Italy has a lot of amazing sights: the Duomo in Florence, the Leaning Tower of Pisa and the Tuscan countryside, to name a few. But there are some harder, unexpected sights that often take visitors by surprise.

When a privileged foreigner inevitably meets a less fortunate native, it forces them to do something difficult: make peace with their own privilege.

The Romani, or Gypsies, immigrated from India centuries ago, and are often stereotyped and repressed by others. That attitude, along with how different and misunderstood their culture often is, has put them in difficult situations where they are sometimes forced to beg or steal. In Italian class last semester, we were warned Gypsies would try to pickpocket us or pretend to sell us magazines at the airport while stealing our passports.

As much as I sought to avoid them, like most people do, the moment was impossible to avoid.

It was last week. I was near the Duomo, trying to connect to the Wi-Fi on my phone, when a Romani woman approached me. She didn’t speak English, but I understood she was asking for money for food. I tried to tell her I didn’t have any, but she pointed to my wallet. She said she was poor and asked for 2 euros for a sandwich.

As she stared at me, time seemed to slow down. My thoughts were defensive at first, rationalizing why I shouldn’t give her anything. This random person had abruptly and rudely approached me for my money. I wanted to rebuff her, or just walk away and not care how rude that was — anything to escape her expectant eyes.

Then I considered who we both were. This was a woman who spent every day asking people — those with the luxury of visiting other countries — for money to just buy a meal. I could never imagine the humiliation or suffering she’s had to go through in her life, or even in one day, when she may have done nothing to deserve it.

And then there was me: a middle class white male from America, wearing a 15-euro leather jacket I bought on a whim. My biggest worry was uploading a picture of it to Facebook. Most of my meals are home-cooked by a host family. I worked hard to get here, but I was fortunate to have so many opportunities to work for.

Meanwhile, all this woman’s hard work would translate to being a little less hungry. One more day where she wouldn’t be like other Romani I’ve seen, silently praying with their heads against the sidewalk, a cup by their sides and people wordlessly passing by.

Between the two of us, who’d make better use of a few euros?

So I handed them over. She smiled, nodded and left. I was there feeling confused and uncomfortable, but also a little happy.

Like everyone else, I was forced to make some kind of peace with my privilege. People do it in different ways, some good and some bad. Many simply ignore the problem. Others try to give something back through volunteering. Some are neutral, feeling awareness, but nothing else. Others are even hostile, saying it’s the Romani’s own fault for being where they are.

Regardless of what conclusion you come to, two things are certain: It’s difficult to understand your privilege and you can’t avoid a similar situation. But if you decide to visit Florence, at least now it won’t take you by surprise.

Max Antonucci is a junior newspaper and online journalism major. His column appears every Tuesday in Pulp. Visit his website at www.MaxwellAntonucci.com, find him on Twitter at @DigitalMaxToday or email him at meantonu@syr.edu.

Published on October 21, 2013 at 10:23 pm