When I was a child, I spent my afternoons at a babysitter’s house while my parents were at work. There, I played imaginary games alone, lying on the floor of the small room with my dolls. However, I often spent time wherever the rest of the family was, so I wouldn’t be alone.

Mostly, that place was the living room, where the TV was. My babysitter didn’t really deserve my attention because she was engrossed in her soap operas. This was fine with me because I was attracted to something else. Or rather, someone else: her mother-in-law. The elderly woman sat silently in her armchair, just like I did on the opposite side of the room.

I was fascinated by her. She had a face full of wrinkles, with sagging skin. She wore thick glasses, so when you looked at her face head-on, her eyes appeared magnified, like those of an insect. Her hair was pulled back tightly, so tight that it created a smooth no-man’s-land between the hairline and the wrinkled part of her face. She also had some hair on her chin.

Nonna was a Calabrian immigrant. Sometimes the silence was broken by her strange and wonderful words. I didn’t understand a thing. But I greatly appreciated the musicality of the language. I still do.

My passion for Italian began when I was 13, in a dark cinema, watching the film adaptation of E.M. Forster’s “A Room with a View.” I wanted to be like the heroine, Lucy Honeychurch, who transforms from a reserved young woman into a carefree one after her stay in Florence.

The fact is, it never occurred to me that the experience of a young Edwardian English woman was far removed from me, an Asian girl from the suburbs of Seattle. I couldn’t care less about not sharing the same cultural background as Lucy; I simply wanted to believe I was just like her.

Time passed, and I held onto my blind conviction that one day I would have my own Italian adventure.

***

I arrived in Rome by train, and that’s where it all began.

The university’s headquarters consisted of a few floors in an old building called Palazzo Pio. It overlooked Campo de’ Fiori, which was sometimes a market for fruits, vegetables, and swarms of people. There were also flowers, of course.

I lived in the Monte Sacro neighborhood, northeast of the city center. It was within walking distance of the school, but only if you had a couple of hours to spare. For the vast majority of the time, I relied on the bus to commute.

Rush hour on Roman buses meant standing room only. We were packed like sardines. I, a clueless young woman, was an easy target for predatory men who took advantage of the complete lack of personal space. They would send shivers down my spine by rubbing against me from behind. It was disgusting. I didn’t know how to make them stop, so I did nothing about it. Later, I would learn from other women that this was not an unusual experience.

We were a close-knit group of American students on what was essentially a Roman holiday. We learned history, studied the language, and enjoyed our free time exploring the city.

However, there was also a problematic situation. When I went out with the other students, I didn’t feel like part of the group. Italians immediately noticed my Asian features.

The reality was hard to ignore. I wasn’t white. I had dark skin.

“American” plus “dark skin”? Italians at the time couldn’t understand the concept.

Rome had a thriving domestic service market, primarily composed of Filipino workers. The population was around 100,000 Filipinos in the country at that time. Most Italians I met thought I was one of them. They often contacted me to offer me a job as a house cleaner or to ask if I knew anyone interested.

It bothered me. Even though I was embarrassed by it, I still had to deal with the discomfort of a mistaken identity.

But my life in Rome wasn’t just filled with uncomfortable situations.

I formed and nurtured a friendship with Alba, the woman who hosted me in her home. She had just become a widow and I think she felt lonely and in search of companionship.

We spent dinners struggling to understand each other, given my limited language skills. She didn’t speak English.

When the conversation would stall, I could eat. Fortunately, she was a talented cook. (She didn’t want me anywhere near her kitchen.) In the morning, she made coffee and shared the biscuits she had prepared the night before.

For lunch, I fended for myself in the city. Usually, it was sandwiches. Otherwise, I would eat gelato as a full meal.

Alba and her husband had a holiday home in the ancient village of Bagnaia, about an hour north of Rome. When we went there for the weekend, the farmers left jugs and baskets of provisions on our doorstep. I distinctly remember the homemade bread and wine; they were delicious. Most of the time I spent there, I was satiated and content.

Her husband, when he was still alive, was a painter, and his works adorned the walls of their small country house. His last painting still rested on the easel in the studio, unfinished.

I returned to Italy several times after my studies in Rome, visiting friends or traveling alone in search of new landscapes and sounds.

Sometimes, I encountered situations where people confused my identity, as when I was a student, but now, with maturity and better language skills, I could explain myself more clearly. The language is not easy, learning it takes effort, but it’s worth it.

Years later:

I am sitting on a crowded train, traveling to Calabria. My compartment is full, and the woman in front of me is biting her nails while staring at me. I offer her a Bacio Perugina from my stash. She accepts it silently with a smile. I notice that she is missing one of her front teeth.

At that precise moment, the image of the lady from my childhood comes to mind. Among her funny quirks, she also had missing teeth. (She wore dentures, which she would sometimes remove.)

Here, on a train, sitting across from a woman with physical characteristics that remarkably remind me of my childhood’s Nonna, I introduce myself.

I’m delighted to have surprised her because I share the secret of having followed her conversation with our compartment mates for hours.

She laughs, and so do I.