Four Things My Geeky-Jock-of-a-Best-Friend Must Do in Europe by Jane Harrington Page A

vending machine easier to communicate with than an Italian human, and should I be worried about that?
    The answer to one of those questions (you decide which) became clear when a screen appeared on the vending machine with a menu of language choices—French, English, Japanese, etc. As a cute little joke, I reached out to press “Greek,” but I changed my mind when I noticed my mother’s hand ready to violently slap mine away from the machine.
    (The lesson I have learned: Never get in the way of a mother-turned-emboldened-tour-guide.)
    On the train, we sat next to—get this!—an Italian man. (No, not Euro-hottie material, but cute in a unibrow-ish sort of way.) Mom thought this was a “marvelous opportunity” to practice our Italian, to which I replied, “Our what?” So she handed me a piece of paper, on which she had written out—just for me!—many Italian phrases with pronunciations and meanings. Here are a few she included on the list:
    prego (PRAY-go)—please, you’re welcome, all right
    e basta (eh BAH stah)—that’s enough
    per favore (pair fa VOOR ay)—please
    il dolce far niente (eel DOHL chay far nee EN tay)—the sweetness of doing nothing
    “Why are there two words for ‘please’?” I asked her.
    “I guess you can use either,” she said.
    “And what about that ‘il dolce far niente’ thing?” I asked. “In what situation, exactly, would I say that?”
    “I don’t know,” she said. “It’s just so wonderful. I think the Italians would be impressed.”
    “And then they’d, uh, speak Italian to me?” I asked.
    To this she nodded enthusiastically, obviously not seeing the inherent problem with convincing a population that you speak a language you actually don’t.
    I reached into my pack at that point for my Discman and CDs, facing the fact that it would be a VERY long trip to Florence.
    “Prego,” my mother said, turning to the Italian man next to her.
    I wondered what she meant by this. Please? You’re welcome? Maybe she was trying to be cool and was saying “All RIGHT!” I watched to see if a high-five would follow. But, no. She began saying a bunch of words that made no sense to me (or probably anybody), and the Italian man nodded politely at her and glanced over at me. I smiled back at him, hoping my mother had not inadvertently offered me for sale.
    Then the man said something which sounded very musical, somehow, and included the word “Firenza.” My mother nodded, somewhat carefully. (I think “Firenza” was the only thing she understood, too.) Then the man went into this whole THING with lots of words ending in vowels, arm gestures, and nods of the head. I had an urge to applaud when he was done, but instead I just stared at him. My mother did the same.
    Then he sighed, in an Italian sort of way, and began a pantomime with his briefcase, holding it tightly against his chest, and then moving it in the air. At the end of it all, he uttered what may be the only English word in his vocabulary: gypsies.
    Mom leaned over to me and whispered, “I think he’s warning us about the gypsies who attack tourists in Florence.”
    “Why are you whispering?” I asked her. “He obviously doesn’t speak English.” Then giving some thought to what she had actually SAID, I added, “WHAT gypsies who attack tourists?”
    “I read about that online,” she said, patting the man gently on his knee as he sighed, loudly, again. He was obviously very distressed about this gypsy thing.
    I stared out the window at the sunflower fields going by in a blur, wondering what the Italian gypsies would be like. Joyful people in colorful, beaded clothes? Or more like those Irish boat people in the movie, Chocolat ? Then (because I’m trying very hard to keep my promise to you, Delia) I wondered if any of the gypsies would be hotties, like, say, Johnny Depp, who even I agree is a blistering, radiant code-red. A Johnny Depp attack couldn’t be so terrible, I thought, as I slipped my headphones on