Back to Italy despite COVID


Artistic espresso from Franca's favorite bar. I didn't take a photo of the amazing flaky pastry that went with it.


Via Paolo Sarpi, the street in Milano where Gauss lived before moving to America. The street is now the center of Milano's Chinatown. Franca still occupies the apartment across the hall from where Gauss and his parents lived when he was a child. It is sweet and moving to be there. 

I'm back after a three-year absence. For two of those years I've been studying Italian with Duolingo--as of today my streak is 811 days in a row. (I managed not to skip even through hip replacement surgery.) My improved fluency—in fairness I probably can't really call it that—has helped matters greatly. I'm able to converse with people who speak no English at all, with occasional help from Google Translate when I just can't find a word. I know I slaughter the grammar but I've taken inspiration from my Chinese student Aaron Li, who plunged ahead and spoke English whenever he could, grammar be damned, and people understood him anyway. Now his English is amazing. (*Note: your results may vary.)

This morning I walked to Franca's neighborhood and strolled all around with her in the rain. We gossiped about family members, discussed home ownership, wills, and inheritance, and hit the grocery store together. And she speaks NO English. I felt triumphant when I managed to find pistachio cream but she could not! I love being with Franca; she adores this neighborhood where she has lived for 70 years, and she knows everyone. We stopped on the street three times to chat with neighbors who happened along.

By the time I got back to Costanza's apartment where I'm staying, I was exhausted. I'd walked eight miles and my brain was fried from the hard work of suddenly speaking a second language without interruption.

But...dinnertime came around and Gianni had invited me to eat with him. I dragged myself over there, not because I was reluctant but just because I was so tired. Since I can't eat bell peppers, he gave me a giant container of boiled broccoli and insisted I eat the whole thing. Folks who know me well know how I feel about boiled broccoli but I plowed through it like a champ. I even managed to joke about it in Italian with Gianni. "Questo broccoli รจ come una montagna!" (This broccoli is like a mountain) I said before digging in. When I finished, I announced, "Come Edmund Hillary ho conquistato la montagna!" (Like Edmund Hillary, I have conquered the mountain.) 

After that Gianni gave me a giant bunch of grapes to eat; I could manage about half of them. Then he offered dessert. I so full I had to decline. As I ate, he asked if I liked burrata (cream-filled mozzarella). Duh! Of course I do, I replied. Now he says he will buy me some burrata. I was quick to tell him that I had gone to the store already and have mozzarella di bufala, bread, and juice in my refrigerator. 

I had to make it an early evening; I'm about ready to fall over with fatigue as it is. As he saw me to the door he asked if I wanted champagne on Sunday morning. Honestly, he was as bad as a Chinese grandma or a Jewish mother saying "Eat! Eat!" All the time I was trying to decline politely in my fractured Italian. OK, that's it for today's entry, I'm about ready to tip over.

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