I am not Stupid; I am just American

I have an important and heartbreaking message that I wish to share with all of you: I was lied to. Before coming to Italy, I received an eclectic collection of tips and advice from a multitude of people, all of which intending to let me in on the "insider information" pertaining to Italy. They are all liars. Yes, I'm sure there were truths in the mix, but for the sake of being dramatic, I will commit to saying that everything I was told was folklore.
I think you know what I'm talking about: "Italy? Everyone speaks English there anyway."

Guess what? FALSE. That. Is. False. Some people speak a little English, true. But not everyone speaks beautiful, fluent English. A shocking concept, right? I have to admit that my hopeful naivity got the better of me in the weeks before my trip because speaking English is so easy, right? And anyone who is reading this might think, "Katie, that was a really stupid assumption to make." And it totally was! I wasn't completely dependent on it, and I knew I would have to bust out the Italian every once in awhile, but I've started speaking Italian. No, I take that back. Out of necessity and survival, I've started speaking Italian. Here's another fun fact: High School language is a joke. I am sorry, High School language teacher. You are a very nice lady and you were very patient with me. But the whole concept of sitting in a desk and learning a language 42 minutes a day for 5 days a week now makes no sense to me. I sit in a desk, learn Italian for 3 hours a day for 5 days a week, and then leave class and try to speak Italian in the city and at home. Guess what? I'm still not good at it. I'm not even ok at it. My 6 month old host sister speaks better Italian than I do, and she just drools all the time. I get by. And as my host dad, Fabio, told me: "We do not care about tenses or grammar. Just say some words and we will get the point." Fantastic!

So I took French for what seemed like forever and by the time I graduated high school I was mediocre at best. I've been in Italy for 2 weeks and though I am nowhere near mediocre, I find it a million times easier to learn it by just sucking it up and doing it. There have been a few times in which I have had to tell my host mom, Barbara, certain pieces of information such as "I won't be home for dinner tonight" or "I am going to the beach tomorrow." First I pace around in my room for awhile, giving myself a pep talk and tirelessly rehearsing what I am going to say to her. Then I sneak out into the hallway, trying to hear where she is and how many additional seconds I have to prepare. Finally, I nonchalantly wander into the living room, see that she is breastfeeding, and turn around and go back in my room. I have used her breastfeeding as a sort of crutch; a reason not to talk to her, ask her questions, present her with gifts that were sent from America. I think, "Well, I don't want to bother her." Well guess what? She is already being bothered, she is breastfeeding a child! My attempts at telling her pertinent information usually take 2 or 3 times of pacing, pep talks, and repeat. It's pathetic, but I promise I am getting better. I think she can even vouch for that.

The best part about having host siblings is that they have no filter and do not hesitate to call you out when you say something incorrectly or do not undestand. A few nights ago I was sitting in the den with Margherita (8) and Arianna (4). While Margherita understands that I speak English and not Italian,  Arianna doesn't even recognize that as an option. She thinks I am a quiet Italian girl who does not talk. After a lengthy rant, she looked at me and said "copisci?" I said "no." She turned her head and mumbled, mostly words I did not understand, but I definitely caught "stupida." Do you speak Italian? You don't? That means "stupid." Margherita flashed her most sympathetic eyes at me and patiently explained, "Ari, she's not stupid; she's just American." I don't think I need to say anything more than that. 

Not everyone thinks I'm stupid, though, and that is a huge comfort. That has been one of my biggest concerns actually. Oh, God. They think that the school sent them a moron. They talk about me in front of me because they know I can't understand them anyway. Totally not. Last Wednesday I ate dinner with just Fabio. I explained as best I could that sometimes I understand things very very clearly; other times, I am completely lost. He then comforted me by saying that he is 42 years old and his English is still bad. (Not true-his English is better than my Italian. In fact, it will probably remain better than my Italian for the next 3 1/2 months.) He was explaining that he learned alot of his English by listening to music at the discotech (lol) and then, the most fantastic moment of my entire life happened. He said, "You know 'Take on Me'? Aha?" I squealed with delight and said "Of course! Certe! Yes! Take on Me! Si! Yes! Mi piaci Take on Me! On my laptop!" He did not believe me at all, saying that I am much too young and it came out in 1982 so there is no way I know that song. At the same moment, he and I looked at eachother and began singing the song, starting with the intro and transitioning into the organ solo. We played air organ together. This actually happened to me. We were the only two people in the house, sharing a gorganzola and hot dog pizza (don't get me started on the Italian obsession with hot dogs) and singing Take on Me. Needless to say, we bonded. I am in with the family. This is a great relief to me.

Lesson: Learn 80s music before you go abroad. Odds are, it will be the only thing you have in common for awhile.

Some day I will put pictures on this blog. But probably not. Here's a description: Everything is really pretty. I have painted you a picture, I know.