix of ‘Englital’ (English and Italian), we just laugh. I think that’s the greatest part of it all. I didn’t need to master Italian and they didn’t need to master English. We just needed to master the language of laughter and love. And as corny as that sounds, it’s absolutely true. I can have the worst day of all, and without explaining in any words, they can understand. I guess that’s the beauty of being human, or more so, of being a family.
And then I realized, whatever happens with my Mac happens. I have a lot more things to appreciate. Besides, having my family in my life is a hell of a lot better than having a laptop anyway.
