I am teaching myself Italian.
After 15 days in Rome, Florence and Siena, my wife and I want to return, sooner rather than later, and spend 6 months there. I want to have a minimal command of the language both in speaking and reading. It is a matter of respect and simple manners to be able to do so.
I am using Babbel’s daily lessons, vocabulary lists, memorization, and translations I am doing from Italian prose to find my way in.
It is physically exhausting, at least as I practice it, as if I am pushing tiny tacks into my skull.
The language is not the problem. My 71-year-old brain is the challenge. It simply is not as malleable as it once was. No surprise there of course. But I know more Italian than I did six weeks ago. The mysteries of singular and plural pronouns and the verb essere (to be) are slowly, so slowly, giving themselves up.
I can tell someone I like his or her dog and ask whether that person might speak more slowly. I can tell a listener that Italy has changed me. I can ask that same person to tell me his or her story. I can smile and touch my heart.
I am committed. Wish us luck that mortality does not become so demanding that we miss the chance. Nothing is promised. Bisogna sempre sperare e sempre imparare.
