Is Learning Italian in Italy the Best Way to Master the Language?

CATEGORY: WISH LIST ITEM

Is It All Past Tense And No Pasta? All Verbs And No Vino? All Nouns And No Gnocchi?

I love Italy and until recently I loved an Italian man. He was the 6’2 embodiment of everything I adored about Italy. He could cook, always had good wine, was charming, romantic, handsome, always smelt nice (ok this may just be him and not Italy as a whole) and would without fail, make me coffee in the morning. Saying it did not end well would be a massive understatement. I miss him every day.  He still creeps in and out of my life, like the ghost of boyfriend’s past. I am still unable to let him go, even though every cell in my body is telling me he’s a selfish git of the highest order. Our brains really do work against us don’t they.

The breakup left me feeling like a different person. A little empty, a little sadder, a little less open. Like my heart has been so repeatedly shattered that it will never be whole again. That every time I try to fill it up with love, its leaks out through the cracks until its empty once again. I am now unable to think of the man I loved without muttering the word wanker under my breath. I miss him constantly, between bouts of outrage at his utter audacity at not loving me back. Right now, I hope I haunt him for the rest of his life, but I’m working on letting go. Failing, but I’m as ever, always a work in progress.

So clearly, I decided I wanted to learn Italian. I know, it’s so out of the blue, my brain works in mysterious ways. Amazing.

If I analysed my urge to learn Italian, I’m fairly sure my therapist would have something to say about it. But let’s bury that particular barrel of trauma for the moment and ride the denial train to ‘everything is fine island’, ‘nothing to see here’ station.

So off to Italy I went determined to achieve something, have some fun and push myself out of my comfort zone and place a big tick against another item of The Wish List.

There are 4 languages I have dabbled with since school, I am fluent in none of them. I lived in Belgium for several years so French is probably the language I know best outside of English and in restaurants or supermarkets I am comfortable. However, if I am ever asked an unexpected question my default mode is panic, and I tend to stare blankly at the person talking to me and take a shot at an answer. Usually ‘oui’ or ‘non’ said hopefully with pleading eyes, searching for any clue that I have answered correctly. This is rarely the case and I tend to end up purchasing a bag I do not need or another glass of wine, could be worse. A friend once almost brought a horse from a man in a pub in Brussels.

In a fit of whimsy, I decided learning Japanese at university was a great idea, I lasted several weeks before my better angels lost out to a hangover, and I decided a lay in was more beneficial. Short sighted looking back and now all I can remember is something about radio cassettes, not only does this show my age but is also so far from useful that’s its almost become useful again.

I speak a bit of Spanish “Dos Tinto de Verano por favour” and even less Italian “Non mi piace il vino economico”. Yes, they do all seem to be alcohol related. No judgement please.

I have enrolled in a 6-week course in Turin, the Airbnb is booked, and I have saved approximately 100 restaurants and cafes in my google maps ‘I want to visit list’ so I’m officially ready to go. In my head I will be swanning around in floaty spring dresses, ordering espresso and some sugar filled treat in perfect Italian. I will become best friends with my idol Massimo Bottura and spend weekends visiting Venice or Matera with him and his family.

In reality I will likely be crying into a textbook drinking wine from a bottle, whist eating spaghetti for the 7th time that week, but either way I still feel I will be ahead of where I am now. I would actually have followed through with something. I will be doing something I have always dreamt of, and I will be doing it in Italy!

So, I say to my future self, wipe those tears away darling and shout “non mi piache il vino economico” at the top of your lungs.

Maybe I can ask my teacher for some choice swear words so I can replace wanker with a more culturally appropriate insult when thoughts of the Italian drift up from the depths of hell.

But who knows, maybe I won’t think of him at all.

PART 2 COMING SOON!