When culture isn't skin deep...

One of the best things about travel is the little adjustments.
It can also be one of the worst.

Living in New York City and truly, most of the western world, we have witnessed the slow matriculation from cash to tap. Mostly it’s great. Quicker, easier. Before this giant leap in technology though, I used to collect transit cards from around the world. Tickets, tokens, stubs and cards from many a metropolis. Bus, train, tram and trolley passes, each a colorfully styled display of pride toward their home cities. One day these cards will end up in a museum. For now they live as memorabilia in forgotten boxes and we pay for transit with our phones.

Well, not everywhere. In the south of Italy where traditions fall slowly, you must still buy your bus ticket at a tabaccheria.

As you may have guessed, its translation means “tobacco shop” but with such a fanciful name you’d half expect to see old men sitting at tables outside talking politics and football between puffs and drags. And in some places they do. The tabaccheria sells magazines, toys, snacks and of course, cigarettes. It’s essentially a bodega if you’re a New Yorker, a corner store everywhere else. But there’s a bit of magic to it, a sprinkling of Italian charm.

Every time we had to take the bus my aunt, teetering on panic, would run ten minutes ahead and make sure to secure our tickets. She looked a little cray to me, I’m not gonna lie. I didn’t get it until I started taking the bus alone but I soon adapted to the routine of getting to the tabaccheria early to buy my ticket, sometimes grabbing one the day before. Although you couldn’t buy them too far ahead because they expire.

Then came the day when I had to go to London. Just a quick jaunt over the Alps - Europe has its benefits. The trip came together quickly and all that was left was to get to the airport. I, Brooklynite, was accustomed to taking public transit everywhere so the airport was no exception. I would simply take the local bus to Bari then transfer to a train to the airport. I planned everything perfectly. But I didn’t account for riposo.

During riposo, the Italian practice of a mid-afternoon break, everything shuts down. Cafés, supermarkets and stores all shutter. The buses, however, keep running. As I dragged my carry-on across the cobblestones well early for my 2pm bus, I noticed something strange: there was no one else on the street. My heart fell to the pit of my stomach. I picked up the pace, running towards the tabaccheria and fearing the worst.

It was closed. And wouldn’t open again until 3.

Quickly doing the calculation I realized that due to the way the buses were scheduled, I was going to miss my plane.

It was official. I’d been riposo’d.

Even though I knew there was no way around this I waved down the owner of the bar next door and asked about the man who ran the tabaccheria. She shrugged and said he was on break and back at 3.

I went back to the bus stop absolutely gutted. My carefully constructed budget was crumbling at the thought of paying for a car all the way to the airport. I started to curse riposo in general and the tabaccheria specifically especially as I noticed for the first time that there was a 24 hr cigarette vending machine located outside the closed store.

Cigarettes but no gd ticket machine?????!?!?!?!

I was still in the throes of an internal conniption fit when a bus traveling in the other direction stopped across the street and out stepped my cousin, Davide. Talk, lanky and movie star handsome, he moved through the world with an enviable ease. He was everybody’s friend and my god was I glad to see him. He waved and we shared that moment of warmth that happens when you run into someone you know from home while you’re out in the world.

As soon as he got close enough the story came tumbling out of me - my Italian is always better when I’m frustrated or angry, go figure. I ended by stating the certainty of missing my plane and the injustice of the cigarette machine.

Davide tilted his head.

Sooo, you pay after, yes?
-Cosa? É possibile?

Davide often used me to practice his English so our conversations tended to ping pong between the two languages. He was saying I should simply tell the bus driver that the shop was closed and I would buy a ticket from the station in Bari.

My cousin was suggesting the bloody honor system.
Can you believe it?

In that moment I saw a difference. A Black Italian and a Black American are two very different things. I’m not even sure they capitalize the B over there. Davide was born and raised in the culture and as such took its privileges for granted. But I, coming of age in rules-based caste-conscious capitalistic America, had learned to move through the world with precision - doing nothing that could expose me to scrutiny. Or shame.

With this simple suggestion from my blood relative I understood that culture wasn’t skin deep. He was so relaxed, looking at me. I felt sorry for myself.

Considering the discussion at an end, Davide wished me a safe journey and headed home.

About a half hour later, the bus came and I explained to the driver that the tabaccheria was closed and I had to catch a plane - she rolled her eyes and waved me on, more concerned with keeping to her schedule than the woebegone trials of an American tourist.

Seated on the bus and safely back on my own schedule I wondered what else in my life I wasn’t aware I needed to unlearn.

When we arrived at the station, I purchased a ticket and threw it away.

Honoring the honor system.

In Italy, I witnessed my own traditions falling.

Slowly.

***

Excerpted from Or You Could Just Not.
Now available for pre-order.
Coming July 14.