Writing’s on the Wall
I shouldn’t have been surprised by an image of Mussolini appearing out of nowhere. Appropriated for god knows what, this Shepherd Fairey-like portrait (could Il Duce be the next Andre the Giant?) on Broome Street was an awkward way of telling me that I was getting closer to the so-called old country. My teenage stomping grounds, Manhattan, and, quite literally, home. In three days I’d be on a plane, flying back to Milan.
Live anywhere long enough, and you’re bound to encounter references to it wherever you go. When I arrived in DC on Monday, my cab driver turned out to be an Eritrean from Milan. “You ever go to the Africa Restaurant?” he asked, name-checking my favorite dining spot in town. “Milano, I have lots of family there,” said the Dominican driver of the taxi I took to JFK on Friday. “Its the one place in Europe with Latinos, like here.”
These anecdotes wouldn’t mean anything if it weren’t for the fact that much of my book is dedicated to demonstrating that the distance between “here” and “there” is never quite what it seems. Even more so now, in reference to the movement of Arabs and Jews back and forth, between the Occident and Orient, between San Francisco and Tel Aviv. Perhaps its the war that makes my version of this seem so much more important.