The meaning of “Italian”, Torino, Italy

An unexpected thing has happened. Although I am probably the only person who did not expect it.

I am now so fully absorbed into the Italian landscape that whenever it comes out that I’m actually Canadian-born, I’m met with confusion and a sputtered, “Comé. Non sei italiana?” It happens every day now. From the Italian B&B owner. From the American tourists I helped in a restaurant. From a Milanese who stopped me on the street to ask about my tattoo. The best was a harried father who approached me in a supermarket to ask if I knew where the female hygiene products were. He looked very miffed when I said I didn’t know, his eyes accusing me of being unhelpful on purpose.

I have blended in beautifully. A perfect result without even trying. My features and skin have given me an all-access pass to this country. Although my spoken Italian has improved dramatically in the last three weeks, it still remains flawed. But no matter – none of the Italians seem to notice.

And I have also (unconsciously) internalized this belonging. I walk down the street with confidence, not worrying about getting lost. I order my morning coffee with the same drowsy indifference as everyone else. I exchange smiles with people on the street. I’ve even started swearing at careless drivers in Italian. “Ammazza! Fai attenzione, stronzo!”

Also, my body type truly is the average figure seen in Italy, so those exaggerated body image issues I sometimes suffer from in Canada have almost entirely disappeared. I sauntered up and down that beach without the least worry about my backside.

Whenever faced with that question, I typically answer, “Non sono Italiana. Sono nata in Canada.” This statement is only half-true. I am Italian. This is where my ancestors were born, lived and died. It is only circumstance that I was born in Canada. The land of my origins still has a role in the fabric of my life, and I am only beginning to understand this truth now.

Also, how do I take this feeling – of being completely at home in a country that I was not born in – and carry it back to Montreal, where I sometimes feel so totally out of place? How do I reconcile these two states of being?

I leave these ideas to simmer. The rain seems to be letting up and I can hear fresh movement in the streets of Torino. All this thinking has made me hungry…