Just Outside the City Center

Me, in front of St. Peter’s Square, where we would walk daily

Author: Grace Carmack | Major: Journalism | Semester: Fall 2022

Just Outside the City Center My name is Grace Carmack, and I spent the Fall semester of 2022 at the University of Arkansas Rome Center, where I took journalism classes and completed my minor in global studies, all while immersing myself in the Italian culture and traveling around Europe on the weekends.

To preface this end-of-the-year blog about my time studying abroad, I must say there is a lot of pressure attached to sharing my experiences with other people. I am a journalism student, and naturally I love to write and tell stories, but not necessarily my own, personal stories. I’m much more of an observer, an exist-in-the-background type of storyteller with a goal of shedding light on important issues, or overshadowed perspectives. This past semester, though, I was challenged by one of my professors at the Rome Center to document my time living in Italy and traveling Europe in an authentic way with no regulations or restrictions or editors in my ear telling me to write in a more neutral, unbiased tone (which I’m almost incapable of doing anyway). My class grade was based on my ability to complete ten multimedia stories on whatever topics intrigued me or triggered my curiosity. Living in Rome, this was an entirely new ballpark for me in terms of not having anyone, either a professor or colleague, guiding the direction of my writing or assigning me topics that were, well, objectively boring. I was no longer seeking out stories in small-town Arkansas, but I was living in one of the most historically influential cities in the world, with, quite literally, the sky as my limit. So, while I would have been terrified to have my raw, unedited writing shared on a platform for my peers to read at the beginning of the fall semester, now it is much less of a daunting idea. In fact, I have realized the importance of sharing my work—even if it is casual, almost-fun work that an employer might find useless. I enjoyed the process of finding and choosing a story, though it was often an overwhelming endeavor, as there were stories to be told everywhere I looked, and at all times. Sometimes, they would just fall into my hands. And so, I wrote about them—and I used my class assignments, the very tasks that many students would consider the least exciting aspect of studying abroad, to rediscover my love for storytelling that involves my own voice, and my own ideas, and my own style. With that said, below is the first story I wrote as I was living in Rome, Italy, and settling into my new neighborhood.

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After three weeks living in Rome, the neighborhood surrounding Via Delle Fornaci is finally starting to feel like my neighborhood — like a street I have lived on for years. I walk down the same sidewalk every day past residents and business owners whose faces become more familiar and comforting each time. The community, though quaint, is diverse and culturally rich, with a variety of restaurants to choose from. There is no doubt the smell of pizza dominates the area, but Native Hawaiian and traditional Chinese cuisines are also tempting dinner options only steps away. The street is aligned with several cafes, restaurants, mini markets, and random businesses offering a variety of services— a hair salon, an auto repair shop, a laundry mat, and a store that strictly sells lightbulbs are all within a few minutes’ walk.

Despite our lack of fluency in Italian, the people who fill these local establishments have befriended my roommates and I, taken us under their wing, and given us official ‘neighbor status’ in all its glory. The rather loud and chatty couple who run a more expensive, but totally worth it, authentic Italian restaurant beneath our apartment greet me with a smile each time I pass by—without fail. They are friendly as can be and make a traditional rigatoni carbonara that is out of this world. The woman, Daniela, reminds me of my mother in a way—she is a bit sassy, squints her eyes when she smiles, and has taken an interest in my studies as well as my weekend plans. She has endless suggestions on things to do while in Rome, most of them involving places to get drinks. Gazzi, the Bangladeshi man who works at the mini market a few doors down, always exchanges the bottle of prosecco I grab for a much colder one. Each time I say that it is unnecessary, but Gazzi insists on getting down on his knees and searching for the most crisp-looking bottle in the back of the fridge— “just for you,” he says. He also gives my roommates and I a discount on almost everything we purchase there, and claims that this treatment comes with being new residents of our small Vatican neighborhood. We love Gazzi. He is soft spoken and doesn’t speak great English but has communicated in other ways that he likes having us around.

Liborio and Giorgia Zagarella are special. They are the elderly couple who run the café on the other side of our apartment building. One morning before orientation at my university, I looked up a place near our apartment to get a cappuccino and we (my roommates and I) were directed to Pasticceria Zagarella, a modest pastry shop just around the corner from our front door where a woman and a man, both probably in their 80s, were baking and serving on-site. Meet the Zagarellas. They are originally from Sicily but have been serving the Fornaci locals an array of artisanal foods for over 40 years. Mr. Liborio has snow-white hair and is a man of few words and many smiles. Mrs. Giorgia sits at the back of the counter on a wooden stool and speaks even less than her husband. She is missing her front teeth and has a contagious laugh—one that makes you laugh even when you don’t understand what is funny. It was immediately obvious that this café was home to locals and regulars and would not be considered appealing to most tourists searching for a picturesque café with centuries-old architecture and vibrant colors like the ones seen on Pinterest and found in the city center. But we were just outside the city center. No one spoke English, there was no menu, and we were intimidated by the fast pace of the other customers. One-by-one they came in and loudly, but kindly, said “Buongiorno,” picked up a pastry while muttering something in Italian, ordered a coffee which they drank standing up and then on they went with their lives—probably to work, to the market, maybe to morning mass. Aligning the walls are photographs of the Zagarellas with customers from years ago, all smiling with fresh pastries-in-hand. There are also quite a few drawings and artworks from who appear to be the couple’s grandchildren. One of their names is Iris.

Outdated signs still hang above the counter and read “gelateria.” This place was once a restaurant offering traditional Roman cuisine and gelato at all hours of the day, though now it is only open in the mornings from dawn to whenever they run out of pastries. One photo on the wall shows a 2006-version of the business where everything looks exactly same, as if no time has passed. The only difference is that the customers have spaghetti in-hand, rather than cream-filled croissants. They are still smiling, still standing up—and Mr. Liborio still has that same snow-white hair atop his head.

My roommates and I have become regulars at Pasticceria Zagarella. We stop by individually as our morning routines allow, but occasionally we find ourselves inside the café together. All five of our names are written on a small piece of paper, including Liborio’s, hung up next to the drawings done by his grandchildren. Mr. Liborio is working on his English, and we are working on our Italian. With each visit, I try a new phrase I have learned in class—and we inch closer and closer to understanding one another better. He always places an extra slice of fresh torta de mele, which is apple cake, on our plates and then places a finger on his lips, as if to keep quiet about this little gift. Still, other customers have noticed his generous deed and commented “special treatment,” accompanied by a wink. I have seen Mr. Liborio give pastries to a man who came in moneyless and hungry, free of charge. I have seen Mrs. Liborio embrace a friend with a hearty hug almost every time I stop by. They are the loveliest of people. How lucky are we to have neighbors as special as them?”