Efren in Rome part 4

Can’t miss an opportunity to catch a thousand words.

We walk everywhere. But it’s nothing like walking on streets in America. At least not the American streets I’ve walked on: flattened, rationed, and stained with the odor of popular culture, they reek of the melting pot I refuse to believe in. These streets are reminiscent of El Potrero de Gallegos. Streets cobble-stoned, washed, and transparent. Streets with character. With stories. With wounds. Yet this is no I’ve-come-to-Europe-and-now-America-seems-to-be-missing-so-much manifesto, no, I’ve thought this for many years, before coming to Rome. This is no bashing on the head of a nail that simply won’t hold two pieces of wood together either. The honest truth is that this is simply a reflection of an experience abroad. I’ve come to revisit a spiritual peace, being in Rome, that I have only arrived at while visiting the rural motherland, Mexico, eight years ago.

But the experiences sit a part from each other like fresh poultry and raw vegetables. They work extremely well together, yet if stored together in the same memory, a pain in the pit of the stomach after consumption is sure to arise. Mental salmonella that will ruin any future endeavors in the same arena of cultural expansion. But fear salmonella not, for if this poultry is properly marinated and understood from the beginning (i.e. this blog) to be a mouth-watering rosemary infused thigh fillet to come, it will complement the already seasoned arroz y frijoles a la mexicana that have been prepared for years. So while we walk, I make sure to carry my rice and bean burritos with me in my backpack. Ready to eat at the first sign of hunger, I walk around soaking in the Roman marinade.

A new recipe for a conversation many college students are deprived of: Assimilation vs. Acculturation. Whilst in Los Angeles and New Orleans, the conversation revolves around white-picket-fence pursuers struggling to maintain motherland cultural roots, the Italian table presents a similar anomaly. The most obvious two cents to add to the mix is that I will only be living here for four months, yet the language, the culinary adventure, and the curious feline within me beg for adaptation. So I refer to my experience with Mexican-Americanism in America and turn to the page with the recipe that many of my family members taught me from six years old: No te olvides de los pobres. Knowing the recipe by heart, I only check to remind myself of where I came from, of the metaphorical village that it took to get me to where I am, that I need not erase where I came from in order to grow. So I continue to cook with an open mind, an open heart, and an open stomach.

Tucked inside the grotto looking out at the still, mysterious lake. 

The perks of being the Italian president’s guest include staying in this humble abode.