By the final year that I was living in Dakar, I had effectively become one of the toubab transplants who felt comfortable negotiating her way around the city. At some undetermined moment, I’d become the person who was frequently called upon to negotiate and facilitate taxis for newcomers, or provide my own perspective of life via a Megan-guided tour of things I liked. It wasn’t a huge deal, but I vividly remember the first time I was called upon to leverage my learning experiences. And then, before I knew it, the movers showed up and I was on a plane bound for a new address.
All of that carefully-gathered information that I had built suddenly lost its currency.
The parameters for such an experience of course don’t necessitate that one be a foreigner in another country. This is universally felt for anyone who becomes a transplant and suddenly starts navigating a brand-new social obstacle course until it no longer feels like a challenge. When it comes down to it, living and learning in this way can serve as a central pillar of life. But it still means something on a deeply personal level— even if we never get around to naming it as such.
Tomorrow marks the first day of summer, but the heat in Rome showed up well before the solstice opened the door and invited it in. Remembering what I was up to this time last year, I was ready for June to undergo a dramatic seasonal transition. Suddenly trying to stay cool, I have devoted much of my spare time in the past week posted by an open window—suddenly keen for fresh air. It was also this past week that I read a book in English—I’ve been alternating between Italian and English where the English ones have become my “reward” for finishing an Italian one. And it was on a breezeless Thursday afternoon that I came across this passage:
Yes, I thought as I read it. This is it. The calisthenics that we all put ourselves through in adapting to a new place. All told, it’s not the most reassuring description for how we carve a life in an unfamiliar place, but I felt so much truth in the dissection.
No place owes you anything. Intellectually, of course, I understand that there is no cosmic balance sheet…but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I still find myself looking to make connections with each place I live. Even in my mid-forties I catch myself tabulating insignificant scores that then validate my evergreen awkward experiences with a new culture. Here in Rome, if I catch a tram and it deposits me in a desired place at just the right time…well that’s not luck— it’s a receipt for knowledge applied; I’ve earned a dividend on all this time invested in learning the city’s rhythm. Deep down, however, I acknowledge that the timetables of Rome’s transport are more of a suggestion than a planning metric. In this case, it’s better to be lucky than good.
A part of me makes me wonder how I would have grown up if I’d never once moved anywhere. I’m not saying that one choice has superiority over the other— it is just of course different. Would that place have given me more? Would I have shifted my investment strategy and thus expected a return on my time from other members of that community? Maybe. Life is pretty long, and I am inclined to think that the probability for meaningful personal return comes with allowing real roots to grow somewhere.
Now that summer is finally here and the pandemic restrictions are dropping, we have more visitors roaming around the city. Tour groups snake past the Pantheon and down streets that are already crowded with outdoor diners. It’s a bit startling after living in a deserted city for months on end—but at the same time it demonstrates that we’re emerging from that strange period and entering into a new phase. I don’t know if I can personally call it “normal” but it does for me signal a significant passage of time living in Rome.
In the past week I have also been approached for directions on several occasions, and there’s even a great atmosphere as Team Italia is playing well in the UEFA 2020 soccer tournament. This morning while running across Piazza del Popolo, I had to navigate past sound stages and concession booths erected specifically for the tournament. I look at the banners and note that while we are indeed in June 2021, tonight’s match of Italy against Wales is a part of the 2020 tournament. Even if you never did a double-take, so says all of the signs.
If you were here last year and were remotely paying attention to the laundry list of COVID cancellations, then you know that the Euro 2020 was pushed to this year due to COVID. It was all a part of that seemingly never-ending train of bad news that we all experienced slightly last year. Specific to Rome (and Europe, in this case), the soccer matches are ready example of knowing your surroundings and understanding why this year’s “2020” script in the sign isn’t a typo.
I am enjoying the fact that I am slowly but surely learning about living in Italy. With each passing day, I can understand the desire to stay longer—maybe forever—if only to capitalize on what I am learning. Of course I don’t like the fact that it still takes forever to read a book in Italian (so many lookups), but with each incremental gain, I know that I am learning. The cultural obstacle course doesn’t bang me up so much as when I first got here. Especially as I get older, building this credit rating feels more critical perhaps because I am getting more tired. Even if Rome never has a personality all its own with which to consider my place in it, I find value in the time investment.