There is just a certain something about Italian.
It pours like a great pumping aorta- straight from the heart. It flows with an easy passion, so that words with meanings from 'mundanity' to 'madness,' glisten seductively like gloss on plump and pretty lips. Italian words drip with a seductive promise of pleasure, winking, "I just loooong to be spoken."
There is too, a certain something about Italians. They generally seem to be having such a great time speaking- that it is impossible not to feel left out. From the in-depth and mutually-relished questions and explanations of hungry-guest-and-proud-waiter, to villagers celebrating the fruits of their labours and the many blessings of nature at festas, to folk simply shooting the breeze, on benches, in piazzas, at ristorantes everywhere.
My first trip to Italy I stood outside alone. Pockets, deep but empty- the poor kid staring in the window of the candy store. Inside there were people who seemed unafraid to speak their mind- they seemed fearless with their emotions- as if anger, desire, love, pain were actually a valid part of the big human toffee apple. As if it was safe to be themselves.
How could I not knock at the door and ask to come in?
In my first attempts to join the party, I was greeted with what I like to call the 'lick-sip-suck.' Faces contorted and frozen at that exact moment when the lemon, salt and tequila combine, pulling all the living-daylights inwards. Faces knotted, not cruelly, but in a desperate attempt to understand...
So imagine my joy when finally, having groped around in the dark with diminishing brain cells and excessive verb structures, with all the finesse of a toddler, I could finally understand and be understood! It was a joy that lasted all of three days and decreased in direct relation to how much I couldn't comprehend.
The nail in the coffin of my my joy, some what appropriately occurred at "Canada" the hardware store. "I need... I need..." I needed so much that I didn't have the names for! A drill (un trapano), paint (vernice), something for moss (muffa) and of course, a hammer and nails (un martello e i chiodi). Somehow we waded through the masculine waters of deep Umbrian hardware. Me in my heels and frills, Tony in his man-apron. It wasn't until I needed just one last thing- gesticulating furiously with fingers and thumbs, Tony's eyebrows widened. His cheeks turned red and he seemed to falter- "You don't," he said in perfect Canadian vernacular, "Speak English, by any chance do you?"
"OH YES! (Thanking God) And I really need a screw."
It pours like a great pumping aorta- straight from the heart. It flows with an easy passion, so that words with meanings from 'mundanity' to 'madness,' glisten seductively like gloss on plump and pretty lips. Italian words drip with a seductive promise of pleasure, winking, "I just loooong to be spoken."
There is too, a certain something about Italians. They generally seem to be having such a great time speaking- that it is impossible not to feel left out. From the in-depth and mutually-relished questions and explanations of hungry-guest-and-proud-waiter, to villagers celebrating the fruits of their labours and the many blessings of nature at festas, to folk simply shooting the breeze, on benches, in piazzas, at ristorantes everywhere.
My first trip to Italy I stood outside alone. Pockets, deep but empty- the poor kid staring in the window of the candy store. Inside there were people who seemed unafraid to speak their mind- they seemed fearless with their emotions- as if anger, desire, love, pain were actually a valid part of the big human toffee apple. As if it was safe to be themselves.
How could I not knock at the door and ask to come in?
In my first attempts to join the party, I was greeted with what I like to call the 'lick-sip-suck.' Faces contorted and frozen at that exact moment when the lemon, salt and tequila combine, pulling all the living-daylights inwards. Faces knotted, not cruelly, but in a desperate attempt to understand...
So imagine my joy when finally, having groped around in the dark with diminishing brain cells and excessive verb structures, with all the finesse of a toddler, I could finally understand and be understood! It was a joy that lasted all of three days and decreased in direct relation to how much I couldn't comprehend.
The nail in the coffin of my my joy, some what appropriately occurred at "Canada" the hardware store. "I need... I need..." I needed so much that I didn't have the names for! A drill (un trapano), paint (vernice), something for moss (muffa) and of course, a hammer and nails (un martello e i chiodi). Somehow we waded through the masculine waters of deep Umbrian hardware. Me in my heels and frills, Tony in his man-apron. It wasn't until I needed just one last thing- gesticulating furiously with fingers and thumbs, Tony's eyebrows widened. His cheeks turned red and he seemed to falter- "You don't," he said in perfect Canadian vernacular, "Speak English, by any chance do you?"
"OH YES! (Thanking God) And I really need a screw."
Hi Debbie,
ReplyDeleteLove your blog! You have some great stories and amazing photos. If you ever want to enter some in our contests at BarrelHopping, you can win some cash and get additional exposure to your work. Check us out when you have time and safe travels.
Hi Mike. Thank you so much for your kind words... have had a wee 'sabatacle' of sorts and am now back with bells on- I will indeed check out your site- thank you! Dx
Delete