Learning To Chat

One day last week, a rainy day that had followed another and another and another, I greeted our doorman Mario and then I ventured, “Finisce mai questa pioggia?” Will this rain ever end?

I’d been avoiding Mario since my arrival a month before. My first day in Rome, the ruggedly handsome portiere had accompanied me up the elevator to meet Marta, the friend of a friend who’d agreed to have me as roommate during my campaign to become fluent while living in Italy. He and I had chatted. Or rather, Mario chatted and I pretended to understand his Roman accent. When he asked me a question, he inadvertently called my bluff and I had to ask him to repeat himself.

“Dimmi, ancora una volta, per favore,” I’d said, mortified the moment the words escaped from my mouth. I’d not only ordered Mario to repeat himself using the informal form of the imperative, I’d used the wrong phrase. I should have said, “Mr. Mario can you please repeat that again please.” Può ripetere? At least I’d said please.

My second day, I’d turned the hot water spigot in the kitchen and all the lights in our apartment went out. As the temperature fell, I had frantically searched behind curtains and in closets and found nothing. I had no choice but to face Mario, again.

I ransacked my brain for an Italian explanation of how I’d tripped the circuit breaker as I ran down the five flights of stairs. I dragged him back up the stairs not realizing until we passed a neighbor, who joked that Mario needed to go to the gym more often, that he never took the stairs.

That day, Mario caught his breath and then graciously found and reset the circuit breaker, but after that, I scurried past him as he sorted the mail at our building’s entrance or chatted with neighbors on the sidewalk out front. I never risked more than buon giorno.

But each time I passed him, I regretted the lost opportunities to chat, to do what I’d come to Italy to do. So last week, one month into my must-speak-fluently experiment, I took a chance and asked Mario about the rain.

Mario had laughed, my question unleashing his pent-up friendliness. Out came everything I ever wanted to know about Rome’s weather. Each day since, I’ve ventured further into the subject of rain and each day, he’s responded with more rapid-fire exchanges.

Yesterday, a blindingly sunny day, I left our building and spotted Mario on the corner deep in conversation with a neighbor. I nodded hello as I walked past.

Over my shoulder I heard, “Finalmente, c’è il sole. Per lei.”

Even with my back turned, I understood that he was speaking to me. “The sun is here, the sun is here for you.” I not only understood his words, I understood the sun was a topic for only us.

The sun has finally arrived and so have I.

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.