It was hot today in Torino. Or at least I thought so. The locals didn’t seem to mind, many wore two layers and I even saw a man wearing a scarf, which was absurd because it was 80 degrees out and the sun was beating down and there was no need for it other than to make a statement. To his defense, he was sitting in the shade under a tree along the River Po, but there was no breeze.
The women here are goddesses and the men are gods. They dress well and carry themselves with a certain gracefulness and class. Even in the heat they seemed unbothered, confident even. It made me want to dress better, although I know I don’t have the money for it right now. Maybe when I return home.
I had a conversation in Italian with a guy at a small stand along the river selling little pizzas and sandwiches and ice cream. I didn’t know half of what he said, but I pretended like I knew. He told me, “Sei bravo” (You’re good). This is, among other things, the payoff I was looking for. Later in the day, I had a conversation with a woman at the bigletteria (ticket office) of the Palazzo Reale. She was exceedingly friendly, a perfect candidate for the job. I spoke some Italian with her, she was pleased with my efforts. I entered the palace smiling.
I wish the language would just flow out of me, without strain or slow word-by-word mental translation or confusion or frustration. But this doesn’t happen. Instead, I choose to focus on how far I’ve come—not too far, but still farther than where I was before.
I’ll be leaving Italy in a week and going to France, where I’ll be staying for a month. I feel pressured to learn French, to get it to at least the same level as my Italian. I will try, I will try.
I didn’t have gelato yet today, which means the day is incomplete. I wait for my train to Milano, the sun casting a thousand criss-crossed shadows on the floor of the train station from the train shed overhead.
I need more of this, I think. I don’t want to run out.
It was hot today in Torino. Or at least I thought so. The locals didn’t seem to mind, many wore two layers and I even saw a man wearing a scarf, which was absurd because it was 80 degrees out and the sun was beating down and there was no need for it other than to make a statement. To his defense, he was sitting in the shade under a tree along the River Po, but there was no breeze.
The women here are goddesses and the men are gods. They dress well and carry themselves with a certain gracefulness and class. Even in the heat they seemed unbothered, confident even. It made me want to dress better, although I know I don’t have the money for it right now. Maybe when I return home.
I had a conversation in Italian with a guy at a small stand along the river selling little pizzas and sandwiches and ice cream. I didn’t know half of what he said, but I pretended like I knew. He told me, “Sei bravo” (You’re good). This is, among other things, the payoff I was looking for. Later in the day, I had a conversation with a woman at the bigletteria (ticket office) of the Palazzo Reale. She was exceedingly friendly, a perfect candidate for the job. I spoke some Italian with her, she was pleased with my efforts. I entered the palace smiling.
I wish the language would just flow out of me, without strain or slow word-by-word mental translation or confusion or frustration. But this doesn’t happen. Instead, I choose to focus on how far I’ve come—not too far, but still farther than where I was before.
I’ll be leaving Italy in a week and going to France, where I’ll be staying for a month. I feel pressured to learn French, to get it to at least the same level as my Italian. I will try, I will try.
I didn’t have gelato yet today, which means the day is incomplete. I wait for my train to Milano, the sun casting a thousand criss-crossed shadows on the floor of the train station from the train shed overhead.
I need more of this, I think. I don’t want to run out.
