Ciao Ragazzi! (*Hi Guys!)

 

Please allow me to introduce myself (dramatic Rolling Stones’s song playing in the background..).

 

…………………

 

I am Italian.

 

Like, real Italian.

 

Like, really really really Italian.

 

I am so Italian that a DNA scan would either come out green, white and red like the flag, or light blue like the National team soccer jersey.

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I am so Italian that my blood doesn’t even have a trace of any other ethnicity in it.

 

I was born in Firenze (*Florence), my parents come from the hidden gem region of Abruzzo, and I was raised in a marvelous coastal town named Pescara (*same in English, Pescara😊).

 

 

I descend from a family of “Briganti” (*basically bandits) and my last name is a hardly pronounceable jumble of thirteen letters destined to fade away in case me or my brother do not procreate, a more than plausible scenario given my struggle at finding a suitable mother and my brother and his wife’s low proneness to children.

(Update: I did find a suitable mother, still not sure about becoming parents..).

Being born and raised in Italy was an absolute privilege.

Greatest food in the world, stunning women, prosperity, lavish lifestyle, deep family and friendship values.

I was destined to a brilliant career in economics after graduating from the famous Bocconi University in Milan (don’t you worry if you never heard of it, apparently it is not as famous as Harvard), but my passion for food and the European economic disaster following the introduction of the Euro steered my wheels to San Diego, California, and to a life devoted to serving at Italian restaurants.

I know what you are thinking: if Italy was so great like you just said, then why the hell did you move?

Besides the economic, explorative and experiential reasons, I did not resonate at all with Italy’s close mindedness, laziness and you-are-supposed-to-do-this mentality, based on peer pressure and parents ’life experiences often imposed on new generations.

I felt this unavoidable urge to set myself free from such external forces in order to find my own way.

While my friends admire me for having the courage of starting a life on the opposite side of the globe, I felt like a coward for not even trying to make it in my mother country.

Perceptions, baby, perceptions…

During my first years as a real Italian alien in America, it occurred to me how difficult it is to share and fully comprehend a different culture, the role that stereotypes play in it, and the process of accepting a piece of information that diverts from them.

Imagine my deepest disappointment upon realizing that no lifeguard in San Diego looks even close to Pamela Anderson, after spending most of my childhood fantasizing about meeting many of her look-a-likes on California beaches.

I would get no different reaction when I hit Americans with the truth about Alfredo, often accompanied by a strong sense of disbelief.

With the Pamela disaster in mind, I was hardly bothered by the common stereotypes to interacting with an Italian (Amalfi, Positano, Cinque Terre, loudness, crazy drivers, Sicily and mafia, and so on..).

What dazzled me the most, almost to an anger point, and it took me an awful long time to process, was the loud, exciting claim of Italian ethnicity by Americans.

“Ooooh, I’m Italian too!!”

I remember thinking to myself “How dare you? Were you born in Italy? No… Do you speak the language? No… Well, then you could be from Kazakhstan!!!”

After putting my personal perceptions aside and opening up my then ignorant and closed mind, I came to two interesting and apparently contradicting conclusions:

 

• Americans have a high sense of patriotism that Italians only display during the soccer World Cup.

• Americans take extreme pride at identifying with a certain ethnicity.

 

Next to a strong, powerful love for the country in terms of opportunity, security, trust in the government and in the system (ok, not exactly everyone), there is also a lack of history and values compared to most ethnicities Americans descend from.

The stereotype of America lacking in culture is a lie: it might not be original and it is definitely influenced by other cultures, but it is extensive and identifiable.

In Italy it is the exact opposite: you will hardly find an Italian praising the government or the system, or waving the Tricolore (*our nickname for the Italian flag).

We love being Italian, we do not love our country.

You barely hear sentences like “Yeah, man, Italy is the greatest country ever!”, or, “I am so proud to be Italian!”.

You are more likely to hear something like “s*&t doesn’t work!” or “I would love to get the hell out of here!!”.

We complain about everything and everyone, but we take pride in our extensive culture, traditions and values.

My goal is to share my experience, knowledge and perception to show you a tiny, minuscule part of such a multiform and assorted country like Italy through my favorite passion: FOOD!

 

Benvenuti!   (*Welcome!)