It has been three weeks that I’m in the Netherlands now and all of the holidays are well behind us. “When are you coming back?” and “When are you leaving again?” were the two questions I got plenty of times last week. Although the answer to both questions is exactly the same, the wording is entirely dependent on the perspective of the person asking it. Suddenly it hit me and I started thinking about it for a moment. How does that actually feel to me? Am I leaving or coming back when I get on that plane to Rome again?
“Will you come by one last time before you leave so we can exchange our Christmas wishes?” they asked me at the pasticceria where I come for my cappuccino twice a week. “Of course!”, I replied, but unfortunately things turned out differently
When you live in one place and go on holiday, it’s all very clear. You leave when you go on holiday, and you come back when you return home. But I don’t go on holiday, because I’m one of those lucky ones (that’s really how I feel) who can call the most beautiful city in the entire world home. When I flew to the Netherlands in the week before Christmas, it really felt like leaving. “Will you come by one last time before you leave so we can exchange our Christmas wishes?” they asked me at the pasticceria where I come for my cappuccino twice a week. “Of course!”, I replied, but unfortunately things turned out differently. In the end, my last days in Rome were so busy that I didn’t pass by anymore. And that felt a little sad.
That’s why I’m sure that the moment I’m on the plane, I’ll think about all the friends I didn’t get to see anymore but wanted to
But here I am now, in the Netherlands, and exactly the same thing is happening. “Will we see each other before you go?” “Yes, we will!” I tell everyone without thinking, but in the meantime my schedule is pretty busy already. Of course, the fact that you can only see very few people at the same time because of the lockdown doesn’t help at all. And that’s why I’m sure that the moment I’m on the plane, I’ll think about all the friends I didn’t get to see anymore but wanted to. And again, it really feels like leaving something behind.
In Italy I am la nostra olandesina who, despite her blonde hair and blue eyes, is now a true Italian, they tell me time and time again. In the Netherlands they call me Anna, the Italian lady who at the same time will always be “that countryside girl from the south of the Netherlands”
My two worlds. In Italy I am la nostra olandesina who, despite her blonde hair and blue eyes, is now a true Italian, they tell me time and time again. In the Netherlands they call me Anna, the Italian lady who at the same time will always be “that countryside girl from the south of the Netherlands”. Sometimes it can be a bit confusing. The last few times I went from one country to another, my mind was still ‘on the other side’ the first two days. It took me a while to land. To go back to that other world while trying to maintain my own habits and routine as much as possible, no matter what country I’m in. At the same time, I realise how different my two worlds really are.
In Rome someone recently corrected me as the comment I made turned out to be Roman dialect instead of official Italian, while in the Netherlands people react a little surprised – “I really couldn’t tell!” – when I mention I come from Limburg, the most southern province and very well known for its heavy accent
At home in the Netherlands, I’m surrounded with friends I have known since kindergarten. At home in Italy, friends I’ve only known for a few months feel just as close to my heart. In Italy, I learn new words and keep expanding my vocabulary every single day, whereas when I’m speaking Dutch it happens every so often that I can’t come up with a certain word anymore due to all those languages getting mixed up in my head. Where I am greeted by name in the pasticceria in Rome and the barista starts preparing my regular order as soon as he sees me, they don’t recognise me anymore at the bakery in the village I grew up. In Rome someone recently corrected me as the comment I made turned out to be Roman dialect instead of official Italian, while in the Netherlands people react a little surprised – “I really couldn’t tell!” – when I mention I come from Limburg, the most southern province and very well known for its heavy accent. Whereas I really suffer from the cold during winter times in Italy because of the fact the marble Italian floors have no underfloor heating, the few radiators in the house only give off some heat from the end of November (but not during working hours) and the Italians never let go of their stubborn conviction that the doors of bars should be widely open at all times, in the Netherlands I keep cosy and warm with the central heating at 21 degrees and an extra electric heater. At home in Italy the practical Dutch in me was looking for an instant-mix for apple pie (you only need to add some water and an egg) the other day, and at home in the Netherlands the Italian in me was looking for guanciale for a real pasta carbonara because the Dutch bacon does not have exactly the right salt content and fat percentage. In Rome I have already lived in five different houses while in the Netherlands I come home in the same house where I’ve spent my whole childhood. Where in the Netherlands I let myself be seduced by the convenience of a microwave oven, I despise that same kitchen tool in Italy.
Where in Italy people raise their eyebrows in amazement when I say that I have only been in a coffee shop once in my life, in the Netherlands people can’t believe me when I tell them that I’m losing weight without even trying to while having pasta twice a day
In the metropolis of Rome, with millions of inhabitants, I regularly bump into people on the street, while I’m feeling more and more anonymous in my small hometown where half of my family still lives. Where I try to make the Italians understand the difference between Holland and the Netherlands, I tell the Dutch that Italy is so much more than the cypresses in the Tuscan hills and the so-called undiscovered Puglia where every person considering themselves a real Italy lover has been three times already. Where in Italy people raise their eyebrows in amazement when I say that I have only been in a coffee shop once in my life, in the Netherlands people can’t believe me when I tell them that I’m losing weight without even trying to while having pasta twice a day. Whereas in Rome I feel more at home with Italians than with other international expats, in the Netherlands I am immediately attracted to anyone who is even slightly exotic. My friends in the Netherlands have Croatian, Spanish, Bosnian, Surinamese, Canadian, Mexican and Kosovar blood. Where I celebrate witch-like full moon rituals with my Dutch girlfriends, in Italy – traditionally so superstitious – I am increasingly told that all things astrology have to be taken with a grain of salt. At home in Italy one can often not believe that I voluntarily choose for the chaotic, Italian life (but meanwhile I watch them grow with pride), at home in the Netherlands my choice to leave it all behind and go after la dolce vita is considered fantastic and enviable.
The fact that in both places it feels like saying goodbye when I leave also means that I come back to both places
My two little large worlds. Both so layered and complex. Full of contrasts and against all expectations and clichés. The truth is: I wouldn’t want to miss any of them. Because the fact that in both places it feels like saying goodbye when I leave also means that I come back to both places. That I come home, rather. And what a blessed person are you then?