Immersing Myself

Immersion, immersion, immersion. Every language teacher chants the same mantra. After mastering grammar, they say, immerse yourself in the land of your new tongue and you will emerge fluent.

Two months ago I took the plunge in Rome and, while I’m not yet fluent, my days are lined with successes. Last week, the UPS outlet not only understood I wanted to send home my winter clothes but also the reason for my questions about shipping regulations. Alcohol? Yes, I responded. No problem, we can wrap (hide) it, they assured me. No problem also at the wine shop where I bought the grappa I wanted to send. The shopkeeper laughed when I asked for something in a short bottle. Ah, for sending home?

The same day, success followed me to the grocery store when I handed the clerk exact change, ventisette e settantaquattro centesimi, 27 euro and 74 cents. I understood the Italian numbers without looking at the cash register’s display.

But the immersion mantra hides certain dangers.

Yesterday morning I was drifting between sleep and dreams when I heard a voice in my head, “Who are you, who have you become?” Panic rippled through my body and I sat up. What was that? Did I really hear a voice?

I got out of bed and once under the warm shower, I relaxed. That was, until I saw my skin flaking off as I washed—first a little, then a lot. A few days earlier, I’d bought lavender–scented lotion to replace what I’d brought from home. Now I was losing my skin.

Well, maybe this is good, I thought as I rinsed. Maybe I am becoming someone new.

But that afternoon, I gasped when sunlight fell on my arm. My skin was as dry as old leather, as parched and cracked as an elephant’s hide. More lotion, more lotion, I ran for the bottle.

After I anointed my arms, I squinted at the instructions. I reread the front of the bottle. Lavanda. I got out my Italian dictionary. I knew lavanda meant lavender but I hadn’t known it also meant washing, as in washing lotion. Use the tiniest drop, I read on the label for the first time. Then, rinse thoroughly. Instead of buying a lavender–scented moisturizer, I’d bought a cleanser meant to remove dead skin. To make matters worse, I’d been lathering it on several times a day.

I was immersed all right but I don’t think this is what my Italian teachers had in mind.

Frightened that I’d done permanent damage, I gathered my courage to consult the farmacista. Can you recommend something for dry skin? I asked. You know, this winter has been so cold, it’s gone on so long, the water’s so hard, the heater’s so hot, my skin’s so...Lavender? No, actually, do you have something else—anything else?

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.