It is 3:30PM November 26, 2009. I take a deep breath as I swallow a spoonful of green bean casserole—probably from my third round of food. I look at the table to see what is left for another helping. My eyes get big as I notice that the vegetarian stuffing hasn’t been touched and that there are a few shrimps left at the end of the table. “Yes!—I think.” Shortly after, I go into a food coma, throw on my sweatpants, and curl into a ball for an afternoon nap. Not before long, I awake and pounce on apple pie for dessert. This is Thanksgiving…this is a true American Thanksgiving. This year I won’t be having one of those. This year I will be saying “Grazie” rather than “Thank you” and I will be stuffing my body with endless baskets of bread, bowls of pasta, and bites of pizza. This year I will spend Thanksgiving in Florence, Italy.
It was just two years ago that I spent Thanksgiving in Rome, Italy. At the time, the class that I had studied abroad with was fortunate enough to have our group leaders organize a Thanksgiving dinner at one of the most prestigious hotel rooftops in all of Italy, The Marriott on Via Veneto. As a few of my roommates, my brother, and I approached the beautiful hotel, we began to ponder what we would be filling our plates with that night. Of course I cried out, “There better be green bean casserole.”
Much to my dismay, there was no green bean casserole, but rather, instead, there was a plethora of colors, food groups, and desserts spread amongst the room—and of course an open wine bar in the back. I looked at my friends and said in my best Dorothy voice, “Well I don’t think we are in America anymore.”
I reached for serving spoon after serving spoon, filling my plate with everything from bruscetta to pumpkin risotto; from pizza to pasta; and from limoncello to chocolate cake. My plate had looked as though a rainbow had exploded onto it.
And my second round of food took on a similar appearance as it included a small panino, grilled vegetables, a little bit of fruit and some more of the pumpkin risotto. I wish I could remember what I put on my plate the third time around, but if I had to guess it would probably be another piece of cake and some bread for the road (Gosh, Elizabeth Gilbert would be so proud of me).
But who can forget the first thing that I put on my plate that year, the staple of the American carnivorous Thanksgiving. That’s right, somehow, somewhere, the Marriott management was able to find a turkey in Italy. This of course became the big joke of the night as the staff struggled to find someone who actually knew how to cut the turkey. A carnivore, at the time, I was excited to fill my plate with the staple meat dish of the American Thanksgiving tradition.
Looking around me, wine in one hand, and food in the other, I smiled thinking how wonderful it was that I had made such good friends in such a strange and new place—how wonderful it was that I could share thanks with people, while in another country, a country that doesn’t celebrate our American holiday, a country that eats meals the size of Thanksgiving dinner, nearly every night.
So while I prepare myself for a Thanksgiving away from home for the second time in three years, I think back on that Italian Thanksgiving two years ago, on that meal that I am still trying to run off, that view from the hotel that was just unbelievable, and that feeling of “Grazie” for everything.
It was the first time in my life that I had my cake and could eat it too. And It was the first time in my life that I understood that it wasn’t about what food was on the table—it just mattered that there was food on the table…Lots of food on the table. It was the first time in my life that all I really wanted to say for a very long time was “Grazie.”
Libby Segal is a recent graduate of the University of Rhode Island where she studied Communication Studies and Film Media. She has recently moved to Italy for eight months in to teach English as a second language. While in Italy, she keeps a blog chronicling her cups of cappuccino. <http://illtakeacappuccino.blogspot.com