
Big surprise. Another demonstration in Piazza Duomo.
The year was 1999 and America was bombing the shit out of the Serbians, much to the chagrin of the Italian far-left who seemed to thoroughly enjoy bringing up the sexual escapades of Bill Clinton.
From the country that brought us Silvio Berlusconi, ladies and gentlemen. Pot meet kettle. Kettle, pot.
I loved Florence, but hadnât yet fallen in love with Florence. I was 19 years old, didnât yet speak the language, going on my second month living in an apartment whose landlady I hadnât yet slept with in exchange for six months of free rent. I was just a stranger in a strange land, not quite sure what I wanted to do with my life.
Like I said, I was a 19 years old.
My school was located in Piazza Santa Spirito, on the side of the Arno river away from the tourists and chatter of the city-center. The Santa Maria Novella train station, where I caught the bus home, was on the complete opposite side of the city, meaning everyday I got to walk right through Piazza Duomo.
Crossing the Ponte Vecchio, I took a right into Piazza della Republica and then a left past the cafe where perhaps the most sensationally sexist picture ever, âAmerican Girl in Italy,â was taken.
On this day, there was a gigantic tent set up in the piazza filled with anti-America slogans, anti-war messages, pro-Left propaganda, Bill Clinton blowjob jokes. They ran the gamut.
I had no emotional investment in the situation in Kosovo. I hadnât yet felt a connection with the rest of the world, having been raised in a country that stresses its own importance while downplaying anything that was not America. I was a product of an Ameri-centric educational system, with an innate curiosity I hadnât yet found a way to satisfy, a curiosity that no academic institution had ever attempted to nurture.
I was your typical, 19-year-old American: Ignorant, arrogant, naive, self-centered, self-absorbed, blah, blah, blahâŚ
As I walked down Via Roma a girl walked approached me with a stack of literature in her hand. I could tell by her dress that she was with whoever had erected the giant tent, and I didnât want any part of it. I veered to the left as if I was going to enter one of the shops, which I was prepared to do in order to avoid this girl until I realized the store I was about to enter was one of the many Italian lingerie shops. The only thing 19-year-old me knew less about than politics was womenâs lingerie, so I decided Iâd entertain the lesser of the two evils and talk to the girl.
Looking up at me she fired off a string of impassioned Italian sentences, of which I didnât understand a single word. Sure, Iâd been in Italy for over a month, but I hadnât yet learned a word of the language. Iâd associated with fellow-students and used English when in public, expecting the Italians to accomodate my language skills, or lack thereof.
I was an American, goddamn it.
âUmm⌠I donât understand,â I told her. âEnglish?â
âMy name,â she said, âSalvina. You name?â
âIâm Jason.â
âLike Jay-zone Priestly, Beverly Hills 90210?â she asked, suddenly excited by my name.
âYes, I suppose,â I confirmed. âJust like Jason Priestly.â
âPiacere Jay-zone,â she said with a smile, reaching out her hand.
âYouuuuuuu,â she asked, dragging out the ends of all of her words, âwrite name toooo make stoppingggg of bombs in Kosovooooo?â She was holding out a petition.
âNo thank you,â I told her, as if she was trying to sell me a magazine subscription.
âNo?â she asked, surprise. âWhy you say no?â
I was having a bad day and Salvina was going to catch a mini-temper tantrum. Iâd just failed another paper, my classmates were about to haveanother house party I didnât want to go to, and I was homesick. I wasnât in the mood to discuss the balkanization of the former Republic of Yugoslavia.
âLook, Salvina is it?â I asked, while she confirmed with a nod. âOk Salvina, you seem like a nice girl, but I donât know shit about Kosovo. To be honest, Iâm not even sure where in the fuck Kosovo is, or how I ended up here in Italy, for that matter. I donât belong here, I donât really like the other students in my group, and I donât speak Italian so I canât meet any locals. Iâve yet to turn in a single assignment that didnât come back with an âFâ on it because apparently Iâm not very smart, so this whole college thing is beginning to look like a mistake, but I donât really have a plan B, so Iâm going to have to ride this out. I miss my friends and family back home, and I spend an unhealthy amount of time wondering if they miss me back. I donât belong here but I donât really belong back home either, so Iâm sort of screwed. All I want to do is walk to my bus, ride it to the apartment, walk to the grocery store where the lady who has no idea what Iâm asking her works, settle on some form of pasta, lay down, listen to music, and figure out what Iâm doing with my life.â
This poor girl became my temporary therapist, through no fault of her own. She just looked up at me with a blank look on her face.
I was certain my rant would make her go away, so you can imagine my surprise when she asked, âYou have cafe?â
Huh?
âCafe?â she asked. âYou go uhh… wiiiiith meee to bar for cafe?â
I was stumped. Why did she want coffee with me? Didnât she understand that I had a whole evening of self-loathing and deep contemplation planned?
âSure,â I said, more of a reflex than an answer.
We walked to a nearby cafe and she let me vent. I donât think she understood anything I said, but it felt good to talk. I told her about my car accident, how I lost a football scholarship because they had to put a titanium cage in my spine, how football was really the only thing I was good at and how it was snatched from me, which seemed universally unfair but was something over which I had no control. I tried to explain how strange it felt to feel alone in a city filled with so many people, how I didnât know what I wanted to do with my life, and that scared me. To my core it scared me. I may have even told her about how I got to Italy in the first place, signing up for a study abroad program while high out of my mind on pain pills.
And I listened to her, in painfully-slow and broken English, talk about politics, war, death, refugees. I could see in her face that she felt an empathy for human beings sheâd never met, that war caused her a physical pain that Iâd never felt. She had the look of somebody who, on the outside, wanted to change the world but, on the inside, knew she was fighting a losing battle. My admiration of her developed because she knew this, but fought anyway.
About a half hour in, she looked at her watch and told me she had to leave.
âTonightttt, I have friends in my house, for, cenare, how you say⌠dinner? For eating. You come?â
âYes,â I said, once again more of a reflex than an answer. âI mean, si,â I smiled, proud of myself for at least using some Italian.
âWe have party,â she began explaining.
A party? I thought about it. I envisioned college-age kids, drunk, drawing on passed out friends with sharpies. You know, A Party.
âWe are communist party,â she said, as if that was some throw-away line. âAlle sette, you come. Umm⌠SEVEN,â she told me before walking away. Looking back she smiled and yelled out âCIAO JAY-ZONE!â
I just sat there thinking. Communist party? What in the hell?
I needed to catch the bus by six oâclock to make it to Salvinaâs house by seven. It was 5:30 and I sat in my bedroom contemplating whether or not to go. A communist party? Communists? All I knew about communism was what I was taught in school. They were Russians and in elementary school there was huge section of the map that was colored red, representing the Soviet Union. Was this girl Russian? What in the fuck is a communism party? And what does one wear to a communism party? I found a red t-shirt, hoping that would suffice.
As my roommates got dressed to go to some house party an American student was throwing in his apartment, I was leaving for a communist party with some Italians. Or maybe they were Russian. I had no idea. I had a map, an address, and a red t-shirt.
Salvinaâs apartment was in the Italian equivalent of the projects. The street was dark and I was scared. Was I walking into a trap? Communists were bad people after all, and despite the fact I had no idea what communism was, I was sure they wouldnât like me.
The flat was on the third floor, and this was not a part of town where elevators functioned. I huffed up all four flights of stairs and stood outside of the door. I could hear people inside laughing, talking, a seemingly civilized discourse.
Here goes nothinâ.
Knock Knock Knock.
Salvina answered.
âCIAO JAY-ZONE!â she yelled, excited, giving me a hug and kissing me on each cheek.
I glanced around the room. There were no ropes or cages, which was a good start.
Salvina introduced me to everyone in the room. There was an Albanian named Bledi, an Italian girl named Silvia, another Italian named Marco, and an American, also named Jason. Everyone seemed genuinely happy to meet me except for Jason. He eyeballed me with suspicion, obviously unhappy about another American joining his pack. He was short, heavy, looked 40 years old but was probably 30, with glasses and hair that suggested âI donât give a fuck,â but in a trendy sort of way.
We sat down at the table and began eating. They spoke Italian and I just listened, occasionally asking Jason what they were saying, which obviously annoyed him. Every once in a while theyâd speak to me in broken English, asking me about the war.
âI donât really know,â was a sentence I played on loop that night, with the occasional âI donât understand,â sprinkled in for variety.
âAmerica is evil,â said Jason out of nowhere, looking at me as if expecting me to just agree with him.
The whole table looked at me, awaiting a response.
In hindsight he was probably a grad student whoâd just been introduced to Howard Zinn or Gore Vidal, but at the time the words stung my ears a bit.
âI donât know about that,â I said, tip-toeing into the arena of political discussion. âEvil is a pretty powerful word. I think thereâs a level of complication here youâre ignoringâ
Iâd surprised myself. I didnât know I had it in me, but I was ready to discuss.
And discuss we did. We spent the night in discourse. Nobody yelled, or shot down the otherâs point of view. People asked questions not as a set-up, but out of true curiosity. I was used to CNN and Fox News, where political discourse was something that triggered tempers and the discounting of anotherâs point of view. Political discourse was adversarial. This was something new.
They explained how they were members of the Italian Communist Party. Not a frat-party, or college party like Iâd expected. They were kind, they listened, they did their best to speak English, and as I listened I began to pick up a little Italian based upon the context of the conversation. Everyone was nice but that asshole Jason.
âYou just donât realize it yet,â he said to me, in an overly-condescending tone, âbut all of the worldâs evils come from the United States. We donât really care for Americans here.â
Thatâs funny. Iâd been treated just fine.
âIâm not really a fan of absolutes,â I told him. âI think thatâs a very simplistic worldview.â
âOh yeah?â he countered, eyebrows raised. âYou think my worldview is simple?â
âNo,â I said, deadpan, âI think youâre simple. You like things black and white, and the world has lots of gray.â
The group watched us, silently, not understanding our conversation but definitely picking up on the awkward vibe. I could tell that Jason really didnât like me now, probably because he only surrounded himself with people that agreed with him. He wasnât used to opposition.
Tough shit.
Jason was filled with a level of self-hatred and guilt that most assuredly came from something much deeper that he wasnât acknowledging.
As the night wrapped up people began preparing to leave. We cheek-kissed each other goodbye, and as I prepared to leave, Salvina approached me while Jason mean-mugged me from across the room.
âDomani,â she said, looking at Jason for the translation.
âTomorrow,â he blurted out, annoyed.
âTomorrow we go in the train to Sicilia, to my cousin. You come?â
âTo Sicily?â I asked, surprised. âI canât, I have school.â
Salvina frowned. âIf you come we go alle otto⌠at eight oâclock, binario 15.â
I had no idea what âbinario 15″ meant, but it didnât really matter. I couldnât go.
âThank you Salvina,â I told her. âCi.. umm.. ci viddiamo?â I said, more of a question than a statement.
âJAY-ZONE,â she yelled. âBravo! Ci viddiamo! See? You speak Italian!â
I smiled. âSi.â
When I got home I laid down in bed and I felt some semblance of peace, but couldnât sleep. I tossed and turned, the night replaying in my head. How were they so nice to me? I thought communists were bad people? My worldview was being altered, and I had more questions than answers. I didnât agree with much of their political philosophy, but I had gone through my entire life not even realizing their political philosophy existed. Theyâd opened a door in my mind that I didnât know was there.
I genuinely liked these people, everyone but Jason. Fuck Jason. But the rest of them were cordial. I made friends⌠I MADE FRIENDS! It felt good. Even though we couldnât communicate verbally, I felt more of a connection to them than I did my own roommates, or the other students in my group.
At 6:30 I began packing my bags. Forget school. I was going to Sicily.