I am "italiano"


I've never been a nationalist in my life. Hometown pride and tribalism are feelings that are not only foreign to me, they actually unsettle me a little. Still, identifying as Italian always gives me a particular kind of satisfaction. It's not about pride, but about opportunity, resources, heritage. It's not patriotism, it's straight-up hardcore "game theory."

Do you realize? When someone asks you "Where are you from?" and you answer "Italy," you're dumping Rome, Venice, Naples, Florence, Milan, Palermo on them. The Roman Empire, the Church, the Renaissance. Poets, musicians, explorers, philosophers, painters, sculptors, scientists, filmmakers, athletes. The Dolomites, Lake Garda, the Cinque Terre, the Amalfi Coast, the Costa Smeralda, Mount Etna. The Colosseum, Milan Cathedral, the Rialto Bridge, the Tower of Pisa, the ruins of Pompeii, the Trulli. Spaghetti, pizza, bruschette, cappuccino. Ferrari, Armani, Ferrero.

You don't even need to list it all out: "Italia" is the label on a package everyone already knows the contents of. It's a knockout punch, a checkmate, an unstoppable offensive.
Sure, they know they might be looking at a prick. But he's an Italian prick. No contest, right?

P.S. By the way, even though I speak English pretty well, when someone asks me "Where are you from?" I always answer "Italia!" or "Italiano!" — in Italian, that is. And it starts things off with a good laugh.

Drafted from Italian with Blog Translator, then revised by me.


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