Member-only story
Me Speak Your Language Funny
But I can pronounce “cherry trifle”
Few things are as humbling as sitting in the car of a guy you barely know, who speaks a language you don’t understand, in a country you moved to just weeks ago.
Luigi spoke to me in his husky voice as I took in the view from the hill.
A classic Italian landscape stretched before me, with scattered lights from the valley below. It was around 3.00 am.
By this point, I had learned a crucial thing: in Italy, you speak two kinds of languages — Italian and/or one of its many dialects.
I did neither of those at the time — for all I knew, Luigi could’ve been a serial killer. He could’ve told me he was going to end me, and I would’ve eagerly nodded in agreement just to avoid looking too stupid.
I was a young Hungarian girl, freshly out of the safety of my family nest. It didn’t seem to matter who I went out with, as long as I had company — and that company was willing to teach me Italian.
Any problem, just tell me,” he said in that sexy Italian of his. I nodded diligently — to what, I had no idea.
I was looking for keywords. Something…anything that might’ve given me a clue. But all I had was some feeble German and Russian knowledge, none of which helped me understand…
