Pasta, wine and Jews: My trip to Italy

I don’t know what you like to do on holidays, but you can probably guess my priorities: to eat, to walk, to seek out iconic food experiences. I often try to find a Jewish connection wherever I go – the food of the Lower East Side in NYC, the “Shanghai Ghetto” in China, the Museum of Jewish History in Girona, Spain. 

I’ve just returned from Italy. The Italy I love so much: the people, the food, the culture, the art, the streets, the vibe. Did I mention the food?

I started this trip feeling more sensitive than usual. More sensitive as a Jew, more sensitive as an out and proud Zionist. I wore my ‘I’m that Jew’ cap, my ‘bring them home’ dog tag, and my yellow hostage pin pretty much everywhere I went.

I vigilantly looked for signs of virulent anti-Zionists or keffiyeh-wearing pro-Palestinian protestors; those who seem to care nothing for the Palestinians but hold everything against Israelis and Jews. I was hyper-aware at the airports, on the planes, on the ferries, everywhere I went. It’s an odd way to be, on a holiday.