Tag: Italy

Italian: Level 1

My beloved and I made a deal before our European adventure: He would try to learn some French, and I would study Italian. This would cover us, we figured, for the month that lay ahead of us. My Italian would help us through a five day hike through the Dolomites, Venice, Cinque Terra, and Florence. Then we would head to the South of France and finally Paris, where my beloved would navigate us with his French.

Fluency felt like a fool’s errand since I was starting from scratch, so I set a goal that felt achievable: order an Americano or a bowl of pasta without sounding like a complete jackass. Every morning leading up to the trip I poured myself a large cup of coffee and settled in with my Duolingo app, the little cartoon characters cheering me along. By the time we landed in Italy, I could clumsily order food and drink.

When we started planning our return to Italy, I realized I wanted to get serious about Italian. Now that I had this foundation, I glibly told myself, what if I became fluent? The fact that I reasoned a few months of Duolingo was a foundation was already magical thinking, but the dream had taken root. I caught myself daydreaming of my newfound fluency, my head thrown back in laughter, sharing a joke with a local as I trilled along in flawless Italian.

I searched for classes at the local community college. I looked for Italian tutors. I explored small language schools. It was around this time that I read a piece by David Sedaris, where he referenced that he used Pimsleur to help him learn languages. If it’s good enough for David, I reasoned, it’s good enough for me. On that logic alone, I downloaded Pimsleur and away I went.

I would pop in my headphones and take our dog for her morning walk, zig-zagging my way through the cul-de-sac, mumbling out loud as I repeated phrases that left me wondering what in the hell was going on in Italy.

Marco: “Do you speak Italian?”
Gabriella: “A little.”
Marco: “When can we eat?”
Gabriella: “Not now.”
Marco: “Later? Can we eat together a little later?”
Gabriella: “No, not now, and not later.”
Marco: “What about ten?”

I found myself mentally chastising Marco. She said no, Marco! Leave her be! Then, a plot twist.

Gabriella: “No, I am married and will not have dinner with you.”
Marco: “You are married? Where is your husband?”
Gabriella: “He is back at the hotel.”

I thought about the people I passed by as I walked. Did they speak Italian? What must they think of this woman muttering to herself this Italian soap opera? I began questioning the Pimsleur method, and frankly, David Sedaris, but pressed on. Gabriella returned to the hotel ostensibly safe and I returned home, hoping that this would all somehow pay off.

I practiced every day, wondering to myself who was responsible for the scripting over at Pimsleur. After the, let’s call it pushy, section between Marco and Gabriella, we progressed to the section dedicated solely to asking after someone’s family. This felt like less dangerous territory to tread into, but I found myself rolling my eyes and questioning whether or not I would find any real purpose in knowing how someone’s child was, how old someone’s child was, how many grandchildren someone had, and where on earth all of these children lived currently and in the past. Where were the phrases that would get me checked into a hotel? Or the phrases that would educate me on finding the best pasta in Cefalu?

Trust the process, I chastised myself. Just keep going.

By the time we landed in Palermo, I had finished Level 1. I realized all of the conversations I had been listening to had given me the power to string together a reasonable sentence to check us in to a hotel after all. I was still patting myself on the back by the time we hit the street on the hunt for Real. Italian. Pasta. We made our way to a highly lauded ristorante promising molto autentico Sicilian cuisine. We walked in and, discovering that no one spoke English, I realized that this was it, this was my moment.

I cobbled together words for “Table” and “for two”, undoubtedly from the section with Marco and Gabriella, and was pleased when the woman responded kindly. After ordering, I noticed an older gentleman hovering around our table. As soon as I made eye contact he rushed over to check on us. As it turned out, this was the owner of the restaurant, and the woman who sat us, his adult daughter. And here it was, Pimsleur in all their glory coming through for me.

“How many children do you have?” I asked, my memorized lines from Pimsleur flooding back. His eyes lit up and he smiled as he told me he had three children, and six grandchildren. Then he proceeded to show me pictures of everyone. When I asked where everyone lived, both past and present, he answered with delight. Eventually he drifted away and we enjoyed our pasta and seafood, my eyes wide staring at my beloved. “Well I’ll be damned. Pimsleur worked.”

We are currently planning our next trip. This time we will be five weeks in Spain and I have again turned to Pimsleur for help. Now as I waltz the streets with my dog on her leash, muttering phrases about needing to work hard, I feel confident that someday soon I will be in a conversation and think: Well I’ll be damned. Pimsleur worked.

Sick in Sicily

“It says there is an ER not far from here.” I was looking at my phone just after midnight, my husband laying next to me, ashen. My beloved had been vomiting for two days, and my trips to the Farmacia to purchase electroliti had seemed fruitless.

We were in our second night of tossing and turning, punctuated by mad dashes to the bathroom, when I finally put my foot down: we need to go to the ER. At the very least, I reasoned, there would be IV fluids. We threw some clothes on and this was how I found myself racing through the ancient city of Ragusa just after midnight, winding through the cobblestone streets which were clearly not designed for cars.

It all started two nights before, after staying in the World’s Most Charming Farm Stay (TM) in Agrigento. Every evening we drank dry red Sicilian wine, petting the farm cats and wandering through the gardens as the heavy yellow sun dropped behind the fields. This, we thought, was a holiday.

When we ate at a restaurant that promised true Sicilian Pizza, we were not let down. It was an Italian vision: beautiful local salami topped with farm fresh arugula, tomatoes so fresh they burst in your mouth, olives brined just down the street, salty and perfect, all atop a thin crisp crust, bubbled from the wood-fired oven.

We had so much left over it seemed a waste to leave it on the table, so we packed it up and threw it in the small fridge at our farm stay. The next morning we faced Questionable Choice Number One: What do we do with all this leftover pizza? My beloved determined that the pizza, barely cooled from our mildly functioning fridge, must come with. A snack for later, he reasoned, and I shrugged as he threw it on the floor of our small Fiat 500.

The next two hours we drove through the scorching hot countryside, when we approached Questionable Choice Number Two. Pulled on the side of the road to breathe in the rolling countryside, my beloved reached for the pizza.

I eyed it suspiciously, the arugula now badly wilted and the salami glistening with beads of meat sweat. “Hmm,” I said, standing on the side of the road as my husband lifted the piece to his mouth, “That looks…maybe…bad?” He shrugged me off and offered me a bite. I shook my head, reasoning that I was saving myself for more Arancini down the road.

These two questionable choices was what had led us here, to the grim healthcare system that is rural Sicily. Gurneys lined the waiting room, the rest of the space empty save for a handful of chairs, a low flickering neon light, and walls that appeared to be crumbling around us.

Hours passed and finally we felt our fate was about to change. Our name was called and we were led to a gurney, where a woman, who presumably was the doctor, began examining my beloved.

I had been studying Italian for the past two years, but here everything I knew slipped from my brain. I realized I was out of my league.

He has been vomiting for two days, I punched into Google translate.

The doctor took my phone, tapping her response, and so it went, back and forth, a stilted modern note passing.

Has he had Covid? She typed back to me. I shook my head. She stared at me for a beat.

Never? She seemed dumbfounded.

On that, she spun on her heels and we were led out the waiting room, outside to a portable building, where a nurse broke the news through our app: You are in quarantine until your Covid test comes back. We looked at each other confused – he had already been given a Covid test? I asked through Google translate, grateful the app could take the sting out of my delivery.

A different Covid test. We were shepherded to a new area, and, alone at last, we curled up on the gurney together and slept, our Italian holiday in first class accommodations.

Several hours later we discovered my beloved did not have Covid. There were no IVs, no fluids, no offers of food or nourishment. After another few hours of waiting to be dismissed, we left the ER to the warm Sicilian sun, my beloved willing himself better so we might continue our magical holiday.