Firenze: French Lessons II / Lezioni di francese II

The sun shone bright blocks onto the uneven flagstones of Via della Colonna. I pedaled my bike as fast and as carefully as I could, trying to not chip my teeth as the bumpy ride got the better of me. I was late.

Borgo Pinti, courtesy of Google Images.

Left on Borgo Pinti, down its dark curve, the equivalent of an urban glade. Right on Sant’Egidio, squeezed between ATAF buses, past paninoteche and L’ospedale Santa Maria Nuova where Jason took me last year about this time on a Sunday afternoon, when I had bronchitis. All the way down, the street changes names a few times, until I arrived at San Lorenzo, its unfinished and rough facade hulking over tourists and cheap shoe shops. A quick serpentine through the new barricades that the city has set up in critical places, to guard, as they can, against the current truck-ramming terrorist threat. Around the back of San Lorenzo, past the Capella Medicea, right on Amorino, and parked in a small space front of the New Caffe.

I know this route well because it is how I bike home from St. James Episcopal on Via Rucellai.

Rachael was hanging out the gallery door on Via dell’Amorino, smoking and holding her phone in the other hand.
“Salut, bonjour! I called you and sent you a message,” she waved.
I apologized and said I had been stuck behind buses in a sentence I had just rehearsed about ten times.
We went in to the gallery and back to her small classroom. Her partner came in, and walked back to his workshop, where his art seems focused on huge paintings featuring sexy anime women in futuristic red and blue swimsuits.
I whistled him a friendly “Saluuuut!”
Rachael’s eyes widened. “Your pronunciation is better than I realized!”
That is probably a word I said one zillion times in Strasbourg, I thought. Mais merci.

She was super-prepared and had created a number of handouts for me in the service of reeducating and reawakening my emotions in French. A week had gone by since the nervous first class, and I had re-centered and refocused my attention on my goals at hand.

Have fun, enjoy a language. Roll around in a language that I have, at one point, felt more or less comfortable in. In which I was proficient. Take the focus of off Italian – it is fine. Strike the target by focusing on the periphery.

And yet over the past week, excavating my layer of language learning, and brushing off dirt, I realized something I had not seen before.
The Spanish accent and vowels are closer to Italian. There is lexical overlap. Certainly.
But French grammar lines up much more tightly with Italian. There is an almost 1:1 relationship. The verbs, the past participles, wow – how did I not see this?

In my anxiety last year, I was reaching for LL1 (my first learned language – Spanish), when I would have been better served reaching for LL2 (the second – French) to assist my LL3 (Italian).

Never mind the brainwreck.

Also, Americans quickly equate Italian with Spanish, because Spanish is our far more common reference. Not that many Americans have a working knowledge of French anymore, selon moi. It is generational. French language learning was ascendant after WWII, the Marshall Plan, and the endless advocacy of Jackie Kennedy, charming Charles de Gaulle on state visits with her handsome, linguistically hapless husband.

But wait! I think I do have some French in here – let me just get it out of this back closet.
Wow – there is so much more French here than I’d remembered. And it totally wants to come out and play.

“T’as fait le devoir?” Rachael hopped to it. Had I done my homework?
“Oui, je l’ai fait.” Yes, I did it.
We got out my cahier (notebook) and she took the cap off of her dry erase marker, standing at her board.
Okay, emotions, let’s do this. Let’s reeducate.
Five basic emotions: happiness, sadness, disgust, fear, anger. These were taken to represent broader categories into which all human feelings fit on a sliding scale.

Ambitious. I like it. A very French exercise, so much culture in one hour. Pascalian in scope and content.
We covered anger, sadness, and happiness.

Mon cahier

All human feelings were examined for intensity, judged, and placed on an echelle (scale) on the whiteboard, from weakest to strongest.
We discussed how emotions create feelings, which are progressed emotions and thoughts about emotions, which can give rise to further feelings.
I took notes at high speed, scribbling a few words and expressions that I had not heard in decades. They sounded like old friends in the back room off a poorly lit pub. I loved it.
“Cette conversation me semble presque bouddhiste,” I said. This seems almost Buddhist to me.

A smile curled around her cheek.
“You are my most advanced student,” she said, “and I think I will also learn from you.”
I flushed, clearly hungry for any positive feedback for a language not my own that seems to be originating from me.
“C’est possible,” I said. Don’t get your hopes up, Paris, and thank you for teaching to my level.
She took a hilarious call from her mother. Les meres sont les memes partout, I said. She laughed and agreed.
Tomorrow we are going to debate universal income and the necessity of work to be happy. I’ll need to look up a few words, but this is entertaining.
With my goal at the periphery, I see the target more clearly than ever.
Gotta mix it up.

Firenze: French Lessons / Lezioni di francese

About a month ago, I decided that my time of intensive Italian language learning in student mode had run its course. All Italian, all the time: my brain, initially whetted by the grammatical explanations and structured conversations, had naturally transitioned to a feeling of relative calm as I moved about my business in centro. In that sense, the Italian language classes did their job: my twenty weeks of the language student masquerade had paid off.

My Spanish seems to have gone on a permanent hiatus, camouflaged among the forest of Italian trees through which I daily pick my way. It has melted seamlessly into Italian, informing my current options and accent, and providing a solid base. Yet when I am approached by Spanish speakers here, it is only Italian that comes out.

The human brain has no switch. It is organic, as is the communication it creates and attends to. If I try to steer my brain back to Spanish, the brain tacks back to Italian. There are worse linguistic fates. Thirteen years of school Spanish and living abroad were not erased, but rather transformed.

It has become clearer to me how language learning is most rapid when used daily. It is one thing to “learn” a language, but quite another to use it each day in the locale where it naturally thrives. This is why, and I am sorry to bring it up, Rosetta Stone drives me crazy. They cannot place you in Country X to learn language X. Yes, they can bombard you with conversations and touch-screen balloons and  Elmo-app-like videos, but at the end of the day, you are situated in Country Y trying to learn Language X. And that in itself certainly has its merits, giving your brain a nice workout and fracturing your perspective in new and interesting ways, perhaps. But it is not going to make you wake up one day, suddenly fluent in Italian.

For me, formal language learning has always been very relaxing. I started learning languages so long ago that a part of me just loves to be in language class. It’s how some people like to do crossword puzzles, or sudoku. Show me some conjugations, discuss the theory of representing time, correct my pronunciation, have a little conversation. It’s a bit like free-form, 4-D crossword puzzles.

It was with this in mind that a Facebook post piqued my interest on day – “French lessons, in group or private.” I contacted the woman offering them, and, after a few long chats, we agreed to meet. Her partner owns and runs an art gallery in San Lorenzo, where she keeps a small classroom.

We met at the News Caffe, her regular coffee spot, and talked a bit outside on the terrazza, which faced the Medici Chapel and was very loud and full of exhaust fumes. She lit up, and looked closely at me as she exhaled.

Capella Medicea

We chatted in French. Halting, at times, granted. But there it was, waiving its tricolore! Rachel was clearly very cosmopolitan, creative, well-traveled. New York, Morocco, from Paris – now in Italy.

We progressed to her classroom where she completed her assessment of my French skills. She seemed to have a solid plan for me. I assured her that I had no professional motives at present to work on my French, just personal ones. I just wanted to work on a language other than Italian, for a bit. Take the focus of Italian. Enjoy another mind for a bit.

I have been thinking about it a lot in the week since our first lesson, but one thing that French gave me was a sense of solid personal boundaries. French taught me how to be less obsequious. Don’t feel like smiling? Fine, don’t smile. You don’t know that person on the bus or the sidewalk; you owe them nothing. Don’t like something? Walk away. Want something? Obtain it. When I was a student in Strasbourg, it highlighted my executive function like nothing else. Additionally, it gave me a stronger sense of self, probably due to those reinforced personal boundaries. I felt more precise and clear-headed in French. There was a social model of thought and comportment to which I aspired. I felt like up to that point, I had been bizarrely spontaneous. France helped me understand how to decide how to be, and how to decide what to say.

Rachel’s instruction emphasized these same points. Uncanny.
“Tell me a story about something that happened in the past,” she said. “Tell me about when you became a mother.”
I fumbled. I had Victor when I was 37, and Eleanor at 41. They were born in the same hospital.
“I promise, I used to know these words,” I apologized.
“I know,” she said. “But you are simply reciting facts. Did you not have feelings about these events?”
Suddenly every feeling I had had in the years before we had Victor came to the surface. I felt strangely transported, and sad. What was this, a hypnosis session? Using my third language to discuss events previously only reviewed and related in my first language (longing, loss) scraped my heart down to the ground again. I blinked back tears. She did not notice how flushed I was.

How I felt
trying to explain something very traumatic to someone I had just met,
in her first language, my third.

“Let’s make a list of emotions and feelings.” She was into it, at her whiteboard, holding a marker. “Sadness, anger, happiness.”
I struggled to come up with relevant vocabulary. I could tell she was re-estimating my proficiency.
“I am sorry,” I said again. “My French is very rusty.” Maybe we could talk about something less emotionally fraught, like the buses I used to take around Strasbourg, or the places I’d been to in France.
“Well,” she said briskly, “let’s take, as a task, the reeducation of your feelings in French. You must think about how the words you use create an image in my mind. Did you think of that?”

Actually, er, no, I hadn’t thought of what words were in your mind, because I know you are French and all these words are currently in your mind, while they are not at all in my mind.

I was getting major French flashbacks. French confidence. There is nothing like it.

“Did I tell you I have published two novels?” she asked me.
I shook my head non. But I liked this fact.
I also liked the classroom in the art gallery, and this cheery, confident Parisian. I liked excavating my French, and feeling safely off-balance and uncomfortable.

I have my next class tomorrow morning, and have made my list of emotions versus feelings for our Pascalian discussion.

Firenze: Linguistic Journeys, or the Periphery of Fluency

I have been hitting some major milestones in Italy with respect to language. I am modestly proud of my progress, challenged as it is now in midlife in ways that it was not when I was a university student.

In the early and mid-nineties, my main occupation abroad was to attend class on host campuses, pick up vocab, monitor hot-spots to be seen in, crush on cute foreign boys, read literature in other languages, journal, travel, and puzzle over train timetables.

Now, I juggle language learning with parenting, diaper changing, working full-time, battling sleep deprivation, monitoring sick children, solo parenting while Jason is away, and constantly moving pieces around on our logistics board to make sure that everyone is where they need to be at the right time with the support they need. Language learning is now done quickly, in concentration, with no time for nonsense.

And, as many Italians have helpfully pointed out, my full-time remote work for my US employer is doing little to further acclimate me culturally and linguistically. I live in a little bubble of English that is punctuated by drive-bys in Italian at stores, caffes, and on the street. I am frequently rattled from my anglophone reverie by a sudden volley of Italian, and lurch as I struggle to quickly shift gears. When the kids come home we speak more Italian as they are being well-conditioned by the Italian education system, and to be fair, I leverage their language often in the service of improving mine as their vernacular is excellent and perfectly deployed.

I completed five months of Italian language class in the Sprachcaffe, and they were helpful hours of instruction, especially to benchmark myself against other Italian language learners who are not, well, Italian people, or my gifted husband.

I irrationally hoped that I would wake up one morning speaking fluent Italian, like those Rosetta Stone commercials we so openly mock, or that Facebook clickbait that has been going around lately. Intellectually I know this to be a hopeless wish, and yet emotionally I cling to it. (Clearly this is a marketing position for Rosetta Stone products.)

Jason and I have been students, at one point or another, of at least 25 languages between the two of us (not to brag, merely stating facts), and we are nothing if not realistic about the human capacity to learn and correctly use acquired language. There is no download, no tiny chip to slip in and launch.

Linguistic fluency is a continuum along which all language learners travel. We find ourselves on various points of the spectrum for reasons that are by turns clear, then obscure. Cultural fluency is equally important – it is not simply learning words and concepts, but know when and how to properly use them. For example, buon proseguimento, which in Italian might be best translated with the British “carry on, then,” does not really exist in English. In English we wish people good luck a lot, and tell them goodbye, but do not have a term for “I hope you enjoy the remainder of whatever you are doing now.” Frankly, I don’t know an equivalent for it in French or Spanish either.

Italians like to wish each other a “buon/a [cosa]”, which in Spanish or French to me seems limited to greetings demarcated by the time of day. In Italian you can be wished a happy anything. They love it. Buon asilo (day at daycare), pausa (break), appuntamento (appointment), pranzo (lunch), and so on. (Funny side note, perhaps it was more a function of life phase, but in Spain I remembered a similar use of puto/a + noun, for the adjectival f*cking.)

But I digress. I wanted to say here how I am going to leave Italian to the side for a moment, and appreciate it as The Water I Swim In and less the Language I Am Learning. I can get very intense about things, which comes as no surprise to anyone who even remotely knows me or both intense sides of my family.

I have met my milestones in the form of soloing a parent/teacher meeting with Victor’s new first grade teacher, Maestra Alessandra, which I navigated with relative calm and used culturally and grammatically appropriate markers of respect by addressing her consistently as Lei with the third person singular conjugation. She complemented me on my Italian! And she is a teacher by trade!

I completed a few business calls last week entirely in Italian as I contacted and preliminarily interviewed childcare help for newly arrived friends of ours, and one of them complemented me on my Italian. On the phone! In the moment!

I am less nervous now communicating in businesses and when getting things done. (Our friend Susan always claims I receive the Vivacious Cute Girl discount at Italian businesses.) I hate feeling awkward, but I don’t feel like I am going to be ticketed and deported for Substandard Communication. So I’ll chalk all those up and call it success.

My next little language project starts on Friday morning. Yes, I am headed back to French language with weekly private lessons from a Parisian in centro, an artist in a studio in San Lorenzo. Why not expand on a language I was once at ease in? Why not enjoy stored expertise? It will be a relief to inventory my French magasin with a native speaker

It’s all in there. I sense it lurking behind the scenes, like a stagehand dressed in black moving props between acts. It bubbles up quickly when I bump into lost French tourists in town. I could not have imagined in 1996 that French – French! – would come to feel like an old friend. Perhaps if I change my focus, and put Italian on the periphery of my linguistic gaze, it will come more easily, like when you get a hole in one at mini-golf because you weren’t really paying attention to what you were doing or where you were aiming.

An obvious overlap exists, so it’s not like taking up a completely new non-Romance language (although I would never say no to that either.) When my brain defaults to Spanish and French while punting in Italian, it is not to brag. Rather, like a rock climber, my brain is grasping and clinging to whatever clefts it can find in that sheer face.

It is really, really hard to visualize che instead of que. When I hear Italian che, I see Spanish que in my mind. I am not trying to; I am just so conditioned by years and years of instruction, living, and travel in French (since 1993) and Spanish (since 1983). I do not reach for a specific language; they just bleed into each other. Language, I am learning again in mid
life, is not a new app to download, but rather hues and shades to mix from the palette at hand.

Next topics: Language as Software; How To Quickly Feel at Home

The Sprachcaffè

Thanks to everyone who responded and commented with your suggestions about how I might best address my Italian language issues.

Realizing that I rent office space from a private language school in Firenze, yesterday when I arrived I asked their front desk how I might become a student. Iris and Lara were at the front. I have to say that, at this point, I know all the staff at the Sprachcaffè fairly well, and have puzzled out their names, relative job descriptions, and minor personal histories. They are all always very cordial with me.

A placement exam and rate sheet were whipped out from underneath the counter before I could even finish saying “diventare studentessa.” The placement exam was an old-school paper exam of 80 multiple choice questions. I took it back to my desk and completed it. At the top, a single line was reserved for “languages studied.” I faithfully listed English, Spanish, French, Latin … Di più…

I brought the exam back. The front staff found this turn in events, I think, somewhat interesting. I have been a bit of an anomaly now for four months and more in their salotto. Lara said my exam would be marked, and then Lorenzo, their senior faculty, would meet with me.

The Sprachcaffè is a for-profit school and are clearly accustomed to walk-ins who wish to take placement exams and who must then be quickly placed. Minutes later, Lorenzo materialized and said he would be with me shortly.

“So, here’s your exam,” he said. I had scored a 40 out of 80, which is about what I feel like most days in Italian. “Have you ever taken Italian?”
“No,” I said.
“But you speak Spanish and French? How many years did you take?”
I’ve long since lost count of how many years I spent in Spanish class, off and on, between 1983 and 2008. “Mmmm quindici anni?” I guessed. “And a masters degree.”
“Molto bene,” Lorenzo noddied, stroking his chin. “E francese?”
“Tre anni,” I said, “e un anno …in Strasburgo… en faisant une maîtrise en letters modernes à l’université là.” I lapsed into French.
He looked at me closely. “And never any Italian?”
“Mai,” I said.
“This is very interesting. I do not know if we have a class for you.”
Oh please have a class for me, I whined internally.
“Because your errors are very random. Some very easy questions you missed, and some very difficult questions you got right.”
“My errors all come from Spanish and French,” I admitted.
“No, no,” Lorenzo exclaimed, “Spanish and French are also your friends in this. Especially French, which is not simply a friend, but a cousin! a brother! twins!”

As we continued to talk, he gently pointed out the things that I said in Italian that were borrowed too earnestly from Spanish or French. Loans I did not even realize, because I am usually thinking two steps ahead and grabbing whatever is on the shelves as I barrel down the aisles in Italian. 

It’s like I have a jigsaw puzzle in a box, and some random pieces are missing – quite a few, really – and I don’t know which ones they are until I build the puzzle. Is it a border piece? A corner piece? Some huge chunk of sky? Who knows. Maybe, as has happened before with us, I have a thrift store puzzle with a picture of a lighthouse on it but it’s really a puzzle featuring a horse paddock. That can’t be right though. If that were the case, my stealth language would be Mandarin, which is most definitely not the case.

“For example,” Lorenzo said, “You say ‘dico’ a lot, which I know you are taking from the Spanish, ‘digo.’ But we don’t use it like that in Italian?”
“Why not?!” I replied. “It’s a great use of dire.”
He laughed. “I don’t know what an Italian says. We say nothing. We do not feel the need to re-explain ourselves in such a way as the Spanish might.”

He looked at me again. “Also, I heard the way you said ‘speso.’ Your accent is Neapolitan. No one else but Naples says it like this, ‘shpeso.'”
“I think it is from German,” I replied, coloring.
“No, not German.” Lorenzo laughed. “Neapolitan for sure.”

Why should I color? I didn’t even know what that shpeso sounds like to a native speaker. I am not trying to signal anything by sounding stealth Neapolitan to a Tuscan, although it would explain a bit my Ferrante obsession. Just wait til he hears me say “goodbye,” which still comes out of my mouth like a lazy Catanian, “arriverdeeerrrrrrsh…” With a shrug.

Napolitani, “Mangiamaccheroni”

I am being diagnosed with linguistic tics and regional borrowings I did not even know I had. What else lurks in the Broca’s area of my left frontal lobe?

I have no idea why I pronounce “often” that way in Italian. I am an accent and language sponge. It is like the creative spirit versus the internal editor. I just sponge, sponge, sponge, and sort it out later. Or dream about it. Or get frustrated and have bizarre high-level linguistic hearings with my patient husband.

He tapped the table with his pen. “Look,” he said. “I recommend a mix of a class setting and an individual lesson. The class will help you see how you are progressing, and the individual lesson will address your, ah, specific needs.”

I’ll try a class on Thursday around lunch, and schedule a private lesson with Lorenzo for next week, around the same time.

I checked in with Jason about the Neapolitan accent comment. “Sounds about right,” he said. “French + Spanish in Italy = Naples.”

I am looking forward to getting some of this sorted out. I know it’s in there, much of it. But I want to add what is missing, and identify what is useful. I feel like I am conning the Italian people – at moments I know I can be understood, but I cannot stand it when their normally patient brows furrow as I stammer on and continue filling my cart with the linguistic equivalent of Spanish ramen and cheap French crisps. And the occasional paquete de jamón ibérico and foie gras.

I’d like to make peace with the role of Spanish and French in this pageant, and recognize them for when they lead me down a helpful path, and not just when they throw me in a ditch. Today, and mark me, my Italian is like an episode of “American Pickers,” those two guys cruising around rural America offering $14 for a metal Coca-Cola sign. It’s not like I want to win the Strega prize, or run for public office in Italy. I’d just like to get fingerprinted in Firenze without snark
y Neapolitan police officers making fun of my Italian accent.

I should have referred them to Lorenzo …

Firenze: You say pieno, I say completo

There are so many ways to be full in Italian.

I keep a tiny notebook in my backpack where, usually, at midday, I make small language notes for myself. This is typically done in the Sprachcaffe before I begin my east coast shift at 2 pm. The notebook was begun in 2012, and has stayed with me. It is not at all organized, and tends to repeat itself in random ways; the name and contact information of an Italian friend with whom I struck a short-lived language exchange is carefully lettered and inked on the back fly page.

Apparently I have been trying to work out comunque, quindi, and ormai for years, like a minor trauma in a repetitive dream.

As a language student for years, I can attest that it’s the little words, the odds and ends and bits, that most commonly elude. They are also the words that, when correctly deciphered and understood, are most useful.

Magari.
Meistens.
Ojala.
No niin …

Let’s move on to ways one can be full in Italian:
Pieno – full in a general way, when the number of things may or may not be countable, or you can’t be bothered to count them, as they are too numerous
Completo – full when there is a finite number of countable spaces

Or closely related and equally interchangeable, ways to complete or compute:
Compiuto – completed, as in, Ho compiuto 43 anni quest’anno.
Calcolato – computed or calculated.. or arranged, as in a plan, tutto calcolato.

We have an ongoing conversation, Jason and I, about Italian language. I’ve always been a language student who delighted in language and in learning language. From the time I began sitting in Spanish class at 6:30 am 3 days a week in Edmond with my younger brother Cory in 1983, through a master’s in Spanish in 2008 and the present day, it’s been my catnip. Impossible to here recount in detail, but as far as the languages I have taken, and for how long, here is a list:

  1. *Spanish – 4 high school, 4 college, 3 graduate years, plus exchange in Spain
  2. *French – 3 semesters plus a year in uni in France
  3. *German – a year in France
  4. *Latin – 3 semesters in uni
  5. *Norwegian – a year in Seattle
  6. *Finnish – a fall in Seattle
  7. *Arabic – a spring in Seattle
  8. *Greek – a mere dip
  9. Icelandic – dilettante but supported curiosity – thanks, Bjork
  10. Danish – ibid.
  11. Swedish – ibid.
  12. Hungarian – ibid.
  13. Hebrew – ibid.
  14. Portuguese – joyful travels
  15. Gallego -well, that year in Santiago
Languages where at one time or another I have actually received formal classroom instruction are starred. As an immigration professional for years, my language bug greased the wheels of many a client or advisee conversation as I tried to show respect with a “hello” and “thanks” in any number of languages, such as Hindi, Tamil, or Romanian. Or more.
I started coming to Italy in 1995. That first time, I hadn’t even lived in France yet, and it was like being on Mars with shades of Latin, Spanish Empire, Galicia, Mexico, Carlos Quinto. I returned to Italy from Strasbourg for les vacances d’hiver in February 1996 and everything suddenly made more sense. A bit. I remember especially a day in Verona with two Roman laborers, and much shoestring Italian over lunch and dinner. It worked. I could do it. But my expectations were low, and, Roman laborers, well. … an easy audience.
I did not return to Italy between 1996 and 2004. I’ve been coming every year, more or less, since then, for short and long trips, mostly in summer, as well as the year in Arezzo.
I have never taken Italian.
How did this happen? and why?
Italian is like a person I see all the time and take for granted. Like, I see him at the busstop all the time, but we don’t really talk. I keep hoping we strike up a friendship, but it’s tough. My expectations are unrealistic. I hope for too much! I’m shy! He intimidates me! He’s cute, and dresses really well. He’s friendly enough, but doesn’t seem to want to talk to me so much. He’s got stuff to do. He has funny jokes that whizz by me. I hate not understanding the funny parts.
Ciao ragazzi. Avete un momento?… I just have a quick question …
No? ok you seem to be walking really fast …
Va bene…
And so it goes. 
Jason: just talk to Italians. Just talk to them. You’ll learn.

But this kind of learning is very, very hard for me. I haven’t done much of it. Sure, it’s fun when you’re on vacation. But if you live somewhere? And you’re tired and also maybe sick and have a fever and need to complete (what kind of completion is this, in Italian?) a complicated purchase or repair, or some sort of official transaction? What if your babysitter peppers you with instant messages that you barely understand and your phone doesn’t seem to have a simultaneous Italian dictionary for instant messaging? What if you have two kids and a job and a husband who rocks at everything and frankly you don’t have much joyful, playful energy left over for such relaxed and trusting linguistic forays…?
What to do.
Jason: you already rent space in a language school. Talk to them about it. But the kind of instruction they offer is very tourist-oriented, and, I am sure, expensive. I don’t even know what they charge, but they offer very bespoke lessons.
Plus random people roll through my office that stop by to speak with me in Spanish, French, Italian …
I suppose I had hoped I would learn Italian osmotically, but it doesn’t seem to be happening. Or is it? I have no benchmarks, no vocabulary quizzes or grammar exams as I am used to.
On the other hand, three different people yesterday told me that my Italian was bravo, eccelente, etc. But I always feel like I am just faking it with a half-Spanish accent. And to people whose expectations of my communication in Italian are so low as to be easily – very easily! – impressed. Bariste on Piazza della Reppublica. Our landlord’s son-in-law from Milano. People, I suppose, who expect me to sound like a hapless American fresh out of Fiumcino, rather than a crafty and theatrically oriented language lover with a too-convincing accent …
And my two Italian crutches, named Spanish and French, can sometimes do more harm than good. I rely on them a lot. I did. I cast them aside more and more lately as I trade in Italian on face value. Who cares what the Spanish or French say? But the minute I disregard these old, old friends, I am often caught out, and can’t remember anything. Then I find out that the word is very close or identical to either one. Especially Spanish. Vincolo. Vincolato. Scopa. And that’s just from this week.
Spanish and French – come on. Are you in this with me, or not? Can you be helpful without being so bossy with my anterior cingulate cortex?
I feel almost teary when I get to break out the Spanish or French. The words feel so familiar. Old friends! Hello, hola, salut! You make sense to me, and I know I make sense when I say you! Ne partez pas! Quedad conmigo!
Am I too old or tied up to even be trying to learn a new language? It was so, so easy, and fun, when I was 20. I see Victor and Eleanor joyfully sponging it up and I am very happy for them and for us, but also humbled to realize, as Victor might put it, that I am the #4 most Italian speaking person in this family. 

Language lovers, learning friends, please weigh in here. I am serious. I know you’re out there, reading this. What do you think? Cosa pensate?
Grazie, gracias, merci, kiitos, a dozen further variations of gratitude.