L'Ultimo Viaggio

I leaned over the railing of the boat to stare out into the harbor at the looming statue in the distance. Looking sterner than the Madonna in the harbor between Reggio Calabria and Sicily was the Statue of Liberty. My year of travel in Italy was over and I was back in New York City—on the Staten Island Ferry, of all places. This secular Madonna didn’t hold her arms out in a comforting embrace. Instead her pose was triumphant and proud. "Welcome to America," I imagined Lady Liberty saying. "You're not allowed to be a mammone here."

I had embarked on my year in Italy with bits and pieces of words, memories and ideas that I had previously labeled ITALIAN. Now I knew that cannoli belonged to Sicily. My habit of saying aaangora when impatient started in Naples. I came to the shockingly funny realization that all Italians young and old are convinced that catching a draft leads to ill-health. And I had found the hand gesture used by rock fans everywhere can also be used to ward off the malocchio. Yet, I realized that there was a new category of Italian words that had seeped into American culture.

The Italian tutor I began to meet with regularly to maintain the language skills I had acquired nearly spit out his venti cappuccino when I told him that the word sceevy, derived from schifoso, is a commonly used adjective in America for something disgusting. Agita has become so mainstream that it was used in an advertisement proclaiming the lack of it was reason enough to fly a particular airline. Anyone from New Jersey could easily hurl mammalucco at you as an insult, and who doesn’t enjoy a sandwich or pizza with tomatoes and some fresh muzz.

In spite of the abundance of Italian-American culture in New York, my tutor was one of the few threads I had to Italy itself. Leaving Italy had not been easy—especially after I had just gotten used to the language, the two-hour lunches with wine, and the way every-day life integrates, well...life!

The first morning spent in my new apartment with my suitcases still unpacked, I woke to the sound of church bells. In my half-awake state I felt elated by their sound and on my short trip back to full consciousness, I was experiencing an ecstasy of not knowing wear I was. Church bells in the morning have always signified the best of times for me. In my tunnel towards reality I traveled the possibilities of Florence and Rome. The incoming sunlight directed itself across my pillow and warmed my face and I drifted further south to Sicily and back to Capaccio—the focus of my journey to the Italian south.

Hazily recalling the date I had been on the night before, the sound of those church bells let me linger for a minute in a feeling of love. The elation of it brought forth a final break to consciousness and I wondered why I could feel love so intensely with only the slightly hung over effects of that mediocre date on my mind. I realized that with love, as with travel, the true joy was in the loss of oneself. The complete immersion into something so beautiful and the trust that it will only result in, once again, finding the self that was hidden. I have tried to love well, but have always had my opportunities stunted. I can say, however, that I have traveled very, very well.

About the Author: Danielle Oteri shares her experiences navigating Southern Italy with all of its linguistic and cultural quirks.