104 days in Italy

You would think that living in a different country means that I’m trying out enough new things. But yesterday I tried one more. I’m very glad that we’ve been able to bring Gabrieli with us, as she’s been a great way to talk to people on the streets. It seems she is the only standard poodle in Florence and as such attracts a great deal of attention from locals and visitors alike. Of course, it means that if we walk down the street without her, we are completely anonymous, but with her we’ve met some of our neighbours in this busy part of central Florence.

However, after I decided that I could successfully wield the scissors on her haircut, she will be attracting fewer ‘che bella’ exclamations as we walk around. Those of you who know me, know that I am not good with things, anythings at all. One of the reasons that Robin does all the cooking is because he finds it painful to watch me splatting the food around when I’m trying to stir it. And so, quite honestly, I should have known better – particularly as the razor cuts short and the scissors are sharp.

It started well, the tail doesn’t look any odder than normal. The first back leg is also alright, but I’d clearly gained too much confidence on the second leg, just like the second performance of a play. Legs 3 & 4 sport yet more varied lengths. The head was going fine, until she moved. I decided to leave the ears to Robin!

Language learning has been a bit like that. You gain confidence, think that it is going well, and then fall foul of the next grammar rule. Some days I can gabble away and everyone seems to understand, the next day pronouncation doesn’t work, grammar becomes nonsensical, and nothing makes sense. Then there are the days when words I had forgotten in French become like a cracked record in my memory and I stutter onwards speaking a kind of franglaistalino. It is both amusing, and frustrating.

I make a living with words: I try in sermons to be interesting, in conversation to be attentive. But in another language, you fall back on the set expressions, you struggle to follow the basics, and completely miss the nuances. It is possible to find yourself nodding and smiling away, before realising that the story has become deeply sad and moving. It is normal to think that you understand everything, right up until the moment when a question is posed and you need to offer a coherent answer.

However, the largest blessing is that the Italians don’t seem to mind that I am mauling their bella lingua. People take time whilst you find the right words, and manage to understand even if (when) you don’t. They smile as they correct your grammar or pronounciation, and offer you some time for a chat, even when you’re making no sense whatsoever. There is no arrogance about good Italian or bad Italian, there is only a desire to communicate. This is probably because Italians talk a lot. But then again, so do I. In fact, I feel right at home.