Being Naive

I’d taken leave of my senses when I stormed my boss’s office and begged for a leave-of-absence. “I want to become fluent, I must go to Italy.” To my husband I gently pleaded, “All I need is to go there, be there. I don’t want to take more classes, I just want to talk.” I knew I’d return speaking so perfectly I could honestly add to my resume, “Languages Spoken: Italian.”

My affair with the language had begun innocently enough. I’d followed a friend’s suggestion that I “get a little Italian” before visiting Italy. I never guessed the excitement ignited by the first buona sera at night school would change my life. Prepositions and Fellini films quickly invaded my afternoons and filled my weekends.

But five passion-filled years into this romance, I’m still chasing fluency like a watery mirage on a hot summer day. The closer I get, the further it moves away.

I’ve rented a room in Rome in the apartment of a friend of a friend. Yesterday I dragged my suitcase up five flights of stairs to her flat past tattooed girls lugging guitars and a young man carrying an artist’s portfolio. I’m living in a neighborhood near one of Rome’s universities.

After I’d unpacked, my new roomie-hostess guided me around our neighborhood. When we stopped for sandwiches, Marta asked the café owner what filled each panino displayed in his case. When it was my turn, all I could do was point, unable to even manage salami or prosciutto. The world of rapid-fire two-word exchanges replaced familiar classroom dialogs and I was unprepared.

Marta finished up ordering our sodas while I burned with embarrassment. After lunch she left me with an assignment before she disappeared into her daily life. Penne pasta, wine, and spinach. “You’ve shopped in Italy before, right?” she’d asked. Yes, of course I had, but after my clumsy start at lunch, I panicked.

When I stepped into the neighborhood supermercato and assessed the language difficulties, I bolted. I returned an hour later fortified by an espresso and the success at having ordered it. Groceries would be easy, I decided.

I found everything but checkout posed the problem. “Tessera? Busta?” the cashier fired at me, never looking up. I figured out that tessera was the local shoppers’ discount card. “No, non c’è l’ho,” I responded successfully. “Busta?” Each shopper asks for the number of bags they need. “Uno,” I blurted. It worked but I should have said, una, feminine, busta is feminine.

Then the cassiere hit my weakest spot, Italian numbers, “Dieci e quarantadue.” Thankfully the cash register displayed the amount: 10,42 euro. I put down eleven euro, waited for my change, and then fled.

Back in the safety of my new home, I felt like a kid after a rough time at school. I hope my first day in Rome doesn’t foreshadow my third, fourth or sixtieth day. I’ll be here chasing fluency for three more months.

About the Author: Bonnie Smetts first fell in love with Italian when she decided to take a few classes before visiting a friend who’d moved to Umbria. Five years later, she’s studied all the grammar, read stack of classics, and participated in myriad conversation groups. The time has come for her to be fluent in Italian.