Gripping the railing on the iron gates, I beheld the view on the other side. Amid a canopy of sycamore trees, a row of marble columns lined the turquoise-tiled pool in the middle of the garden. Reflections of red, white, and green danced on the water, testifying to the presence of the flag on a pole that stood out among the sycamores.
A voice behind me rang out, “They’d never have a group of Americans standing around like this!”
Probably not. Only in countries like ours, where people were accustomed to waiting in droves, packed like sardines behind an iron gate for however long, watching, waiting, anticipating, hoping. Hoping for a better life on the other side.
The gates finally opened, and we all rushed past the garden into the building to arrive on time for class. For those of us hoping to secure a visa, taking two language courses was mandatory. Those who wished could also take a third course, a brief introduction to Italian literature and grammatical styles such as the passato remoto.
The institute was located in the foothills of the mountains north of town. During the day, the children of dignitaries and embassy workers would attend school there, taking lessons in their native language. In the evenings, the same teachers would hold language classes for us, twenty- and thirty-somethings hoping to settle abroad. Some were already pursuing art, music, fashion, or architecture and planned to continue their studies in Italy. Others hoped to move on elsewhere in Europe or settle in the U.S.
For me, none of these motives applied; I was there to learn a new language for its own sake. Paola, Rita, and Antonella, my first three instructors, were married to Iranians and had been living in our country for some time, raising their children here. Antonella, upon discovering that we were both religious minorities, invited me to her home regularly. The luxury building where the family lived testified to her husband’s affluence, even though she longed for Italy. She would serve me espresso from a Bialetti Moka pot while the sounds of Radio Italia blared from the kitchen.
Afshin, with whom I took my last course, had lived in Italy since he was a teenager. Now in his forties, with a slew of degrees and accolades from Italian universities, he was back in his homeland. Alongside teaching at our school and other academic institutions, he was exploring his roots anew. One day at the beginning of class, he told us about his recent trip to Yazd, one of our ancient cities and now a UNESCO World Heritage Site. He was lured by the idea of buying a villa there.
As my time at the institute was coming to an end, Antonella approached me in the courtyard one day and inquired about my plans for the future. She encouraged me to study abroad: “Gli anni passano e un giorno sarà troppo tardi per realizzare i propri sogni…” I assured her I wouldn’t let the years go by without following my dreams. “Bene, ma ricordati di continuare a parlare italiano; questa lingua appartiene sempre a te.”
Like Dorothy, I took my first step on the Yellow Brick Road.
Arriving at the promised land, I stayed true to my vow to Antonella by enrolling in a college-level Italian program. World-class professors presided over classes, but only a handful of students attended. Most had chosen foreign language classes to fulfill their Gen Ed requirements. The few who went further in the program did so mainly as a nod to their Italian heritage. Once in a blue moon, someone came along who was conscientious and dedicated enough to complete the program.
I remember reading an article in the college newspaper asserting that foreign language classes were a waste of time.
A far cry from the days of gathering with the masses behind the gates, who shed blood, sweat, and tears to qualify for a visa!
But what was missing most of all was the soul-searching and a sense of solidarity. My peers back at the institute were taking courses and making plans to immigrate as though their lives and livelihoods depended on it. Class became a confessional, a doorway to salvation. Language was instrumental in evoking a full spectrum of human emotion – from joy to despair, from doubt to certainty, from dream to reality.
I wonder where they all are now. Did their dreams come true? Did they reach their destinations? Were there any bumps or forks in the road? Were any of them left behind? Did any of those who left ever come back for a visit, or for good?
On a visit some time ago, I went to see my cousin who lived by the foothills of the mountain. The flag was barely visible from the window of her sixth-floor apartment, amid the treetops. Thirteen years had passed since my time there. It is still going strong, with the same influx of bright-eyed young people soon to join the Brain Drain club. The last time I checked the website, there was a call for students to sign up for a series of cooking classes via Zoom to improve their language skills through Italian cuisine. Buon appetito!
Peering through the iron gates all those years ago, I had thought to myself, if only I could reach the other side. Everything looked so enticing there. Like Dorothy, I was dreaming of going over the rainbow.
As for the pot of gold at the rainbow’s end, it remains to be uncovered. Sto ancora aspettando la pentola d’oro….
Gold is refined through high-temperature fire. The kind that tests your tolerance. The kind that turns your place, your familiar surroundings, your sense of belonging into ashes. The kind that forces you to venture into parts unknown.
Dorothy ventured down the Yellow Brick Road in search of her heart’s desire, only to face a moment of truth in the Land of Oz. “You’ve always had the power, my dear!”
What was supposed to manifest at the end may have existed from the outset. In a place frozen in time, somewhere among sycamore trees and marble columns, in the glassy water of a turquoise-tiled pool, where reflections of green, white, and red absorb the rays of a setting sun.