Random Observations, Italy Edition.
If I ever learn any Italian, it will be a modern miracle. My problem is verbs — I don’t use them because that would involve conjugation, a requirement that strikes me dumb. A man who cannot express action, I somehow manage to be understood at times, like when I said "Un pane piccolo con sale" at the bakery this morning. I put that baby together before my first cup of caffe! I took away a smallish round loaf of bread. The pane tipico has no salt — we don’t get that.
To make matters worse, Italians not only use verbs in every sentence, they overload them. For example, they usually omit the subject, since the verb ending suggests it. Too much pressure.
Mrs. W., of course, knows how to use verbs. She also can translate conversations she overhears as we walk about town. "That girl just said that she thought it was funny to see a nun riding a bicycle." First off, everybody rides bicycles in Lucca. Clearly, the girl is one of those clueless Italian tourists that we Lucchese look down upon. Second, how could Mrs. W. have caught and decoded that snippet of Italian while I was (no doubt) making a pithy remark about Italian life? Is she tiring of me, already, and after only 27 years? Third, how does she do it?
Our first night here, we came to the aid of an elderly woman who crashed her bicycle. We were returning with provisions from Pam, a supermercato just outside the walls. We had just passed through the gate when we heard a crash and a scream come from behind us. I ran back to see. A woman was lying on the ground, moaning, her bicyle sprawled across the walking path beneath the wall. She had a nasty cut on her head. She smelled of alcohol. I moved her bicycle to the side — its rear wheel wouldn’t turn — and wiped the blood out of her face (in some order). She didn’t speak English and my verbless Italian wasn’t exactly there when I needed it (okay, it never is, but, in this case, I’ll play the jet-lag card). Fortunately, some others quickly happened by, including a man remarkable for his ineffectualness, who was suggesting (according to Mrs. W.) that we call an ambulance and wait until it arrives, and a mom and her teenage daughter, who ultimately, took matters into their hands. The mother, checking the old woman’s injuries, seemed to know what to say and do, and the daughter spoke enough English to translate for us. The daughter stuck us both a very kind soul. Both the crash victim and the mother dismissed the ineffectual man’s suggestion that an ambulance was in order. Even I could understand that, although it is possible that I only understood after Mrs. W. interpreted for me. Not sure. After a while, the girl turned to us to say "She’ll be fine." Not knowing what else we might do, we carried our groceries home.
Mrs. W. has been suffering from something like a sinus infection, so has had even less interest than usual in touring. It’s hot during the days. too. I’ve taken lots of solo walks around town and don’t need no stinkin’ map. My knee is good. The achilles ache all the time, but work reasonably well after a minute or so of "walking". Mrs. W. is polishing off books and puzzles by the score. I read Death in a Strange Country, a good mystery by Donna Leon, one in a series featuring Commissario Guido Brunetti, who lives and solves crimes in Venezia. This one opens with a body floating in the Grand Canal.
The evenings are very pleasant. Tonight, after dinner, we’ll trek over to the Bar Astra, my wireless hotspot, to post this entry, post some pictures, catch up on e-mail, try to skype Rachel, and see how the White Sox are doing. When I visited the cafe/bar a couple evenings ago, the place was overrun with young americans. Not sure why. Maybe we’ll figure out it before we leave.
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