My year or so of self-study Italian is paying off. We’re in Genova, Italy, and I’m surprised at how well I’ve done.
Now, those 7 of you who read my blog already know that I can be…well, anal precise and demanding of perfection. So learning a third language – after pretty much mastering fluency in French through high school and college and weakly succeeding with Spanish – wasn’t something I went into lightly. Especially once I knew I’d actually get a chance to use it.
The Intricacies of Language Learning
Imagine being a baby again. But having complex adult thoughts. That’s what it’s like to learn a new language. You know what you want to say (and it’s not “that’s good. That’s good.”) but don’t have the tools to say it. So you talk like a baby. That’s me in Italian.
But I don’t like to talk like a baby. I like to talk like a sophisticated European. Only I’m not. So I’ve had to be okay with that. I had to accept that I am an American tourist, and my vocabulary is limited. So I’m here, being okay with that.
Obama! Yay!
Even though Genova isn’t a major tourist city, there are several people we’ve met who speak English, which makes the whole “I don’t speak your language” situation a bit easier. Especially when you’re acting as translator for two other people (Mom and her friend).
I’m pleased as punch that I’ve managed to:
Order 2 meals (wine included)
Ask where to buy bus tickets
Buy my mother an ankle brace at a pharmacy (more on that in a minute)
When we ordered our evening gelato, the man asked where we were from. We said the US, and his reaction? “Obama! Yay!” What a weird thing for an Italian to say. I have no idea why he’d be all about Obama, but okay!
May I Measure Your Ankle?
So my mom twisted her ankle on an uneven cobblestone street, and I went to a pharmacy to get her an ankle brace. I thought I lucked out from having to explain what I needed when I saw the product on the shelf. But no.
The pharmacist said something rapidly.
Uh…parla inglese?
Not really.
I got the gist: this was a size 1. Did I need a size 1? Because you need to measure the ankle.
Well, my mom’s ankle is pretty small, so I’m sure it’ll be okay.
But you must measure it!
I hold up my ankle as an example of hers. Not good enough. He grabs his measuring tape (obviously for that purpose) and comes around the counter. And – wait for it – measures my ankle.
Aha! You need a size 3!
Okay. I need a size 3.
We don’t have one.
#%^$##
Then I convey that I’d like a wrap instead (rapid motion of my hands around my wrist). Ah, okay.
I ended up with gauze wrap, which wasn’t exactly what I wanted, but damn, he tried so hard. Mom was happy, and we all had a good laugh.