I still remember when I first boarded a plane, alone, bound for the United States. It was an early morning flight to Rapid City, SD, with 2 layovers in Frankfurt and Denver, CO. My first trip alone, my first intercontinental flight, and also my first experience away from home, my family, my friends. Useless to say, it felt like a huge emotional moment for me.
Sunrise was turning out delightful in Venice, where my Lufthansa flight was about to take off, but wasn't warming me up from the chilly air all around. It was February.
A quick prayer Upstairs for a smooth, safe flight and fr the people I was leaving home, and the plane takes off. I knew it was over - at least for a couple of months. No more afternoon soccer, no more Saturday nights, no more food ready on the table, no more easy life. I knew I'd have had to live in a much tougher style than I've ever done previously. I wasn't in a celebrating mood, for sure.
Once landed in Denver, CO, I felt like having landed on Mars. The sun was slowly setting on the Mile High city, and the sky was turning from deep blue to the usual symphony of yellows, oranges, reds, until a thick layer of faded purple put officially an end to the show. I was sitting outside with my heavy jacket on, eating some Burger King andenjoying it all. The highways, the lights, the stark contrast with the prairie grass, still a dull brown. I actually loved it, to the point I took several pictures of it. You know, the kind of pictures you look at years later thinking "Really?! C'mon man!". It was my first american sunset. I was thrilled. Never been there before but felt from the beginning a strong tie to the place. Even though the state of my body was run-down - I was already feeling pretty tired - I felt like the whole thing started with the right foot. I think I even smiled when I got up from the bench and tossed trash in the bin, going slowly back inside the terminal.
What followed in the next 2 months was a life elevated to a whole new level. I was conversating in English with people - which is some kind of an achievement for an Italian - living in my own place at the young age of 21 (another achievement for the average Italian), cooking my own food, driving my car to work, enduring blizzards, dealing with stray dogs when going out for a run, taking care of my laundry and grocery shopping. The thing one has to bear in mind is culture. Italians are well-known to be house dogs, if you allow me to put it this way. We are fond of our mothers, and they are a thousand times more fond of us. Our families are wonderful, and since they are, they try to provide us with everything. Most of us still grow up with the comfort of having a mom getting your meals ready for you, cleaning home for you, doing laundry and ironing for you. Probably until you're 30. Well, maybe that's an exaggeration, but I do indeed know such persons. I'm not making it up!
Growing up with such families, for how good might be, presents you with some challenges once you leave the home turf. Unfamiliar grounds, culture, faces, duties, can seriously scare people. They might trigger them to not leave home turf at all. If they do, they'd have to deal daily with things they're not used to: eating non-Italian food (a curse!), doing laundry, cleaning, paying for rent, getting a real job (there's people at home that haven't stacked up 1 working hour until 26), missing mom, friends and such. As far as I'm concerned, that explains why you don't really meet a lot of Italian backpackers. You meet travellers from France, from the Netherlands, from Canada, the U.S.A., loads from Germany (probably close to 95% of the backpacking population), from Sweden or Australia.. but it's pretty darn rare to meet an Italian. You'll meet them on short trips to European capital - EVERY Italian has been to London I'd dare say - or at Grand Canyon, or just working in Melbourne (you know, Australians pay well, so why not?!), but not really backpacking. There's no such culture, period.
I felt all of these cultural schemes during the first few days. On top of that, I was living in Pine Ridge indian reservation. Shannon County, where Pine Ridge lies, ranks as the second poorest county in the whole country. I knew where I was going, my interest in studying Native American's culture and economy was strong, but the reality check I received had a certain impact on me anyway.
After I moved to "the rez", I had to live in a trailer house at the end of a 2-mile dirt road that spurred from the main highway (BIA 2). That was 15 minutes from Kyle, SD. Living in Pine Ridge is no easy thing for locals. Poverty is real and affects almost everyone, with a per-capita annual income of just more than 6000$, children to feed are numerous and on top of that, winters are deadly. Blizzards can bury houses in snow overnight and windchill might reach the abominable level of 70 degrees below zero. It's no joke. I had to deal with it a few times, for example when one morning I woke up and the entrance door wouldn't open because of some 2 feet of snow that accumulated against it. When I made my way out I jumped in the car just to realize it wouldn't move because snow and ice blocked the front wheels. I had to carry buckets of hot water from the house on some 10 trips to melt the hardest part and I also broke a broom to try to fight the rest. Eventually I found an iron part behind the house and broke through the rest of it. I made it to work 30 minutes late. (The good thing is that at least people there are used to this, so I didn't get scolded by anyone)
Living in Pine Ridge meant that "boring" would be the adjective people would use to describe the place you were living in. Also appliable were "flat" or "godforsaken".
I found it awesome. There were no traffic jams, my neighbor was 100 yards away and living in another trailer home, and except for him, I had nobody else for 2 or 3 miles. There were no skyscrapers or city noises. Nobody honking or shouting. The only thing I could hear outside at night was a whole lot of birds chirping. I could even walk under moonlight. Sometimes a coyote would offer a nice long howl. There was no asphalt besides the main highway, it was just rolling hills and a few, sparse pine trees. It was a delight to my eyes and senses. I remember coming home from Mass on Sundays, having a quick sandwich and setting out for a hike with no destination. I'd just pick a general direction, or a hilltop far to the West, and go there - getting my shoes deep into muck or having to sneak underneath livestock fences. I was entranced either wandering aimless along almost-dry creekbeds or standing eventually on a hilltop, gazing to the rolling hills where Crazy Horse stood brave and undefeated. It was my kind of place.
Food was also a big part of this first adventure of mine. Coming from Italy, you know..
We do have some very particular kind of taste for food. I now call it "having one's nose in the air". We take pride in our cookery, but we disdain other's too often. Sometimes even without trying.
I arrived feeling I was doomed to die of starvation. The thing of being some kind vegetables-hostile person wasn't going to help either.
Surprisingly though, after the first visit to a supermarket in Rapid City, I changed my mind. I came out with a big smile and the awareness that I wouldn't have died.
Food was extremely appealing. Lots of meat, frozen food, appetizers, fried food, mexican food... wow. I think my first meal was a BBQ beef HotPockets with a side of baby peeled carrots. I could have gone on with HotPockets for 2 months if I wanted to, but I opted for a more varied diet (that included an army supply of Doritos, frozen burritos, frozen pizza & fries, and a different kind of cheese every week, with my favourite being mild cheddar). I lost my Italian habits in a fingersnap. From eating pasta or rice 4-5 times a week I went to probably 3, and burgers, sandwiches and mexican food became a substantial part of my diet. Still, the world of fast-food chains or fine restaurants was still unknown to me - for the welfare of my wallet.
Sunrise was turning out delightful in Venice, where my Lufthansa flight was about to take off, but wasn't warming me up from the chilly air all around. It was February.
A quick prayer Upstairs for a smooth, safe flight and fr the people I was leaving home, and the plane takes off. I knew it was over - at least for a couple of months. No more afternoon soccer, no more Saturday nights, no more food ready on the table, no more easy life. I knew I'd have had to live in a much tougher style than I've ever done previously. I wasn't in a celebrating mood, for sure.
Once landed in Denver, CO, I felt like having landed on Mars. The sun was slowly setting on the Mile High city, and the sky was turning from deep blue to the usual symphony of yellows, oranges, reds, until a thick layer of faded purple put officially an end to the show. I was sitting outside with my heavy jacket on, eating some Burger King andenjoying it all. The highways, the lights, the stark contrast with the prairie grass, still a dull brown. I actually loved it, to the point I took several pictures of it. You know, the kind of pictures you look at years later thinking "Really?! C'mon man!". It was my first american sunset. I was thrilled. Never been there before but felt from the beginning a strong tie to the place. Even though the state of my body was run-down - I was already feeling pretty tired - I felt like the whole thing started with the right foot. I think I even smiled when I got up from the bench and tossed trash in the bin, going slowly back inside the terminal.
What followed in the next 2 months was a life elevated to a whole new level. I was conversating in English with people - which is some kind of an achievement for an Italian - living in my own place at the young age of 21 (another achievement for the average Italian), cooking my own food, driving my car to work, enduring blizzards, dealing with stray dogs when going out for a run, taking care of my laundry and grocery shopping. The thing one has to bear in mind is culture. Italians are well-known to be house dogs, if you allow me to put it this way. We are fond of our mothers, and they are a thousand times more fond of us. Our families are wonderful, and since they are, they try to provide us with everything. Most of us still grow up with the comfort of having a mom getting your meals ready for you, cleaning home for you, doing laundry and ironing for you. Probably until you're 30. Well, maybe that's an exaggeration, but I do indeed know such persons. I'm not making it up!
Growing up with such families, for how good might be, presents you with some challenges once you leave the home turf. Unfamiliar grounds, culture, faces, duties, can seriously scare people. They might trigger them to not leave home turf at all. If they do, they'd have to deal daily with things they're not used to: eating non-Italian food (a curse!), doing laundry, cleaning, paying for rent, getting a real job (there's people at home that haven't stacked up 1 working hour until 26), missing mom, friends and such. As far as I'm concerned, that explains why you don't really meet a lot of Italian backpackers. You meet travellers from France, from the Netherlands, from Canada, the U.S.A., loads from Germany (probably close to 95% of the backpacking population), from Sweden or Australia.. but it's pretty darn rare to meet an Italian. You'll meet them on short trips to European capital - EVERY Italian has been to London I'd dare say - or at Grand Canyon, or just working in Melbourne (you know, Australians pay well, so why not?!), but not really backpacking. There's no such culture, period.
I felt all of these cultural schemes during the first few days. On top of that, I was living in Pine Ridge indian reservation. Shannon County, where Pine Ridge lies, ranks as the second poorest county in the whole country. I knew where I was going, my interest in studying Native American's culture and economy was strong, but the reality check I received had a certain impact on me anyway.
After I moved to "the rez", I had to live in a trailer house at the end of a 2-mile dirt road that spurred from the main highway (BIA 2). That was 15 minutes from Kyle, SD. Living in Pine Ridge is no easy thing for locals. Poverty is real and affects almost everyone, with a per-capita annual income of just more than 6000$, children to feed are numerous and on top of that, winters are deadly. Blizzards can bury houses in snow overnight and windchill might reach the abominable level of 70 degrees below zero. It's no joke. I had to deal with it a few times, for example when one morning I woke up and the entrance door wouldn't open because of some 2 feet of snow that accumulated against it. When I made my way out I jumped in the car just to realize it wouldn't move because snow and ice blocked the front wheels. I had to carry buckets of hot water from the house on some 10 trips to melt the hardest part and I also broke a broom to try to fight the rest. Eventually I found an iron part behind the house and broke through the rest of it. I made it to work 30 minutes late. (The good thing is that at least people there are used to this, so I didn't get scolded by anyone)
Living in Pine Ridge meant that "boring" would be the adjective people would use to describe the place you were living in. Also appliable were "flat" or "godforsaken".
I found it awesome. There were no traffic jams, my neighbor was 100 yards away and living in another trailer home, and except for him, I had nobody else for 2 or 3 miles. There were no skyscrapers or city noises. Nobody honking or shouting. The only thing I could hear outside at night was a whole lot of birds chirping. I could even walk under moonlight. Sometimes a coyote would offer a nice long howl. There was no asphalt besides the main highway, it was just rolling hills and a few, sparse pine trees. It was a delight to my eyes and senses. I remember coming home from Mass on Sundays, having a quick sandwich and setting out for a hike with no destination. I'd just pick a general direction, or a hilltop far to the West, and go there - getting my shoes deep into muck or having to sneak underneath livestock fences. I was entranced either wandering aimless along almost-dry creekbeds or standing eventually on a hilltop, gazing to the rolling hills where Crazy Horse stood brave and undefeated. It was my kind of place.
Food was also a big part of this first adventure of mine. Coming from Italy, you know..
We do have some very particular kind of taste for food. I now call it "having one's nose in the air". We take pride in our cookery, but we disdain other's too often. Sometimes even without trying.
I arrived feeling I was doomed to die of starvation. The thing of being some kind vegetables-hostile person wasn't going to help either.
Surprisingly though, after the first visit to a supermarket in Rapid City, I changed my mind. I came out with a big smile and the awareness that I wouldn't have died.
Food was extremely appealing. Lots of meat, frozen food, appetizers, fried food, mexican food... wow. I think my first meal was a BBQ beef HotPockets with a side of baby peeled carrots. I could have gone on with HotPockets for 2 months if I wanted to, but I opted for a more varied diet (that included an army supply of Doritos, frozen burritos, frozen pizza & fries, and a different kind of cheese every week, with my favourite being mild cheddar). I lost my Italian habits in a fingersnap. From eating pasta or rice 4-5 times a week I went to probably 3, and burgers, sandwiches and mexican food became a substantial part of my diet. Still, the world of fast-food chains or fine restaurants was still unknown to me - for the welfare of my wallet.
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