That’s where I am. First Christmas not in Sicily, and how far away: 7 hours away. The first Christmas away from home is a bit of a trauma for everybody. But I’m doing it in style: not only it’s another household, it’s another country, another time zone, another language, another tradition. So yeah you’re getting a cheesy Christmas post, my beloved readers.

It’s 4 am in Europe, it’s 9 pm here in the Midwest. I’m starting to feel myself again, after the usual 2 or 3 days which I need to adjust to the jet-lag, plus 2 or 3 days of sinusitis and a little fever, plus the usual dizziness coming from being in a place which looks so familiar but it’s not in some little sneaky tiny things. And now it’s the little Christmas differences. Like, they have colorful stockings, but not for the 6th of January – they’re up for Christmas. In Palermo there’s all this holiday gambling, which is tradition. I bet they’ll find it weird in plenty of countries.

But one thing dawned on me today. Some sudden realization of a psycho-analytic truth, if you will, and I’m not talking about the weird melatonin-induced dreams (like, last night I dreamt that I was lost in Frankfurt Hahn and the Pope was dead). I realized that my compensation act for the moments when I miss home is to make deep fried rice balls (a Sicilian specialty: see here ). I put an old shirt on, don’t mind stinking like fried oil, cook 1 Kg rice (or 2 pounds), deep fry those rice balls. It’s just kind of weird to be doing it with cheesy Christmas carols radio in the background, though it’s kind of relaxing somehow. And then people are happy because they think I did it for them, but actually, if I must be honest, I did it for me. It’s my compensation, my sublimation, my madeleine. And that’s what I did today. And they turned out damn good.

And then again maybe Christmas here where I am now it’s not that different. Like, there’s shopping, there’s a tree, there’s food, there’s presents, there’s some hanging out, hot beverages, I’ll Skype home tomorrow and nobody is forcing me to go to Church.

things I’ve been missing about Europe:

- not being asked “how are you today” every 5 minutes, and in general people minding their own business without telling me that my necklace is gorgeous, that they love my shirt, and that my credit card design pattern is cool

- bathrooms having BOTH a toilet brush (2 hotels, haven’t seen any) AND a detachable shower faucet (2 hotels, haven’t seen any)

- living without the constant awkwardness of not being able to tip, not knowing when / how much

- higher density of population + better public transportation = walking a couple of block doesn’t feel like a major sport challenge

- knowing what the food names correspond to – what is the difference between mocha coffee and coffee? why do you call it “salad” if it’s served on a deep fried bowl and has caramelized nuts in it? if I ask what dressings you have, I’d like to have a list, not to be answered “all of them”, or rather I’d like some good old olive oil

things I’ve been missing about the US

- the fact that people are always extremely nice to you, even if sometimes it’s because “they have to”

- how cheap things are + great shops (clothes shops, book shops), and being able to get a bagel wherever I am

- people playing really good music in the streets, in the bars, even the music they play in the shops or on the bus is great

- looking around me, the landscape (yeah, Schwabenland is beautiful too, but it’s kind of different here) and in general how people look. I love what people wear here.

- not feeling guilty about speaking English rather than German

And here’s the last batch of photos from Boulder (the ones I took in Boston are attached to the last 3 posts). Sorry I don’t have many stories about Colorado, it was mostly contemplating, walking and shopping. And a workshop.

Boulder

Here’s the third part of my Boston report. Enjoy!

I was so busy following the footprints of their Paul Revere, that I almost forgot about my Sacco and Vanzetti. When it came to me that here in Boston they were accused and killed, it was clear that my last day in Boston had to be spent in the North End, where the Italians have lived for more than a century now. The two paths actually cross, because the last part of the Freedom Trail is in the North End.

The first stop is the Liberty Hotel (again, freedom, liberty..), former Charles Street Jail, where people like Malcom X and my Sacco and Vanzetti were detained. I look for the former headquarters of Sacco and Vanzetti Defense Committee, in 256 Hanover Street. Now there’s a yoga center. Then Paul Revere crosses my path again, his house is just opposite the “Italians church” and the former location of Boni’s restaurant, where Sacco claimed to have had lunch with Professor Guadagni the day of the Braintree Robbery. The more I walk the alleys of the North End the more I feel how strongly the Italian immigrants must have held on to their roots. I have many privileges now, compared to those Italians, but I feel they are much closer to me than I had thought. It gives me a strange feeling. It’s not sadness, it’s not anger, it’s not homesickness. It’s Sensucht.

Imagine you move so far away from your country, to a place where the weather is so brutal, people speak another language and treat you as a second-class citizen (or as a stereotype, see Jersey Shore), and where maybe all those ideals of freedom and self-realization aren’t as real as they made you believe. Sacco wrote about his arrival in America “In the immigration station I had my first great surprise. I saw the steerage passengers handled by the officials like so many animals. Not a word of kindness, of encouragement, to lighten the burden of fears that rests heavily upon the newly arrived on American shores. Hope, which lured these in, migrants to the new land, withers under the touch of harsh officials. Little children who should be alert with expectancy, cling instead to their mothers’ skirts, weeping with fright. Such is the unfriendly spirit that exists in the immigration barracks.”

How frustrating and sad must have been to see two fellow immigrants being sent to death, in spite of that much celebrated Freedom. Anarchy probably had a very special meaning for the Italian immigrants. It was the hope of a better future, even knowing it was a “hopeless cause”. And now I see what the fil rouge is, what holds together the past century’s anarchists, and the hopeless immigrants, and those of today, and those Italians holding on to their faith and their traditions here. Whose images do I find, just next to Paul Revere and the Church, and the former Restaurant? Saint Rita, patron of Impossible Causes, and Saint Jude, patron of Hopeless Cases. We have always been masters in those domains.

Boston #3

Somehow I managed to get around for a few hours on Saturday and I got to see part of the so-called “Freedom trail”. It’s fascinating how everything seems to be about freedom, and yet nothing really is. I guess it’s one of the many things I still haven’t adjusted to.

Being in the U.S. gives me this strange feeling of home but not home. Home because well it’s the western world, and now I’ve been here a few times, I don’t get surprised for the weird customer service, I have almost learned how to tip, and sometimes I even go as far as asking back “I am fine, how are you today?”. As if you cared. I am learning to push back the urge to say “hey, I feel like a big puss because I shouldn’t be jetlagged anymore after 5 days, but a part from that I am cool”.But it’s not home, crossing the border is less of a stress now, but still I think things could be a bit faster, and there are so many things I just don’t get. As I said, this thing of asking everybody how they’re doing. The perverse tip system at bars and restaurants. The price tags not including sales tax. And the occasional miscommunication. I just asked what is the difference between a Coffee Colatta and a Mocha Colatta. One has Coffee, the other has Coffee and Mocha. But Mocha IS coffee, isn’t it? Well I gave up. And now I am drinking one or the other, I am not so sure anymore. Then there’s the lexicon. This might be a topic for further and more thorough rambling, but there’s something about American words that I don’t get. What’s with this intensive use of “exciting / excited”? You’re using that word so much, what do you do when you are REALLY excited? you add a “totally” to it? And what about “inspiring / inspired”? I am still not sure I grok the idea.

But there’s something about Boston I like. And it’s not the preppy snobbish air some people ooze here. It’s something older, the sea air, the fish bars, the lighthouses. I would probably enjoy spending more time in New England one day. More generally, Boston seems to have a fascinating history. I am not a big expert of the American Revolutionary War, but it is fascinating (inspiring?) to see all these landmarks, statues, plaques, reenactments keeping it alive. I mean, Italy just turned 150, and what have we done? Have you seen many people around wearing Garibaldi’s shirts? And if you have, what about before this anniversary? Then again, if you give it such a tacky name (“freedom trail”) all the coolness seems to fade away. And then you start to wonder, where were the freedom fighters when in the same town of Boston Sacco and Vanzetti were sent to die? But that’s another story, I will probably tell it tomorrow.

Boston #2