CHAPTER 3

Moving to Italy and the US: Cultural Immersion as a Gateway to Self-Discovery

The streets of Milan were nothing like the ones I’d known in Shanghai. They were narrower, cobblestone paths that twisted through centuries-old buildings. It felt like every corner I turned led to another piece of history, another story etched into the stones beneath my feet. But despite the city's undeniable beauty, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being out of place, like a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit.

My first few weeks in Italy were disorienting. The language barrier was a wall I constantly bumped into, and even the simplest tasks—ordering coffee, asking for directions—felt like insurmountable challenges. The Italian I had studied in preparation for this move seemed woefully inadequate in the face of rapid-fire conversations that left me nodding along, hoping I hadn’t agreed to something embarrassing. One afternoon, as I wandered through a local market, I was struck by the vibrancy around me. The market was alive with colors, sounds, and smells that were both intoxicating and overwhelming. The vendors shouted cheerfully to customers, their words a blur of musical syllables. I watched as an elderly woman, her skin weathered by years of sun, handed a child a piece of fruit with a smile that spoke of warmth and familiarity. There was an ease in the way people interacted, a flow that I longed to be a part of but couldn’t quite grasp.

In Shanghai, life had always been about efficiency, about getting from point A to point B as quickly as possible. But here, in this bustling market, time seemed to slow down. People lingered, not just to complete a transaction but to connect. The pace of life was different, more deliberate, more focused on the experience than the outcome. I felt like an outsider looking in, desperately wanting to understand, to belong.

It was in this market that I first encountered Signora Bertolucci, a woman who would unknowingly become my first teacher in cultural humility. She was a regular fixture at the market, selling the freshest produce from her small farm just outside the city. Her stand was always busy, customers drawn not just by the quality of her goods but by the warmth of her presence. One day, after watching me struggle to communicate with another vendor, she waved me over with a smile.

“Ragazzo, vieni qui! (Boy, come here!)” she called out, her voice carrying over the noise of the market.

I hesitated for a moment, then made my way to her stand. She handed me a peach, its skin golden and blushing with ripeness. “Assaggia (Taste),” she said, urging me to try it. As I bit into the fruit, the sweet juice running down my chin, she began to speak—slowly, clearly, as if she knew that I needed the extra time to process each word. She asked me where I was from, how I was finding Italy, and if I missed home. There was no judgment in her questions, only curiosity, a genuine interest in who I was and what had brought me to her city.

Over the next few weeks, I made a habit of visiting her stand, using our conversations as a way to practice my Italian. But more than that, I began to see her as a window into a different way of living. Signora Bertolucci had lived in Milan her entire life, yet her world was anything but small. She had an expansive view of life, one that embraced the old and the new, the familiar and the foreign. Her stand was a meeting place, where people from all walks of life came together, sharing stories as they shopped for their daily bread.

One day, as we were talking, I mentioned how difficult I was finding the adjustment to life in Italy. I told her how I missed the efficiency of Shanghai, the predictability of my routines there. She listened quietly, her hands busy arranging baskets of tomatoes, and then she said something that stayed with me.

“Ti stai preoccupando troppo di fare le cose bene, ma qui impariamo a fare le cose con il cuore. (You’re too worried about doing things right, but here we learn to do things with the heart.)”

Her words struck a chord deep within me. I realized that I had been approaching Italy—and my place in it—through the lens of what I already knew, trying to force the city to fit into my existing framework rather than allowing myself to be reshaped by it. I had been clinging to the familiar, resisting the very changes that could help me grow. Signora Bertolucci taught me that cultural immersion isn’t just about learning a new language or following local customs; it’s about letting go of the need to control and allowing yourself to be transformed by the experience. It’s about humility, about recognizing that you don’t have all the answers and that there is a wealth of wisdom to be gained by simply listening, observing, and participating in the life around you.

As the weeks turned into months, I began to embrace this new mindset. I stopped worrying about whether I was doing things the “right” way and started focusing on doing them with heart. I allowed myself to get lost in the winding streets of Milan, to linger over meals with new friends, to savor the moments of connection that slowly began to accumulate. It was during this time that I stumbled upon one of Italy’s greatest lessons: the paradox of time. In Shanghai, time had always been a resource to be managed, something that slipped through your fingers if you weren’t careful. But in Italy, I discovered that time could be elastic, that it could stretch to accommodate the richness of experience. I learned that productivity wasn’t just about efficiency—it was about being present, about fully engaging with whatever you were doing, whether that was studying for an exam or simply enjoying a conversation over coffee.

One evening, as I sat in a small café, sipping an espresso and watching the world go by, I realized just how much I had changed. The city that had once felt so foreign was beginning to feel like home, not because I had mastered its language or customs, but because I had allowed it to change me. I had learned to embrace the paradoxes that Italy presented—the balance of work and play, the blend of tradition and innovation, the way people could move slowly but live fully.

It wasn’t just my perspective on Italy that had shifted; it was my perspective on myself. The cultural immersion I had experienced wasn’t just an external journey—it was an internal one. By stepping out of the familiar, I had been forced to confront my own limitations, my own assumptions about what it meant to live a good life. I began to see that the rigid expectations I had held onto so tightly were not universal truths but constructs that could be reshaped, redefined.

This process of self-discovery didn’t end when I left Italy. It continued as I moved to the United States, where the cultural landscape was yet again different, yet again challenging. But this time, I was prepared. I knew that the key to adapting wasn’t in clinging to what I knew, but in remaining open to what I didn’t. I had learned that every culture has its own wisdom, its own way of navigating the world, and that true growth comes from allowing yourself to be shaped by these diverse perspectives.

At UC Berkeley, this openness led me to explore interdisciplinary studies, combining computer science, economics, and business administration. Just as I had learned to navigate the paradoxes of life in Italy, I began to see the value in integrating different fields of knowledge, in embracing the complexity and richness that comes from thinking across boundaries. The lessons I had learned in Milan—the importance of humility, the power of embracing paradoxes, and the value of doing things with heart—became the foundation for my intellectual pursuits at Berkeley.

Looking back, I realize that the most profound transformation I underwent in Italy wasn’t linguistic or cultural—it was personal. It was the discovery that to truly understand the world, and to truly understand myself, I needed to be willing to let go of preconceived notions and embrace the unknown. Italy taught me that the world is a vast, intricate tapestry of experiences, each one offering a unique thread that, when woven together, creates the fabric of who we are.

As I continue my journey, I carry these lessons with me. I know that every new place I visit, every new culture I encounter, will offer its own challenges and its own opportunities for growth. And I welcome them, not with the desire to conquer or to fit in, but with the understanding that each experience is a gateway to a deeper understanding of myself and the world around me.