My hunger while in Spoleto was insatiable. My most frequent craving was a burrito as big as my head, chock full with a zillion different, oozing, juicy ingredients. Before coming to study abroad in Italy, I had always proclaimed that pasta was my favorite food. I suppose I have a thing for foods that feel “fun” to eat: a steaming, rolled-up pocket of goodness that you hold in your hands like your own little baby vs. long, shoe-stringy, tentacle-y, pieces of chewy dough that command an entirely new twirling motion of the fork. But after the first three or so pasta lunches—a truly daily Italian phenomenon which I confirmed, incredulously, with a local girl on a night out—I was not having as much fun eating my pasta. It sounds bratty to say, but the beautifully fresh, simple, handmade pasta of my dreams from this small Umbrian town was not good enough for me.
Some periods of deep thought and soul-searching following my impossible realization that I was not cut out for the Italian lifestyle led me to a rather grave self-diagnosis: I am American. I am so American even when I try so hard not to be.
The American spirit of excess has regrettably infected me.
We go out to restaurants in the States in search of the yummiest, heartiest, most craveably mouth watering feasts. Presentation, color, instagramability is our top priority, even if we end up digging into a steaming pile of shit; how is it that we have managed to sensationalize such a basic necessity of life?
Catching up with friends upon my return from my travels, I have been repeatedly thwarted by food-related questions and comments—the most common one being, “What was the best thing that you ate?” I’m reminded of the TikTok’s by “food creators” that confidently, proudly announce to their followers via voiceover effect that they have found “THE BEST BURGER IN NEW YORK!!!!!”
I did have some good food in Italy. But I would be lying if I said that any of these pastas and pizzas and breads were great. I always cleaned my plate of every single similar doughy morsel and rotating sauce option, but moreso out of necessity than wanting to savor and remember. Following every meal, I would wonder how the people of Spoleto lived like this, being fueled by the same four or five dishes all within the narrow confines of their own food culture. Picking my head up from looking longingly at my empty plate, it all became more clear. Connection. Community. Wasn’t it obvious? The servers weren’t trying to turn as many tables as possible for the day; instead, they accommodated for and encouraged everyone to stay for a while, long after the food was gone. Restaurant staffers were not nameless, perfect robots, just people doing what they can in their town to pay the bills. The food was real and simple, but so were the people. America’s additives, sugars, and fats trick us into thinking that the food on the table is the main focus, when there are people sitting around it ready to give and receive love freely, in the form of honest conversation within the liminal spaces of life that are meals.
All of the pastas twirl and tangle and mesh together in my memory, but every meal experience shared with others at a full, buzzing table remains clear. In all of Spoleto’s quaint, small town glory, you could find decent, fresh food around every corner. The Americanized, consumerist scramble to find the “next big thing” has not yet gripped little Spoleto’s food culture—and hopefully never will. Locals may claim differently, but there did not seem to me to be any hot, trendy restaurants alleged to be the best in town. The ”coolest” food spots often seemed to be one’s own family restaurant, or wherever one could be surrounded by as many loved ones as possible.
Italians eat to live rather than living to eat, and it is never a solitary practice. Food is often more of a symbol of hospitality and gesture of love than anything else.
Towards the end of the trip after a night out spent at Spoleto’s closest equivalent to a club—the ever-entertaining, character-filled “Pandemonio“—a bunch of us were treated to some pretty mediocre pasta back at one of our new Italian friend’s homes. The packaged spaghetti and sauce from a jar simmered together to perfectly satisfy my midnight munchies nonetheless. I’ve since relished joking about the boy who sat across from me at the table that night, who watched me scarf down the contents of my paper bowl, shocked, and proceeded to nervously offer up his untouched bowl to help further appease what he saw as ogreish hunger. I find humorous solace and satisfaction with my metabolism in the memory of a separate encounter with a well-meaning local girl at Pandemonio who was genuinely bewildered at the fact that I was American because I was ”so tiny” and the food there is “so fat.”
The Spoletans always tried their best to accommodate for and understand our group’s greater appetites, even if they themselves could never manage to eat like we could.
So even if I often had to accept defeat and top-off my evenings with a handful—or two—of potato chips from the grocery store, I can say with certainty that my social appetite was never not satiated. A lifestyle consisting of good food and good people—with expectations for no more or no less—is surely a recipe for longevity; I think that the Italians have cracked the code.
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