Last year, I lived a fantasy: I spent the summer in Florence, Italy. But to the outsider, it might have seemed as if I was largely wasting my time. I didn’t go to museums. My sketchbook was untouched. I never read the history of Italy, nor mounted the stairs to the top of Florence’s famous Duomo.
No, mostly I wandered around with no idea of where I was (and no desire to know), and wished that I spoke fluent Italian. The desire to learn Italian was unexpected, the kind of desire better suited for women who travel more, women married to Italians. Be practical, I told myself after returning from my first trip to Italy, as I signed myself up for a Spanish class, thinking that I simply liked learning another language. But no. I don’t want to speak Spanish or Cantonese or any other language that I might reasonably use in the United States. I want Italian.
To that end, each day in Florence I took a bus to the local library to watch The O.C. dubbed in Italian. I know, I know. You’re already judging me for spending two months’ rent on a transcontinental airline ticket, only to watch a horrible teen melodrama, even if it did help my listening skills. But in my defense: I needed a simple plot line and dialogue, and The O.C. definitely fit the bill.
Most tourists in Italy are excited about food or shopping or Renaissance frescoes. I was excited when I realized that with a valid passport, I was allowed to use the library. Learning a language twists and turns my brain around. “Cosa hai detto?” or “What have you said?” is something I must continually interject, because even when someone says something simple, the accents are unfamiliar and everyone seems to be talking too fast.
When the listening isn’t tripping me up, the similarity of words is (volere, valere, volare are three of the worst offenders, followed by my issues with remembering dare, dire, and dovere) and then trying to figure out which pronoun to use and how many of something I’m referring to (is it “due cappuccini” or was “cappuccino” one of those exception words that doesn’t need to be modified from singular to plural? Why do I always forget something so simple?).
My biggest liability as a speaker? I am often afraid of making mistakes. In my more frustrated moments, I think to myself: if I have the capacity to remember a new word in English, then why can’t I just remember new words in Italian, string those words together in a line, and then produce a sentence, every time? Note: perfectionism and language learning non sposare bene (they don’t “marry well”). Though when I do manage to get it right, I am so puffed up with pride. In Italy, I wanted to say to the cashier, “Did you just hear that? I just spoke Italian when I bought that book. Can you believe it?”
Whenever someone told me that I spoke “Molto bene,” I could really show off and say, casually, “Me le cavo,” an idiom I picked up from Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love, which means, “I can get by.” This, I believe, makes me sound Italianissimo.
And really, I suppose, that’s what all of this language learning is about: some part of me wants to be Italian, even if I don’t fully know what that means. I have done a decent amount of travel in my lifetime, and something about Italy tugs at my heart. It’s a ‘something’ I still can’t name. It’s inclusive of, yet beyond, the usual suggestions–such as the wonderful people, the difference in how time is treated, or the natural beauty. Somehow I know that if I could be fluent in this language, I would have a fuller understanding of a country that I am inexplicably drawn to each year.
To this end, while I was still in Florence, I hired an Italian tutor—the appropriately-named Mario. At my first session, I was eager (geek!) to impress him by sharing that instead of buying imported shoes passed off as authentic Italian goods, I’d been studying, reading, listening. As we wrapped up that first session, he gave me his assessment (in English): I was “pretty good, still making mistakes, but not bad at all.”
My only problem? I wanted to go too quickly. “Piano, piano, piano,” he said, a word that literally translates as “level,” but when used in this way means: “take it one level at a time.”
But I like how I push myself. I like what it implies—a desire to inhabit a place rather than simply visit it; to be a part of something. I know that my love of Italy is not a passing infatuation. Italy presents numerous frustrations, but like an old lover, I can only be mad for about ten minutes.
It’s been more than a year since I was on Italian soil, and as July in the United States swung through again this year, I noticed myself longing, thinking each day, “This time last year I was…” I remembered the magic of coming home to my villa after dark and the fireflies that sparkled, lighting my way. I remembered the potluck dinner with toasts and wine. I remembered quiet churches, cool and inviting, and how I felt God in them. I also remembered all that was hot and sweaty and crowded and expensive, but then the day would bleed into night and the air would be cool, the crowds gone, and a new Italy presented itself. Piazzas with children. Pink clouds reflected on the Arno.
What keeps me connected, even while I’m away, is this experience of the language—to read aloud from my basic primers, to watch DVDs, to continue to take classes. Somewhere within i verbi and i prononi and le parole, I am connected by a thin thread to a place that feels like home.
Kate Swoboda is a Life Coach, teacher, and writer living in the San Francisco Bay area. In October 2010, she’ll be returning to Italy and leading a Courageous Play retreat. To register and join us in Florence, Italy, contact kate@yourcourageouslife.com . Learn more at Courageous Life.
