I took an anthropology class in college and one of the assignments was to write a diary entry as if you were an alien. Imagine you had just landed on Earth: What would catch your attention? What would your unbiased observations say about what this new culture may care about?
That assignment stuck with me—along with the time the professor unwrapped a raw bone in front of the class, cracked it open, and sucked out the marrow to reenact being a caveman—because it did what good lessons do. It taught me to give space to the things I myself might claim as normal. To look at my own POV a little more closely, humbly, and humorously.
As a space traveler, I wrote about how it appeared dogs ruled the United States. They were so important, each one was attached to a personal assistant who trailed them by a long, umbilical-like cord. Their excrement must also be quite valuable. It was delicately scooped up like a treasure and kept in its own special bag.
(Give me some credit. I was 19 years old and obsessed with my dog, Chloe.)
Do you see where this is going? Here I am in Italy, feeling decidedly like I’m looking in from the outside. Of course I am. Assimilation is a slow, awkward, inevitably vulnerable affair. I don’t pretend to be Italian, but I am eager and curious to learn. After living here for almost two years, which is nothing and yet still something, these are the small things that I’ve noticed. These are the subtle cues that have signaled to me I am not where I was.
I’m fascinated by these sorts of quirks. You won’t find these in a guide book (OK, maybe the produce thing) but you’ll learn them only after living here—after you’ve waded into the stream of daily rhythms and realized you’ve been walking in the wrong direction, in the wrong outfit, and leaving a trail of muddy footprints in your wake. This is what it means to be human.
Ain’t it grand?
My apartment doesn’t have any smoke detectors. I realized this a year into living here. Should I tell someone?
It’s bad luck to celebrate your birthday before your actual birthday.
And on that note, birthday drinks? It’s the birthday girl/guy who pays for everyone.
At a restaurant, it’s not considered rude to eat once your food has arrived, even if no else at your table has been served yet. Why let perfectly warm food go cold?
Correct change changes lives. If you want to make a shopkeeper’s day, then give them the price in cash down to the centesimi. You’ll earn high praise.
Speaking of money, place it on the counter in the appropriate dish instead of giving it to the cashier directly. Why? Etiquette, though maybe also germs. See number 7 and 14.
Never touch produce with bare hands. This has now been drilled into me, though the extra plastic use is maddening. (Why can’t the gloves also be biodegradable?)
Do not cross arms with someone else if cheers-ing in a group.
Do not cheers with water, non-alcoholic drinks, or with alcohol in a plastic cup.
Never pour someone’s wine underhanded with your inner wrist showing—unless you are trying to poison them.
In Italy, it’s against the law to name your child something of the opposite gender. Or a name that others would make fun of, like Venerdì or Verde or Zizza.1
Ask “Permesso?” before entering someone’s home. Even if they’ve already invited you in.
Spiders in your home are good fortune, don’t kill them. (This explains why I am not a millionaire.)
Cleanliness is paramount. It’s why you take off your shoes at the door and clean the toilet after every go. The brush is right there—even in public stalls.
Dress for the calendar, not the weather. No one cares if it’s 75 degrees in April. Wear sandals at your social peril.
Don’t knock on wood, touch iron.
It’s considered strange to drink wine with pizza. Pizza is paired with beer.
Salt and butter on popcorn?! Yes, in some Italian circles this will be a revelation.
Emails are a formal occasion. To anyone, every time.
Put a ribbon on it. A blue-bedecked fence? Someone just had a baby boy. Pink bows on a storefront? It’s a girl. A mailbox laced up in white? Just married. I love the instant sense of community this creates. Even among strangers, you’re now privy to their joy.
Similarly, when someone dies, you print out their photo on what looks to be a templated piece of paper and thumbtack their obituary to the cork boards around town. I find this honorable and touching.
Also, if you want to know where the cemetery is, look for cypress2 trees. Evergreens are a symbol of the afterlife. In the past, they were thought to mask the smell of death.
Do not trust Google maps. Google links. Google hours. Only trust the information that is taped to the outside of a building in a flimsy plastic sleeve. This is Gospel.
Everything is dubbed. Maybe not so much in larger cities, but in smaller towns like mine, movie subtitles are not a thing. The one cineplex here will have the occasional timeslot for an “original English” but for any other showing, good luck. You’re watching Timothée Chalamet in Italian.
Omaggios. Maybe the shopkeeper likes you—or maybe that box of cookies is about to expire and he just wants to offload it into your basket.
Bonus! There is only one store where every teenage girl shops and it’s called the Impossibly Short Jean Shorts That Go So Far Up the Butt Crack You Worry For Their Microbiome and Black Spaghetti Strap Tank Top store. If you want to blend in with the local youth, skip Ciao Lucia and wear this outfit instead. Don’t forget your vape.
You can, however, make this a child’s middle name and call them by that. But who would do such a thing? Especially if your name means “boob” in Neapolitan.
Correction: I previously wrote pine tree.
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