Don’t Microwave the Water: Notes from an Italian in the UK

A few days ago, back in Italy for reading week, I was at the supermarket when I bumped into a lady. The first thing that came out of my mouth was “sorry,” in English, instead of Italian, and she gave me a rather puzzled look. She probably thought it was some sort of affectation. I was a little surprised myself. I was born and raised in Italy, always living in the same place, and until I moved to St Andrews, my language had been exclusively Italian. Yet now, every time I come home, English slips into my everyday speech. Or daily habits, like when, at six in the evening, I ask my mum when dinner will be ready, and she stares back at me, confused. Something has changed, and it’s deeper than it seems.

There are worlds I’ve experienced almost entirely in English. All my twenties so far have been spent in the UK. So many of my firsts have happened here. Academia, of course, but also the language of adulthood: living alone, paying bills, doing the shopping, and surviving flat inspections. Even, somewhat ironically for an Italian, the language of love has become English. My first real relationship was with an English boy, and whenever I try to explain to my Italian friends how it went and how it ended, I often find myself speechless in my own language. It sounds silly to write, but it can be oddly unsettling. In Scotland, I’ve now lived through as many cornerstones of my life as I have in Italy.

My personality has changed too. Of course, part of it comes from the fact that I was nineteen when I moved to St Andrews, and a lot has happened since then. But I often wonder how much of that change has been shaped by culture. I see myself as a little more reserved now, and even if I’ll never quite get used to British puns and sarcasm (it’s quite blood-chilling), I’ve become familiar with their turns of phrase. My friends back home were visibly annoyed when, during a gossip session, I translated “It’s definitely a choice” into Italian. One of them rolled her eyes: “Could you just say what you actually think?” Fair enough.

I’m not particularly British either. At St Andrews, I once found myself discussing with some friends how to make tea. “It’s not that I don’t have a teapot in Italy,” I said, “I just don’t know where it is. I just put the water in the microwave.” They looked shocked. “That’s horrifying, you have to stop right now.” I shrugged. “It’s not that serious. It works.” “Carla,” one of them said, “that’s like me breaking spaghetti before putting them in the pot.” I paused. “Good point.”

As I said, nothing of what I have experienced so far makes me British, any more than eating a plate of tomato pasta makes a British person Italian. Yet something in my daily life has shifted — a blending of habits that makes me afraid of the idea of leaving it behind. I’ve built a life here, one I truly love. Being a fourth-year student in the process of applying for Master’s programmes around the world, I have no idea where I’ll be in a few months from now. And what frightens me isn’t only the unknown, but also the thought of losing a world that, for years, has felt like mine. Especially now, with new visa rules, staying in the UK seems increasingly difficult. After years spent adapting and discovering a new way of living, I have to admit it makes me sad.

The question naturally arises: where do I really belong? What place is truly mine? I don’t know. Not yet. But I know that everything I’ve learned here, and everyone I’ve met, has become part of who I am.

I’m writing this article from my childhood bedroom here in Italy, with a steaming cup of mint tea beside me. Yes, I’ve heated the water in the microwave again. I can’t help but laugh thinking of my friends, of that other life I’ll return to in a few days, and of how much I unexpectedly miss it every time I’m away. I make a note to myself: tomorrow, I’ll finally look for that damned teapot.

Illustration by Isabelle Holloway