How I Learned to Love Apricots
A tortured history of learning languages and the quiet pleasure of letting it go.
When we met, it was an unbearably hot day.
I was living in Italy on a research grant, where I immediately settled into a routine. I got up, had breakfast, and set off for the town archive, navigating the narrow streets at a brisk pace. Once I arrived, I presented my passport and access card at the door, stored my bag in a wooden locker, and handed my document request slip to the archivist before heading into the reading room with my laptop clutched against my chest. I spent the day transcribing historical documents, and when the archive closed, I packed it up, went back to my apartment, and worked at my desk until it was time for bed.
People would email to ask how I was enjoying Italy.
“You must be having so much fun,” they’d say. “Italians really know how to live.”
My apartment overlooked a popular square, and as I sat at my desk reviewing my notes and double-checking my translations, I’d hear children laughing as they played soccer outside my window and eventually the growing volume of chatter as locals gathered after work. When the sun was low enough to flood the piazzetta with orange-red light, a violinist would show up, staking his position near a…
