Living in a Foreign Language (9 page)

“I get twelve,” she said finally.

“No. This is thirteen.”

We went over them all together and I reminded her of our first New York apartment—the sublet on East Fifth Street where we had to step over the drug addicts on the front step to get into the lobby.

“Right,” she said. “Thirteen.”

I tiptoed downstairs to make sure the boys were properly passed out. Then we quietly closed our bedroom door and gave the bed a little trial run—just to make sure it worked properly.

Later that afternoon, when we had finished the major unpacking, Jill and the boys helped me pile all our trash into the back of our station wagon so that on our way to the supermarket we could make our first ceremonial dump. The road into town from our house is a narrow two-way country lane, but when it reaches the church at the edge of town, it separates—one-way to the right of the church and, coming up from the other side of town, one-way against us to the left. And connecting them along the back side of the church is a twenty-yard-long gravel road—also one-way against us. That's where the garbage cans are. So to get to them properly, we would have to drive around the church, all the way out of town, circle around to the left, drive back through town, pass the church and hang a left.

Or, I figured, we could just turn in—against the oneway sign, quickly drop off the garbage, make a U-turn, and nobody'd be the wiser. We hadn't seen more than two cars in town since we'd arrived.

I pulled in, commanded the boys to open the trunk and start unloading the garbage—green for glass, blue for plastic, gray for everything else—while I kept a lookout for cars. The boys moved slowly—passive-aggressively slowly, I thought—refusing to comprehend the need for haste. And, sure enough, a car came around the church signaling to make a left and there was no room to let him by. I might have been able to move to the side a bit but the boys had left both doors open, so I smiled and shrugged helplessly at my
new neighbor, and screamed for the boys to pick up the pace.

Then, another car pulled up behind the first one, its signal also insistently blinking. Now the road was actually tied up. I had created perhaps the only traffic jam in the history of Central Umbria. I looked in panic over my shoulder and saw Max putting one plastic bottle at a time into the slot. And Isaac was neatly folding cardboard as if he were wrapping a Mother's Day present.

Then a third car got in line, its blinker in tandem with the other two. And they had all turned their lights on as if in silent protest against my civic indiscretion. Finally the boys finished and leisurely got back into the car. I couldn't go forward because of the guy in front of me, and when I backed up to make a three-point turn so as to be facing the right direction, all the cars ceremoniously passed me, staring daggers through my windshield. I sheepishly pulled in line behind them and noticed that there were four or five cars more—all with their lights on—getting in line behind me.

“It's a funeral, honey,” offered Jill.

“Great.”

“Maybe you should turn your lights on.”

We made our way—funereally—through town, heading to the Flaminia. I tried to keep my head down and drive at the same time. When we got to the stop sign, I slipped out of line and headed south to Spoleto.

“Well, at least they know we recycle,” offered Jill.

The only reason we were going to the supermarket and not some quaint village market was that we were looking for basics: toilet paper, garbage bags, dishwashing soap, vacuum
cleaner bags, lightbulbs—moving-in kind of stuff. If there had been a Costco, that's where we would have headed. The supermarket in Spoleto is called the Coop—pronounced “kaawp”—and it's the only American-type establishment in Spoleto. It's big and bright and, at first glance, seems to be a replication of your standard Safeway or A&P.

At second glance, however, some major differences emerge. In the deli department, whole prosciuttos hang from the ceiling and the shelves display an endless array of salami, cooked hams, mortadella, pancetta and
guanciale
. These last two are what the Italians use for bacon—pancetta from the
pancia
or belly,
guanciale
from the cheek. In the refrigerated dairy section, there are plastic containers of pancetta that has already been cubed—for the busy housewife who's making carbonara in a hurry. There are two full aisles of olive oils—from cheap everyday stuff for sautéing to pricey extra-virgins that should be used only for “finishing” dishes ranging from salads to steaks. Along the back wall is a wine department with the best inventory and prices in town.

We filled our cart and got in line, trying to figure out the local customs for checking out. I noticed that you were expected to bring your own sacks to carry your groceries home. If not, you had to purchase plastic bags at the checkout counter.

Across from us—in the next line over—was a young family with a cart nearly as full as ours. Their son—about five or six years old, I'd say—was clearly bored with the wait and had taken to bumping their shopping cart against everything he could find. When he finally rammed it into an elderly lady who was passing by, his father had had enough. He quickly and forcefully grabbed the boy by the shoulders
and proceeded to read him the riot act. The boy stared at him, goggle-eyed. Then, without a moment's pause, the father bent down and kissed the boy tenderly on each cheek. We were definitely not in the A&P.

Max, who had taken in the whole scene, glanced over at me with a sly little smile on his face.

“How come you never did that to me, Pop?” he seemed to be saying. “How come you never kissed me on both cheeks after you yelled at me?”

O
N
S
ATURDAY, AFTER WE GOT THE BOYS
off to the airport, I went to fill up my gas tank. I'd been putting it off and the tank was flashing urgent signs at me from the dashboard. I put it off because gas stations have never been easy for me in foreign countries. If it's self-serve, often as not I'll put in my credit card and never see it again. I don't know, either I push the wrong button or I put the card in upside down, but it's gone forever and I have to go through the whole nightmare of canceling everything and then trying to figure out exactly what my address is so they can send me another one. If it's full-serve I get even more anxious. I'll roll down the window and gesture to the tank and say, “
Il Pieno”
which I know means “Fill it up” in Italian, and the attendant will start spewing an incomprehensible stream of language at me and then look expectantly for a reply. And I'll just shrug and say, “
Il Pieno”
—a little more forcefully this time. Then he'll smile and shake his head as if he's asking God for patience and walk away to serve somebody else. Once, in France, I put my credit card in the slot and, of
course, couldn't get it out and people behind me started honking and waving and the attendant came out and pointed to the gas pump and screamed, “Imbecile”—or its French equivalent—at me over and over. So I approach gas stations with a certain apprehension.

But this Saturday it went beautifully, I think because I'm getting a lot better with my Italian. The pay machine took my credit card smoothly, I pushed the number that corresponded to my pump, the card came back out and off I went to fill my tank, feeling rather fluent about the whole thing.

Then, on the way home, my car started bucking in third gear. You know that kind of surge-forward, lag-back pattern when you know your car isn't in the best of spirits? I dropped it to second and slowed down and the lurch went away, but I could feel that tightening of the steel band between my shoulder blades that I always get when I'm having a losing experience with a mechanical object.

Cheap gas, I thought. They probably watered it down.

I swung down into our little gravel road to pick up Jill; we were driving over the Umbrian border into Lazio to have dinner with some people we hadn't met yet—he's an Italian artist named Tonino who's close friends with an artist friend of ours and he and his family were very generous to Max when he was visiting Rome the week before. As we got down to the Flaminia and turned left, the car started in with its lurching thing again.

“Honey, I think I fucked up the car.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think maybe I put the wrong gas in it.”

“What gas did you use?”

“I put in unleaded but I'm getting a sneaking suspicion that this is a diesel.”

“Can we get to Tonino's?”

“I'd be real nervous about getting on the highway like this.”

It was over an hour's drive and I didn't want to get stuck on some dark, rural Italian highway.

“What about a gas station?”

As I said earlier, gas stations are not easy places for me. Even in America, speaking in my native tongue, I feel intimidated—no, shamed—when I have to reveal my utter ignorance about the machine I'm driving. And in this case, I'd have to admit to the gas station attendant that I had filled to the brim with unleaded gas
(senza piombo)
the tank of a diesel car, which would surely evoke the most stringent looks of disdain; perhaps he would call all his Italian garage mechanic friends over to get a look at the schmuck who can't even figure out what kind of gas goes into his car. I tried to steer Jill away from that possibility.

“I think we better go home.”

“Honey, they're expecting us!”

“Call them; I'm sure they'll understand. It's an emergency.”

“Go to a gas station. I'm sure they can fix it.”

By now, the car was lurching all the time. I stalled twice trying to steer it into the TAMOIL station, which was the biggest one on the Flaminia. I got into my “I'm just a stupid American” posture with my hands pressed in prayer in front of my chest and went up to the attendant.

“Uh . . .
scusi signori ma ce l'ho una problema. . . .”

Sure enough, he started in with a machine-gun response from which I could pick up only the words “coffee” and “sofa”—I think. I started again. “
Il benzine”
—I pointed to the tank—
“errore . . . un sbaglio.”
Which means mistake. Then I
danced around like an idiot indicating how stupid I was. He liked that. We were getting somewhere.

“Che benzina?”
He pointed to the tank.

“Senza piomba.”

“Quanto?”

“Pieno.”

Sure enough, he started calling all his friends over, and I could fully understand his gestures as I watched him describe what I had done. They all laughed and shook their heads and, each in turn, told the story again, adding little twists and such. It would surely become a local legend.

Well, the upshot was that none of these grease-stained geniuses could fix it. It was Saturday, and the real mechanic didn't come in until Monday morning. They asked if I thought I could get the car home and I said,
“Speriamo,”
which means “Let's hope so” and is one of my best words. When I gave Jill the bad news, she somehow couldn't accept the fact that we weren't on our way to Lazio.

“Honey,” she said, in not my favorite tone, “they're expecting us.” A pause. “You never really wanted to go to their house for dinner, did you?”

Silently, I lurched the car off the Flaminia and headed toward home.

“What are we going to do?”

“We'll call them. They'll understand.”

“I really was looking forward to wearing this new outfit tonight.”

That, as far as I was concerned, was a complete non sequitur.

By a miracle, the car made it down our gravel road. We were safe. We would not be stranded out on some lonely Italian road, fighting off wolves through the dark, moonless
night. I felt I had done my job—not without some resistance.

Once Jill changed out of her outfit, which had indeed been lovely, she seemed in a much better mood. She actually smiled at me.

“What'll we do for dinner?”

“We could walk up to Da Beppino,” I offered.

We hadn't been there yet and it was actually just a short walk up the hill from our road. It had been recommended by Bruno as a place for big eaters; apparently, they did a legendary antipasto.

“Is this what you had in mind all along?”

“You mean did I put fifty dollars of the wrong gas into our rental car, probably wrecking it forever, just so that I could go to Da Beppino tonight?”

She smiled at me.

“Could be.”

We hiked up the hill and entered the beautiful dining room, rustic but well-appointed, with good-looking waiters and waitresses scurrying busily around the room. We waited by the door until we caught the owner's eye.

“Uh . . .
non habbiamo una prenotazione, ma . . .”

“Due?”

We nodded. Yes, we were two.

He led us to a lovely table in the center of the room.

“Prendete l' antipasto sta sera?”

Would we have the antipasto? Absolutely, we nodded with fervor. Because that's what this place is supposed to be all about.

That's all he needed to hear. He nodded to a waiter and off he went. We ordered our usual
acqua naturale
—no bubbles—and a carafe of red wine. In Umbria—especially
out in the country—there was never any need to order fancy bottles. The local plonk was just fine.

After the water, the wine and the bread were on the table, a slow, sensuous dance began between the waitstaff and us. First, a lovely young lady came by with a delicious-smelling platter.

“Cinghiale in pane?”

We nodded and she gave us each a generous-sized piece of wild-boar sausage tucked inside a kind of brioche—steaming hot—and off she danced to another table. As we picked up our utensils to go to work on the sausage, another waiter appeared between us.