Have you ever heard of the term “philoxenia”? Translated from Greek, it means the friend of a stranger. While living in a foreign country with nothing but strangers, it’s something everyone needs. Like most of the world, I am in the process of healing from the traumas brought on by the past couple of years. For a while, healing to me was partying and making a pitiful attempt to distract myself from the painful truths of life. I was missing something deep down. 

It wasn’t until I began traveling on my own that I realized that what I had been missing was inside of me the whole time, waiting to come to the surface. Discovering this was not easy though, and it required me to take on one of my greatest fears: talking to people. I mean really talking to people. The funny thing about humans is that we can all relate to two truths. We are all born and eventually, we will all die as well. But what happens between those two events is completely unique to every single soul that has ever inhabited this planet. So imagine how much I was missing out on by never going out of my way to get to know people.

Now going back to the topic at hand, this philoxenia can also describe the hospitality we experience when meeting others, no matter their identity. In Ariccia, I was met by people who were eager to welcome us into their homes or share their lives with us. This basic kindness showed me that, despite how awful the world can be sometimes, there is always someone who cares. 

This is why Italy is special. The landscape enough can bring me to tears, with the mist clinging to the mountains in the early morning or the thunderstorms that echo across the whole valley like a bellowing cry from the heavens. But what truly makes the difference, is the warmth of the people (oh and the wine). The people are personifications of philoxenia itself; from the servers who are patient with my broken Italian to the winemakers who eagerly share their passions with us in their vineyard. Every time one of these connections is made, I am shown a new dimension of the human race.  I’m not sure if I would have ever discovered my own philoxenia had I not experienced all the pain of the past. As much as it hurt, it challenged me to push my boundaries and brought me to Italy. I now recognize that the people I meet along the way are more than just mere side characters in the story of my life. They are vibrant, distinct souls, that each have something to show you.

-Liv Elam

One of the major differences between Italian culture and American culture is the way that waste is handled. On the tour of campus, one of the main areas covered was the recycling and compost bins. My group was given an extensive rundown of what products and packaging can be recycled, and photos are placed above the bins for even more clarification on what waste goes where. 

When walking around the city of Ariccia, I noticed that this was not unique to the palace, and everyone in town also had the same waste bins, separating non-recyclables, plastics, paper, and cans. Some states in America are lucky to even have recycling. Many cities cannot afford it. 

Speaking of food waste, Italians are extremely resourceful when it comes to their meat and produce. On our latest trip to a vineyard, we saw the harvesting of grapes. These grapes made oil, marmalade, and of course, wine. The cheese that was being made in front of us made prima salle, and the leftover liquid was used for a completely different type of cheese. When our group was being taught about meat, every single piece was used, and treated more respectfully. 

The relationship with clothing is different as well, buying quality over quantity, and acquiring more neutral colors so clothes can move from season to season. And, they last for years. Black never goes out of style, and I have noticed that it is the color of choice for Italian women. 

The attitude towards these raw materials are inspiring, and everything is cared for so much more. Clothes are meant to last a lifetime, and recycling and composting are a given here. When cooking, Italians view it in a restorative way, nourishing their bodies with food that has been locally sourced, and enjoying the ingredients from start to finish.

This is me molding cheese at our wine harvest. I bought a block of this cheese right after we ate it with the grape marmalade. It was the best cheese I have ever had.

Jessie Roller, Fall 2021

My second weekend in Italy, a couple of other girls and I went to Rome to complete our Rome Scavenger Hunt. This assignment involved getting around the city and taking pictures in front of famous landmarks to help us acquaint ourselves with our new home.

The first day went perfectly. The sun was shining. Birds were chirping. Everyone was in great spirits, and the first half of our assignment went great! We decided as the day was drawing to a close to leave the rest of our landmarks for the next day.

The next morning, one of my friends woke up feeling very under the weather. The time change, lack of sleep, and long day exploring the city had left her feeling terrible, and the worst part was that we still had things to do.

As luck would have it, the landmarks we had left for the next day were the furthest ones from our hotel room. Normally we would have just walked, but today was different. My poor friend felt so ill we knew we couldn’t walk the thirty-minute walk it would take to get there.

Our hotel room was conveniently close to the train station where all the taxis arrive to pick people up, so we decided it was the best option to get us to our destination. We got in line and waited our turn, but it turned out we had been waiting in the wrong area. We marched down to the first taxi we saw and asked him if he would be so helpful and take us to where we needed to go. He agreed, and we were so grateful!

He spoke perfect English and was chatting with us as we were making our way to Basilica di San Pietro in Vincoli (St. Peter in Chains). We arrive at our stop and we get out the cash to pay, 26 Euros. We hand him exact change and go to leave when all of a sudden he acts as if he has never understood English. He said this isn’t the correct change and starts demanding more. We argue back and forth for a bit, still very confused as to what was happening. In the confusion and miscommunication, we ended up giving him more money. Turns out he had taken our 20 Euro bill and replaced it with 2 five Euro bills, trying to show that we had, in fact, given him less money. The only problem, we only had one 5 between the four of us so we knew what he had done.

Moral of the story, don’t let taxi men swindle you out of your money, and just take the metro.

Sincerely,

Eleanor