Parla italiano? (October 25, 2006)

Buona serra. Today's dispatch from Rome is all about words.

More to point, it's about language. If you didn't know it already, it probably will not surprise you to learn that I was an English major in college. That would seem a natural fit for someone who writes a lot, wouldn't it? But let me pose this question: did I choose to be a literature major because I love to write, or did I become a writer because I fell into the major? I started out in college studying biology, and my strongest subjects in high school were science and math. Especially math. So, do the clothes make the man?

What does this have to do with Italy? Only this: I'm fascinated by how a culture is shaped by its language. It seems to me that language is not merely the expression of a people's culture or a record of it. Rather, I believe that language actually shapes the way people think and interact with the world. In Italy, for example, the pace of life seems so much more gentle and relaxed than it is back in the Bay Area, and this is reflected in the way their lanuage is spoken. Consider the phrase "buona serra," for example, which means good afternoon or good evening. It's pronounced sort of like this: "boo oh na say ra." There's a little bit of a pause between the last two syllables of "serra." That's partially due to the double r, which is also rolled as in Spanish. Similarly, "una regazza," which means "a girl," contains a pause, like this: "oo na ray gaht tsa." If it had only one z (una regaza), it might be pronounce without the slightly extended pause. The double letter functions to create that pause -- as if to say, stop here for a moment before going on. Ditto with a word that most of us are familiar with: formaggio (cheese). In the US, we would read this as "for mah jee oh," cruising through that word the way Italians cruise through a red light, barely stopping to take notice. But in Italy, people pause at the double g: "for mahj jee oh." As far as I can tell, the double g has no other function in the word. It doesn't otherwise change the pronunciation. It's as if the Italians want to linger just a little, just for a moment, before completing the thought. "Ah, formag gio." You pause. You contemplate the taste of fontina or a little Reggiano Parmigiano. You savor it for just a second. And then you go on.

After all, what's the hurry?

Now, I realize that this interpretation of the Italian language stands in contrast to my interpretation of they way Italians drive. To which I say: God works in mysterious ways. Look no further than the Basilico di San Pietro, a glorious cathedral devoted to a religion started by a man who proclaimed that the meek shall inherit the earth.

I learned something else about speaking Italian. While it's true that people are pleased when you make the effort to speak in their language, you must be careful. For example, yesterday morning I approached the front desk of the hotel to ask the location of the restuarant where breakfast was served. Trying not to sound like a typical American, I said, "Buon giorno. Dov'e il ristorante?" The lady at the front desk immediately replied at length in Italian, as if I would understand every word she spole. Of course I had no idea what she said and had to reply, rather sheepishly, "I'm sorry, could you say that in English?" It was embarrassing.

While we Americans can barely speak a word of any language other than our own, people in Europe are fluent in numerous languages. For example, at one gelato place we stopped at, I spoke to the girl behind the counter in Spanish. She also happened to be fluent in Italian, English, and French. And she worked in a freakin ice cream store!

That's all for now. In a little while, we're all walking over to the Villa Miani, an exquisitely beautiful mansion that sits on the hill next to the Hilton Cavalieri and has an even better view of Rome and the Vatican. We're having dinner there and pretending to be dignataries visiting from abroad. Ci vediamo!