ther than trips to Quebec, which don't seem to count for some reason, this is the first place I've traveled to where English isn't the main language. Sure, most people here understand and speak English, but to me it just seems perverse to launch into an English spiel without having made at least an attempt at Italian.

To that end, I always begin my conversations in Italian. My modus operandi depends on the situation. Since I often have to deal with waiters (there are few waitresses around, for some reason), I've learned some appropriate phrases:

   Un tavolo per uno, per favore......A table for one, please
   Vorrei una birra...................I'd like a beer
   Avete birra alla spina?............Do you have draft beer?
   Un'altra birra, per favore.........Another beer, please
   Dov'e il gabinetto?................Where is the washroom?
   Il conto...........................The check

One nuance of Florentine life has escaped me so far: the transition between buon giorno (good day) and buona sera (good evening). I've heard people using the latter as early as 3:00 in the afternoon, which seems awfully early to be wishing someone a good evening. Insert shoulder shrug here.

Another problem I have is "language creep." That is, the tendency of other languages—particularly French and Spanish—to seep into my Italian. For example, I always used to think that the Italian word for thank-you—grazie—was pronounced graht-see. However, that not right thanks to the following two "rules" of Italian pronunciation:

• In most Italian words, every letter is pronounced. (There are some exceptions. For example, the g in the gn combination is silent (e.g., bagno is pronounced ban-yo).
• The letter e is always pronounced ay.

Therefore, the correct pronunciation of grazie is graht-see-ay. (Although native speakers in full linguistic flight will often pronounce it graht-see-eh). Until you get used to it, that last ay (or eh) sound is tough to spit out and I'll often muff it in the heat of battle. I'll get as far as graht-see, remember that I have to add something more, and quickly toss in an ass sound (the self-descriptiveness of which is quite appropriate). In other words, the Spanish graçias would poke its head (or, I guess, its tail) in there: graht-see-ass. I'm sure the Italians get a good laugh over such things.

Also, as a Canadian, it's not surprising that French leaps into the breach quite often: oui instead of si; bonjour instead of buon giorno; une autre instead of un'altra; biere instead of birra.

I always carry an Italian phrase book and an English/Italian dictionary to help me out of jams. Sometimes, however, I won't consult these sources—either because I think I understand something or because I'm lazy—and I'll get into trouble. Today, for instance, I tried my first Italian pizza. The place I went to had an all-Italian menu, but that didn't faze me. I settled for the "Pizza alla Diavolo," which had some ingredients I knew (e.g., mozzarella) and some I thought I knew (e.g., pepperoncini; which I thought was a variation on the pepperoni theme). One bite, however, and I knew things weren't what I expected. That sucker was hot! Immediately, I intuited what "diavolo" meant: devil! (In hindsight, I should have known this. The word is, after all, very close to the Spanish diablo.) I'm still not sure what pepperoncinis are, but it's a good bet they're some kind of hot pepper.

It's amazing how much of a language you can pick up out of simple context. For example, I've never had to look up the words entrata and uscita to know they mean entrance and exit, respectively. It helps, of course, that Italian is a Romance language that is remarkably similar to French. I can often get the gist of signs and text just becuase many of the words are close to French words I know.

In the end, however, I'm comfortable with only a smattering of Italian and I couldn't possibly hope to understand an Italian conversation. So, if I know I'm heading into a one-time situation and I don't want to be bothered learning the appropriate phrases, I whip out my standard opening line:

   Mi dispiace, ma pero non parlo bene l'Italiano.
   Parla inglese?

   I'm sorry, but I don't speak Italian very well. 
   Do you speak English?

This gets us off on an Italian foot, but doesn't commit me to an Italian exchange. (Which can be a problem if you start out speaking Italian; the native thinks you speak the language so they jabber on until you shut them up with a desparate "Non capisco!".) Still, even this by now well-worn speech, which I delude myself into believing that I deliver with an impeccable Italian accent, usually produces a pained look on the face of the pour soul who hears it. (In my early attempts, I would blow the opening by saying dee-ah-spah-chay instead of dee-spee-ah-chay. In English, that would be like saying sorry as see-ore!) After seeing that look enough times by now, I think I know what it tells me the listener is thinking: "Oh, god, it's another damn foreigner butchering our beautiful language." They're probably happy to switch to English to avoid any more of my pseudo-Italian.

Florentine Notebook	Via Dei Calzaiuoli	David 2

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