I haven’t written for this blog since 2019. And there’s no mystery as to why—a global pandemic has a way of both bringing us all together and keeping us all apart. I’ve been one of the lucky ones in a number of ways, healthy and vaccinated and ready to travel beginning in June. For the past month, I’ve been traveling in Italy, a country just emerging from the throes of the pandemic, where my husband is teaching a study abroad program that we somehow managed to eke out despite restrictions.
And yet I sit here in front of my laptop, looking out the widow onto a cluster of medieval buildings, and I try to think of what to write. How to explain what it feels like to travel at time when I’ve just been reminded exactly what a privilege it is? At a time when hallmarks of climate change are cropping up everywhere, and the damage done by travel is present in each 100+-degree day, in the tall grass turned brown and crispy, in the omnipresent No Grandi Navi (no cruise ships) graffiti on alley walls in Venice? At a time when we’re just been knocked flat and grounded by a pandemic more widespread and serious than anyone living had ever seen?
Like most people, I’ve spent the past year sticking closer to home than ever—working at my little desk overlooking the backyard bird feeder, puttering around in the front yard, watching TV with my husband and listening to records and cooking and spending most nights in the same 1100 square feet of house. There were no restaurants, bars, films or concerts. There were limited gatherings with friends, outside even in the cold, wrapped up in layers and six feet apart. And there were walks—most evenings, I took to walking a two-mile loop around my neighborhood, a routine that now leads me to be recognized around town, like some local eccentric: Haven’t I seen you walking?
How to explain what it feels like to travel now, so far from home, when it seemed like we’d never leave again?
A Little Surprised to Be Face to Face with a World So Alive
This unwieldy heading is one of my favorite lyrics from my favorite song by the band Television, and while in context it’s about drugs and friendship, it also applies nicely to the experience of emerging from one’s COVID cocoon and into a world that feels like new. Everywhere, my home city included, things feel brighter, more exciting, vibrating with months of pent-up emotion and energy, ready to be released (for better or worse, considering the Delta variant).
The great thing about Italy is that to me, as a repeat visitor, it always feels this way—that whole la dolce vita thing, with the nightly passeggiata (evening stroll through the town to see and be seen), the gathering in piazzas for aperitivo (happy hour), the people in storefronts chatting at all times of day, reveling in their community even while tourists like us arrive to gawk at it. What I’ve hoped, as people have continued to get vaccinated and the U.S. has “opened back up,” is that we can become a little bit more like Italy, with more outdoor dining and events, more emphasis on community and the social aspects of daily life. (It remains to be seen whether late capitalism will allow it.)
This Italy study abroad trip was a new experience for us: while we’ve led programs before, this summer’s was the most comprehensive, with an action-packed first week-and-a-half hitting Rome, Pompeii, Sorrento/Capri, and Venice, before settling in to our university’s home base of Arezzo, situated in the hills of Tuscany near Florence. With a 0-60 start, our trip was exhilarating if a bit destabilizing after all those months at home, but as I write this, we’ve settled into a lovely, languid pace as we ride out the final days in Arezzo.
So has the pandemic changed Italy, at least in the eyes of a tourist? I’m happy to report that it hasn’t—not in the important ways. It still maintains that sense of public life, of community, of slow, relaxed living that is somehow also loud and boisterous. Due to lingering travel restrictions, the number of worldwide tourists is mercifully fewer, but that fact is only noticeable at the big attractions—Venice’s Rialto Bridge, Rome’s Vatican City and Forum, Florence’s Uffizi Gallery. Italians and European tourists have more than filled any kind of void with palatable energy, brimming over from packed outdoor cafes and public parks. It’s the same Italy, but I’m not the same in it—after a year and a half of pandemic, I’m a little bewildered, and perhaps more observant and grateful.
Post-Pandemic Travel Pressure
I was thinking recently about how the experience of travel changes when you become responsible for yourself. On our study abroad trip, much of what the students do is planned out and pre-arranged, and they spend many days on guided tours and in the classroom, learning about what they’re seeing. In some ways, this is an incredible opportunity to really learn about the art and culture they’re soaking up, but they are missing a bit of what it means to travel as an adult—when the responsibility of communicating and navigating and connecting rests entirely on you.
I think back now to when I first fell in love with traveling, as a teenager going places with my parents, and how enjoyable it was to just go along with whatever they had planned. As the wife of an instructor on a study abroad program, I could do that again. But it doesn’t hold the same appeal it used to, especially as the pandemic and climate change have made leisure travel feel endangered. Now I’ve got a voice inside, telling me to seize the opportunity, to get all I can out of this, to appreciate it while I can. It’s a bit aggressive, this voice, and so much of this trip has been a mental balance for me—I take the voice’s point, but I also want to indulge in some of that slow living I mentioned. Floating along is not mere laziness; it also invites spontaneity.
Seizing the Day in Italy
For better or worse, then, I’ve approached this summer’s travel with a rather serious mentality. We’ve all been anxious the past year, thinking about things like isolation and connection and community more than ever, and I’ve brought this baggage with me to Italy. I want to connect this time, I thought to myself, pouring over my pitiful Mango language lessons prior to departure. I’ve tried to be less shy and self-conscious, to use my minimal Italian and hold my own on the streets, to not become dejected when the inevitable confusion ensues. The thing about really making an effort as a traveler, though, is that it can be harder. If you take responsibility for yourself, it’s more frustrating, with benefits that are not often recognizable until much later (perhaps the next time you travel, when you will find yourself feeling more comfortable for reasons you can’t put your finger on).
But this time around, I have tried to revel in small the small moments of confidence and ease—for example, when my broken Italian has been rewarded head-nods of understanding, even the occasional beaming Certo! Or the time I bonded with the bartender in a tiny cocktail lounge in Rome by complimenting the music he was playing, an overture that was met with great enthusiasm. Or when I attended an Italian indie rock concert with local friends and felt like a real part of life in Arezzo (even when an uptight superfan “shushed” me, the loud American, between songs).
One thing that has always felt especially frustrating to me is grocery shopping in a foreign country; grocery stores all seem very much alike, and yet there are hidden rules that will embarrass you if you’re not careful. The Italian supermarket Conad has struck fear into my heart since the day two years ago when I was castigated for standing in a closing checkout line (a light was blinking, apparently). But this year I encountered a kinder, gentler Conad—and not just because I’d already learned the rules. It was there in the supermarket, putting on my plastic gloves to weigh the produce, that I realized the pandemic itself has actually had, in a small way, a positive impact on how we relate to each other in public life.
COVID Confusion: The Great Equalizer
This realization came following challenges in Sorrento, which had just reopened the week before we visited. Everyone was hungry for business while also taking precautions to the extreme. I decided to do some shopping one afternoon before a group dinner with our students, and with my mask secured over my face, I thought I knew how to approach the situation. But upon entering a linen shop, a saleswoman began following me around as though I might shoplift, pulling out clothes and showing them to me until I left hastily in confusion. What had I done wrong? I wondered. Were they that desperate for business, or did I look like I was about to make off with an overpriced tunic?
The answer didn’t occur to me until we had our hotel breakfast the next morning. The breakfast was on a buffet table, but instead of helping ourselves as we had in the past, we were required to line up and tell the beleaguered young employees each thing we wanted heaped onto our plates. The system was strange and slow, but illuminating: I realized with embarrassment that what I had seen as an overzealous saleswoman was actually someone, confused as I was, trying to follow a tangled web of COVID protocols. We could not touch buffet food and we could not touch merchandise. As I thought about it more, I realized it was sad—those shop owners so excited to finally reopen, only to be told they could not allow customers to browse.
Confusing? Hell yes. But these experiences made me realize that travel in pandemic, in some ways, has made daily interactions LESS scary. Before, you see, I thought I was the only one who didn’t know the rules—that is how we tourists typically operate, concerned about looking like a fool with one false move. But now, with increasing complex pandemic restrictions, no one knows the rules. We’re all fools, and we’re all trying our best (well, most of us—I’m deliberately ignoring the belligerent anti-masking folks here). There’s a graciousness that wasn’t there before, a bit of understanding from both sides that this world is not so easy to navigate, and never has been.
Bringing It All Back Home
To try to summarize these stray thoughts, I have to say that for me, travel in the age of the pandemic includes perhaps a bit too much overthinking, but also a sense of awareness and generosity—I’m more aware of my own privilege and others’ generosity, and in turn more generous in my interactions and reactions.
I’ll admit that when we finished the first leg of our rapid-fire tour through guidebook-Italy and settled at our apartment in Arezzo, I was at a bit of a loss. I felt like I’d seen it all before but also like I was a tourist for the first time. What did we just do? I asked myself. Who am I in this context, trailing after a group of students, pinging around from St. Peter’s Basilica to Capri’s blue grotto to the Peggy Guggenheim to the Uffizi? Who am I now, leisurely reading by day in a Tuscan garden and congregating over deliciously sour white wine at night in a piazza beneath an astounding old church?
I’m lucky. I’m guilty. I’m an interloper. I’m a visitor. I’m a participant in life, here, in this place.
A participant—as a traveler, that’s really all any of us want to be, isn’t it? And when I’m sitting in my room next to an open French window and I hear the clinking dishes from the apartment next door, the voices in the courtyard, the church bells from the duomo which looms over it all, I have to remind myself that this is it. You’re here, and that’s all you need to be. It applies to traveling of course, especially when that aggressive voice pipes up, imploring you to make the most of the experience, see everything, do everything. But it also applies to our lives back home.
It reminds me of David Foster Wallace’s famous “This is Water” speech, something I’ve assigned to students for its uniquely incisive take on a modern dilemma: we ignore the good things that are right in front of us, and this leads to a lack of compassion. Something many have learned during COVID, I think, is that participating, being here is not just what happens when we’re on vacation. It happens any time we think to notice it. I’m here. This is the world. Isn’t it glorious.