One of my fondest memories is eating one of the most delicious meals of my life in this tiny restaurant (Osteria del Cinghiale Bianco) in Florence tucked into a corridor off a narrow via, which we had to walk by several times before we found it (even though the concierge of our hotel had given us a map with the exact route to our destination clearly marked in red ink). There were maybe about ten tables in the small rectangular room. An elderly couple, a man and a woman, were the entirety of the cooking staff that manned the kitchen that night, which was no larger than the square kitchens you would find in an efficiency apartment. We sat down, not quite knowing what to expect from such a cozy place. With every course that was brought to us (did I mention that we like to eat?), the food just kept getting better and better. My primi piatti was paperadelle with a wild boar (cinghiale) bolognese. A dish which sounds so simple, yet the richness and smokiness of the sauce is something I can still imagine. I was so full after dinner, I was not quite sure I could stand another bite. However, I persevered and ordered a rustic apple tart, not knowing if I would ever taste something this good again.
I was so grateful for the meal and I wanted to express my gratitude to our chefs, so I pulled out my English-Italian dictionary feverishly studied the phrase "Ho mangiato benissimo, grazie"(Translation--"That was a delicious meal, thank you." ), so that I could get it just right. As we were walking out of the restaurant, I stopped at the doorway, no larger than one that leads to the bedroom in your house, and peered in at the chef-couple, busy preparing meals for the restaurant patrons. I said "Ho mangiato benissimo, grazie" in my best Italian accent. They both looked up at me and smiled. I smiled back, beaming with excitement for having complimented them in their language, in appreciation for the magnificent meal, in contentment for being as full as I was.
For me, being able to communicate my thoughts in their native language made the moment so very special. I have traveled to foreign places and have been able to get by on English just fine. But I now find myself wanting more. I want to understand the airline attendants when they tell me to buckle my seat belt in the language of my destination. I want to be able to read the little plaques beside paintings in museums. I want to be able to communicate with anyone I may meet on my journeys.
That is why I have gotten this crazy idea into my head to learn not just French, but also Italian. Is it possible for one to learn two languages at the same time? Will I just end up confusing the two? I don't know. I have heard of situations where one parent will speak to their child in English, and the other only in Spanish to teach them both languages at once. I have to believe that if this method can work on a young child, I should be able to manage somewhat. The urge to speak Italian has been festering ever since the encounter I described above. But lately, it has resurged, perhaps because I am hungry for good pasta, or perhaps because if I learn the language, there is a better chance I will actually get to go back there?
Why haven't I committed myself to the study of languages if I love to travel so much? The plain fact is simple--I am impatient. I expect that because I have a good command of the English language now, I should be able to pick up a novel like Les Miserables and instantly read it in French, just as Victor Hugo wrote it. When I can't, I get discouraged and stop trying. Somehow, throughout all of my years of schooling, I have forgotten all of those young reader books I plowed through before I reached my first "chapter" book (957 in first grade alone, to be exact--we had a teacher who counted!). So I am vowing to start simple and remind myself of this. Hey, I already know le poisson nage and il pesce nuota (the fish swims, first in French and then in Italian) and I feel very proud of myself. So, perhaps, two languages at once is a possibility!
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