Berkley Center

“Figurati!” One of the many expressions I did not learn in an Italian class, it translates into something along the lines of, “Don’t mention it!” or “Of course!”. In the past month and a half I’ve spent in Florence, I’ve heard this phrase countless times, usually after apologizing for having made some linguistic mistake or fervently thanking someone for giving me directions. Usually said with a warm smile and dulcet tone, I always chuckle slightly when hearing it, feeling a combination of relief and amusement. It is, to me, very demonstrative of the Italian way: warmth, friendliness, and understanding. Since arriving here, I’ve found the majority of Italians I’ve encountered to be incredibly hospitable and welcoming—there is something about the Italian culture that encourages affection and benevolence, and I am fortunate enough to see it everyday.

I would be lying if I said that I haven’t met a single rude person since arriving in Italy. I am in a crowded city, home to a variety of people, and I have had frustrating encounters—though the overwhelming trend is one of kindness and conviviality. Upon arriving, I wondered what I would have to do to become a part of this warm culture, what I would have to say to earn the smiles of natives—I soon found out it doesn’t take much at all. In my native New York, Manhattanites as a rule do not exchange smiles with strangers, strike up conversations with storekeepers, or kiss acquaintances on both cheeks, yet all of the above have happened to me here.

A couple of experiences stand out in my mind as demonstrative of this point. During my first week of class, I was hopelessly lost—lost trying to find the university buildings, lost trying to keep up with the professor’s rapid-fire Italian, and lost trying to figure out how to successfully register for courses. I summoned up the courage to introduce myself to a girl in one of my classes and ask what the homework was for the week; I apologized for the silly question, to which she responded, “Ma figurati!”. Not only did she help me figure out the assignments for the week, she answered my successive questions and offered to take me to my next class so I wouldn’t get lost (again); she now finds me every couple of days to ask how I’m doing and to see if I need help with anything.

In the same vein, a few days ago I went for a run with my roommate, and while we were sitting on a bench to take a water break I confessed my doubts to her, which went something like, “What am I doing here? Why do I have days in which I just can’t express myself as well as I’d like? What if I don’t even speak good Italian and I’m merely deluding myself during this semester?”. A few minutes after I finished expressing my laundry list of reservations, a wizened older gentleman came walking along with his dog. I glanced up, wondering how he could wear a three-piece suit and trench coat when it was 75 degrees that day, and politely smiled and nodded at him. He stopped to strike up a conversation with us, asking us what we were doing in Florence, how we liked the city, and whatnot. He turned then to me and smiled, saying how impressed he was by my command of Italian; I laughed, assuring him that he need not be polite, but he insisted, “Sei brava, sei brava!”. As he got ready to leave, he patted me on the head and said, “Coraggio!” (which loosely translated means, “You can do it!” or “Cheer up!”) Our little conversation seemed like fate—just when I needed some encouragement, someone came along and gave it—though more likely it’s simply demonstrative of the Italian way of behavior. The kindness and warmth of Italians is something to admire and imitate, a modo di vivere (way of living) that, to me, is one of the most beautiful things about this country.