I thought I had a hangover this morning, but it was a caffeine withdrawal headache. Un espresso doesn’t pack much of a punch, so I’m way beneath my two teas-a-day dosage. The wine was cheap, but I only had a quarter liter. Even so, it wasn’t a good choice this early in my jet lag recovery, I had a restless night and had to sleep in.
I have avoided the sights so far, so I thought it was time to at least see San Marco Plaza. It is a square full of shrieking people. Tourists think it would be cute to buy a bag of pigeon food. What they get is their own personal visitation of Hitchcock’s “The Birds.” Two thousand crazed pigeons dash towards the free lunch, crashing into bystanders along the way. People stand with arms outstretched, covered in bird, as their spouses take a photo. Children are thrilled to the verge of trauma. Their piercing screams echo off the columned buildings. A dank scent of guano wafts across the square.
Today I’ve taken to ordering caffe latte (local sensibility be damned) molto caldo (very hot), so that I have something warm to wrap my hands around. The fog of last night has translated to the most brutal of damp, cold air during the day. I am largely prepared for it, but the hands do seize up and require a restart. The sun partly burns through the miasma for an hour or two midday and creates a kind of penetrative, glowing white light throughout the city and into its crevices. Then the fog wins and the light goes dead.
After my language anxiety attack of last night, I seem to have exorcised whatever demon had me and have had little problem navigating Italian culture today. I speak in the occasional full sentence even, using most of my single digit vocabulary when I do. I tried to learn some Italian before I left. Really. I had two language courses on tape that I invested all of five hours on. Actually, it was the first half hour of each course, replayed for five hours. Any deeper and my incomprehension would go from 80% to 100%. And I still can’t remember how to say, “Hello, my name is (blank), how are you?”
This is not northern Europe where, if you try a tourist Norwegian or German phrase, the reply is in flawless English. Italians speak Italian, even if they know what you’re saying. The language is a dense wall of pretty, if meaningless, undifferentiated sounds to me. It just might be my ear. I think the British television imports on PBS ought to be subtitled. Robin accuses me of extending this aphasia to her voice when it suits me. I love the written word (can’t you tell?), but listening, even to my native tongue, takes up most of my attention when called upon.
Espresso bars all seem to be playing the same top forty radio, with songs in both Italian and English. They sound just the same to me.
Sweetheart,
You're whining. Are sure you love to travel? Wouldn't you rather be in your own city where you understand the language and how to order Italian food and only sometimes get lost??? Break down and go to a museum.
I hope it gets better!
Posted by: | January 13, 2005 at 06:44 PM