Writer's Statement

In New York City, on August 30^th, 2007, from approximately six o’clock to approximately seven o’clock in the evening, most people did not notice anything different in their daily routine. Maybe they were sitting down to dinner, or watching television, or surfing the internet, or chatting on the telephone. If I were in New York City on August 30^th, 2007 from approximately six o’clock to approximately seven o’clock in the evening, I would be doing the same mundane rituals. But that was not the case. At approximately six o’clock in the evening I was staring at the line that divided the grey, marble hallway floor and the brown, speckled linoleum floor of my new home. In Italy.

I stepped over the boundary in a daze. I floated through all the rooms quickly pointed out to me, not yet ready to believe that I would not be living in an impressive Italian villa. The tour guide, my 22 year old host sister Erika, stopped at my room and proudly proclaimed, “La tua camera!” Orange. Orange and pink. I finally felt a sense of belonging. I looked past the awkward laughing and uncomfortable pettings I had endured during the car ride and saw my favorite colors. I was home.

At the dinner table, instead of focusing on understanding the Italian language spoken, I focused on not being rude. I knew it would inevitably happen, but I did not know what form the accidental rudeness would take. I complimented my mother’s cooking, I kept my hands in my lap, I used my fork and my knife, I ate everything on my plate, I smiled and nodded at the dinner conversation. I was concentrating on plying the tough, rubbery chicken from its small bone in a polite fashion when my father asked me if I believed in aliens. I shook my head no, confident that was the correct response. Surely I was just contradicting an uncertain belief that all Americans believe in aliens.

He exploded. The rudeness had slyly wiggled from my mouth. How can I not believe in aliens! What about the UFO in Nevada? Did you not hear of the crashed space ship found by the American military? My cheeks were tingling apologetically, but I was laughing. I was so scared of the moment I would be rude that it was a relief not to be so careful anymore. We jokingly argued our differences through the rest of dinner. I had found a real family. In Italy.

It did not take long for me to discover that I was the alien. As I struggled to blend in, not knowing the language and communicating with a dictionary and gestures, I learned by making mistakes and I wrote everything down. Even when I returned home, I found myself reflecting upon my past year abroad in both Viterbo, Italy and Barcelona, Spain and continued writing essays about those experiences. I have chosen eight samples of nonfiction that reflect my fascination with foreign cultures and languages as well as what it means to be an alien in a foreign land.

First Post!

Usually, I give my writing pieces to higher powers and they take care of all the technicalities (ex. syaglobejotters). But I have boldly chosen to get my own blog! Egad! So this blog will consist of all the travel-related opinion essays I have written last year, this year, and in future years.

Enjoy!