Crumby Goodbyes

France exists so that you can drive to Italy – James May

In terms of cultural heritage, I am a slice of apple pie. A Big Mac. A Wonderbread and Kraft cheese sandwich, with the crusts cut off. I am an American, through and through. My ancestors on my mom’s side have been living in the States since the Revolutionary War. Although my dad’s grandparents all emigrated from Tuscany, they wanted to Americanize themselves and refused to teach their children Italian. Since my dad passed away four years ago, this tenuous connection has begun to fray. I’ve always been jealous of people with a connection to their heritage, who feel rooted in something bigger than themselves. My decision to study abroad with CET in Italy was partially derived from this nagging curiosity to see where I come from, however distantly.

In some ways I I feel like I am divvying up my heart and leaving a trail behind me throughout Florence, like Hansel and Gretel’s trail of breadcrumbs. I left a scrap of myself at Volume, slipped with my song suggestion to the DJ of the live jukebox among the natives savoring aperitivo. A slice of me is with the bancarelle of the Sant’Ambrogio market – the woman who convinces me to buy more  vegetables than anyone could eat and the man who offers me tastes of parmigiano reggiano have joint custody. Part of me is in the squid-ink dyed risotto of Il Santo Bevitore, the decadent gelato of La Gelateria dei Neri, the pear and pecorino ravioli of La Giostra.

Last weekend, I went to visit one of my friends in Paris. As I waited in line for my plane, surrounded by the reassuring babble of Italian, I had the most bizarre feeling that I was coming home.  Was that legitimate?  There’s a saying that Florentines can count their friends on their fingers: they must disdain of the tourists that clog their streets and intrude on their daily lives. I still get lost sometimes in side streets, garble their language and embarrass myself on public transportation regularly. AMERICAN is basically tattooed on my forehead. As I prepare to leave, I can’t help but wonder if there’s any part of Florence that I can claim for myself.

Earlier this month, I went to get my library card from the Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale. The man behind the desk only spoke Italian, but patiently guided me through the necessary forms. When he saw my passport, he asked about my last name. Cesarotti , to Americans, is pronounced SEE-zer-ahti, flat and brash, while Italians pronounce it che-zehr- ROH-ti, with a rich rolling of the r. I explained that my ancestors were from Italy, but I wasn’t sure exactly where they came from. He nodded complacently and printed my card. As I was about to leave, he turned around his computer screen to show me something: a map, plotting the locations of all the Cesarotti’s still remaining in Italy. See, he said, pointing at the little red dots, there are some in Lombardy, one or two in Tuscany. Once again, my Italian failed me – a simple grazie mille couldn’t convey the depth of my thanks. He made me feel like a slice of Italy, however small, belonged to me too.

We all know That Person. The girl who comes back from studying abroad program and never stops talking about it. The one who starts every sentence with “This one time in Florence…” Somehow against my best intentions I feel myself morphing into that person. I can picture myself in sixty years, gruff and wrinkled in my old lady sweaters, boring my grandchildren as I reminisce about my summer in Italy. To be honest, this doesn’t seem as bad of a fate as it used to. CET has given me an experience I will never forget and memories a camera could never accurately capture. To Florence, I can’t say addio. For now, I’ll leave it at ci vediamo – we will see each other again – and hope like Hansel and Gretel to find my way back.

Katy Cesarotti, Vanderbilt University
CET Florence, Summer '13