(Not) Learning Italian

I’m in so far over my head. What was I thinking when I chose Rome? Instead of perfecting my Italian, I must learn a third language: the notorious Roman dialect, or romanaccio. After five years practicing to speak like an Italian newscaster, I can barely order coffee in the Eternal City.

Each day I gather my courage to face the language that chews up familiar words and spits out new ones. Even buying tomatoes requires that I run the gauntlet of this new foreign language. The first time at the grocery store, I thought the checker was hissing at me. Now I know he is politely greeting buona sera. In Roman Italian, that sounds like btssss—why bother with the other letters?

My friend Marta introduced me to her favorite trattoria near our apartment last week. Today I returned for lunch confident that the chef’s family would recognize me and help me if I got into comprehension difficulties. Navigating the supermarket is one thing but eating out is a more complicated task. In Italy, a woman having dinner alone is unusual so I’ve learned to avoid everyone’s discomfort; I enjoy a nice lunch if I’m in the mood for fine dining. But understanding the “spoken” menu is a difficulty I’ve yet to overcome.

Today I mixed up Marta’s restaurant with one that had a similar sign and I stepped into a sea of Roman businessmen. OK, I can order water and wine without a menu, I thought as my waitress seated me. I asked for a half-liter of water and a glass of Chianti. Then I realized the restaurant specialized in fish. Next to the liter of water, not the half-liter I’d ordered, my glass of red wine stood like a beacon against the white tablecloth.

When my waitress announced the day’s menu, I chose tagliatelle ai frutti di mare, the only dish I recognized from her monologue even when she repeated the list. By the time my seafood pasta arrived, the restaurant had filled and I was hearing dialect in surround sound.

Then the strangest thing happened. Like ocean fog lifting to reveal a sunny day, I understood every word being said. It had happened earlier on the bus when I overheard a grandma promising her grandson gelato, and teenage girls talking about nothing. Unfortunately, the mist had lifted on an unfamiliar port and my overloaded brain failed to recognize my neighborhood, and I’d missed my stop.

Now in the restaurant, I was eavesdropping on conversations about Pinot Grigio, harvesting tomatoes, and business difficulties in China. My senses were overloaded and I was frightened. What if I can’t find my way home? I thought.

"Il conto, per favore.” I skipped dessert and asked for the check.

Safely in my apartment, I cautiously celebrated my success at understanding—but why hadn’t anybody warned me about fluency? “Comprehension comes and goes,” they’d said. “You improve little by little,” they’d said. No one said anything about getting lost along the way. Even if they had, it’s too late because I’m in so far over my head—and I can’t wait to see where I land next.

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.