Rerun: Please Pass the Olives

This post is from my ex-website on MSN. As I’m pondering mulitlingualism, it seems relevant again. Cool sidebar: Earlier this year, the foreign exchange program of a small university contacted me to ask if they could use an excerpt from this story in the materials they use to entice students to sign up for a year abroad. Naturally, I said yes.

There is only one way to drive in Italy. I mean technique, not direction, although all roads do lead to Rome. Put your foot to the floor and pretend you know exactly where you’re going. This is necessary because no matter at what breakneck speed you are driving, an expensive German car with Italian plates will appear in your rear view mirror with no warning, forcing you to one side and blowing past you as though you are standing still. This technique is necessary if you are driving for 10 minutes or 10 hours. You will clench your jaw and grip the steering wheel so tightly your knuckles will turn white.

The stress of transit makes arrival especially sweet. And once you step out of your car, all pretense of urgency is swept away. Your coffee could appear immediately or in half an hour, what’s the hurry, anyway? The trees that have lived in the rocky soil of Toscana for thousands of years teach you that a few minutes here or there is not going to make a difference. (Of course, the trees know better than to drive the autostrada between Bologna and Florence.)

My friend Uli calls the area around Sabine’s Casa San Francesco “the Tuscan outback” Sabine’s 600 year old stone house sits at the end of a gravel road in near silence. Maybe there’s the sound of a tractor across the valley, but mostly it’s sheep, wind in the trees, and the occasional bird song. Sabine runs the place as a kind of retreat center  —  Two weeks watercolor workshop in Tuscany with this seasoned artist! Full room and board in the former homeland of the Etruscans! Sign up now, airfare and transportation not included! —  That sort of thing. But it’s empty in the winter; only a lucky handful of friends get to stop in for a night or two.

We arrived in the flattering light of the late afternoon sun, shadows lying under the olive trees like paper cut outs, the citadel village of Marciano presiding over the orchards from its perch in the distance. The garden smelled like the cake that Sabine had put in the oven and the air was warm and dry. We were ecstatic to be out of the car.

I could tell you about the site seeing, the old Roman stones, the harbor, the stylish promenading Italians, but you can imagine for yourself what that looks like and I’m sure you’ll do a fine job. Think twisted olive branches, the smell of the ocean, a sparkling light, and houses the color of terracotta and oranges and spilled wine, trimmed with the green of under ripe limes or chocolate brown. It’s exactly as you imagine. And I could tell you about the food, but you can imagine that too, the steaming plates of pasta smothered in olive oil and vegetables, maybe some squid or a blue ceramic bowl full of olives next to a plate of paper thin prosciutto. It’s all just like you think it is; you won’t be disappointed. I would rather tell you about the dinner party. (Anyway, here are some pictures.)

A second pair of guests arrived the day after we did. Marcel and Ena are residents of Provence, that famous area of Southern France. While we were all out wandering the farm roads, Mario showed up to help out with the olive trees. Mario lives in Scansano, about 30 miles away from Sabine’s place. Naturally, he was invited to stay for dinner.

Now, think language. At the table we have French, Italian, German, and English. Things are divided up in such as way that there is not one common language for the group. Sabine speaks Italian, German, English, and French. Uli speaks German, French, English, and some Italian. Ena speaks French and German and understands some English. The husband speaks German and English. Mario speaks Italian and English. Marcel speaks French and understands a little English. I speak English and German, and understand some French. Stick with me, okay?

Here’s a little chart to help out.

	German	French	Italian	English
Sabine (Germany)	Native	Rusty	Yes	Yes
Uli (Switzerland)	Native	Yes	Yes	Yes
Ena (Germany)	Native	Yes	No	Rusty
Marcel (France)	No	Native	No	Rusty
The Husband (Austria)	Native	No	No	Yes
Me (USA)	Yes	Rusty	No	Native
Mario (Italy)	No	No	Native	Rusty
The Yogurt Container	No	No	No	No

The yogurt container is there because when we put it on the table at breakfast the next day, Ena and I started to laugh and laugh and laugh. Why? It was labeled in Dutch. Marcel confessed to eight years of English that he hasn’t used for as long as he can remember. And I have six years of French, plus, some travel history in that country, and I couldn’t find my vocabulary for the life of me. I could understand Marcel well enough, I just couldn’t respond.

We talked a little bit about the genetic predisposition towards learning languages. And about olives. Marcel has 40 olive trees and makes his own olives. Mario, it turns out, is something of an olive aficionado with a romantic flair; I felt almost embarrassed watching him wax eloquent over the quality of Marcel’s olives. (Mind you, the Husband felt the need to keep the dish of olives right within reach.) Ena is an artist, a painter, like myself. Sabine and I have both worked as writers. Mario wants to study at a place where I once lived in California. And so it goes. Mario, in English, made the toast to the kindness of international spirits, one hand raising a glass of excellent local red, the other over his heart.

All those languages, all those cultures, and the opportunity to sit at the dinner table with them! How fantastic to get to be the American representative! Oh, there’s a great deal of frustration with those rusted languages, but it’s a beautiful noise, hearing all the halting speech, the search for adjectives, and “Please pass the olives’ sounds the same in any language. We decided to stick around for one more day.

We drove home yesterday with a car full of groceries. Olive oil and real Parmesan and many packages of biscotti and balsamic vinegar and a few other treats, some to share, some to keep to ourselves. All the way back to the Austrian border, the gas pedal was forced to the floor. The radio played Italian songs and I pretended to sing along.