4. Communicating

On reading Orwell’s Down and Out in Paris and London, I almost questioned whether or not the piece was a dystopia fiction, similar to 1984. Throughout the piece, he seems to focus on the destitute, and how the people on the lowest rung of the social hierarchy in both Paris and London manage to live day-by-day. I liked Orwell’s critique of the restaurant business in Paris, partially because my dad, who was also a chef, became a waiter for not the prestige, but the money. As Orwell tells us, there exist explicit rules as to who governs what in the restaurant, from the manager, to the maître d’hotel, the chef, the waiters, and then the plongeurs, which I assumed were bellboys. Although the customs of position seemed slightly different, one can imagine a similar social caste system in America, which made Orwell’s travels appear most resonant with Iyer’s idea of the fourth-order tourist, one in which a man or woman sets-out into a land to live as the people.

Without much money, Orwell talks of a pretty grim life, when perceived to the affluent traveler, as he and his crew of tramps live “in the moment” throughout the streets of England. Consistently on their lack buck, I thought the idea that Bozo proposes added a reassuring tone to the idea of the screever. Unlike a person with a “respectable job,” the begger—in all cultures—seems to be looked down upon, simply for the fact that their occupation, which stands as work all the same, will never hold the potential for prosperity. With that said, I inferred that we, as others, cannot fathom, or do not want to fathom, the idea of living day-by-day. Without future ideals of prospects, the mindset of the screever fails to match the one of the person who “plays the game.”  However, if we try to look from the screever’s shoes, one could assume that by living for the moment, our consciousness no longer worries of the future prospect, bringing us more in the present than before. As odd as it may seem, I always thought that the notion of a future was partially, if not wholly, cultured, and that it can—and usually does—elicit unnecessary stress to the “game-player.” This stress while traveling could, in the end, obstruct the person from seeing the trueness of the area. Although the screever’s life, to our standards, does not hold too much promise, could we argue that they are gaining a more authentic experience?

Being reduced to a near-idiot... such a familiar feeling these days. My first few weeks in Berlin have left me in the mental state of a crawling toddler. Exacerbated by the campy tours, orientations, and extremely small amount of people I interact with (in comparison to my former life in the states), the feeling of a throwback is a tough one to shrug. Ich habe no idea what you are saying... bitte?

Lucky me that English is pretty much everyone's second language. Or perhaps unlucky me? Before I mentally grew to middle-schooler, within three words of most encounters I had been identified: “American, please treat accordingly”. It's only been recently and in cherished circumstances that I manage to grapple my way through a few sentences, smiles, and polite head-shaking without getting too much English thrown at me. The most interesting part of this is that the only Germans who choose to accompany me on my blundering speaking journeys are not, in fact, Germans, but immigrants themselves!

Making me feel more at home, there are a large number of immigrants in Berlin who on the whole seem more jovial and less emotionally boarded up than the generic Männer or Frauen. These generics are on the whole efficient, quick, fit, tersely polite and non-fuck giving. This manner of personhood is reflected in the beautiful but likewise curt-sounding language. Why have flow and musicality when one could have efficiency? Not brevity however, as a large number of words are literal mash-ups of shorter, existing words. Unlike Flaubert's Egyptian experiences, I don't think, or perhaps don't have the capacity to understand, that many people are loose with their well-wishes or dirty phrases (quiet unfortunately). I have been told by a number of helpful German administrators that most people are slow to friendship and warmth of expression here, and it seems right on track with reality.

Fortunately within my own group of regressed young-adults we have developed our own ways of speaking- or rather, playing with, the language- during out learning process. Wunderbar (wonderful) becomes Wonderbra, everything must be followed by “ja,” as if we were addicted to the confirmation, and of course there's the accent. On me, this particular German accent sounds like a whining, perhaps yodeling, monkey type German who has the brain of a first grader who sniffed too much glue. Well, at least when I'm drunk. Accents don't really exist here despite the fact we all came believing they did, so during these moments of hilarity and nonsense we are most likely the farthest thing away from “German.”

Nonetheless, I love being surrounded by a permeable layer of German language. I find the way they manage to fit those long ridiculous words onto small labels amazing (no wonder minimalism started here), the abruptness daunting but efficient, and the occasional facial communication- aka me nodding and saying “ja” trying to mimic the look on their face while trying to hide the fact that I have no idea what is going on- refreshing!

(The photo attached is a flyer for an exorcist we found on the street.)

I have been studying Italian for only two years, and I thought I was fairly competent when it came to speaking the language. My month in Florence has shown me otherwise. While I can remember the passato remoto of the verb essere, for the life of me I cannot even remember how to say “I would like a coffee, please” when speaking to a cafe clerk. On one particularly lethargic trek to the bus station, I stopped in Pasticceria San Marco, where I had gotten my morning coffee (to go, as I usually do not have time or am wary of the bus coming early or just not coming at all) for the past couple of days. I had learned the dynamics of this particular pasticceria--you pay for what you want first, then you go ask for it and show your receipt. I asked for a ‘caffe latte doppio,’ meaning that I wanted two shots of espresso. The cashier asked me, “due caffe latte o due espresso?” meaning did I want two separate coffees or just one with 2 shots. I explained to him I wanted two shots. When I went to order again at the bar, the same confusion ensued. I explained my order to him as well. He then pawned off my lowly to-go order on another man, who proceeded to make two coffees for me. Through a long chain of communication, my order had been mixed up, and the poor guy got yelled at by his boss, poured most of one coffee into the other, gave it to me while averting eye contact, and I went to catch the bus. Other experiences have been more positive. For example, there is a small panino shop near my apartment that has no name, is only open until their bread runs out, and just has a hand-painted sign that reads “panini” that hangs out the door. Whenever I go in there, they actually appreciate my attempts at explaining my panino desires. “Prosciutto cotto...goat cheese? (I can never remember the translation), rucola (arugula), pomodori (tomatoes), and...” One of the panino makers, Leo or Luca, always says “truffleacream?” Depending on what I’m in the mood for, which most of the time is in fact truffle cream, I concede. It is my favorite local ‘negozio’ that I have found so far, a delicious panino for only 3.5 euro, and friendly service.

Generally, I have found that I freeze up when speaking Italian to a native because I am afraid of being wrong or being taunted for my poor accent. So, I have come into a routine of observing the Italians’ ways of doing things before attempting something myself in a local shop or business. I have learned a great deal by observing the Italians. Just from looking out my window on a warm, clear day like today, I see a group of them, presumably tourists from within Italy, gathered around what appears to be a map, gesturing at each other, as if perhaps one of them thinks he knows the way, while the others gesture back as to say no, no you’re wrong, this is the right way. Gesture is inherent in the Italian language, and I have noticed and learned many of the key ones, my favorite of which is a turning of the hand that signifies “this place is no good, let’s get out of here,” when referring to a bar or restaurant. Observing the Italians as they speak is one of my favorite things to do to learn more about the culture.

So this is where my five years of flashcards and conjugation tables becomes real life. Yes! Finally! But let me tell you, it is quite different and most definitely exotic. When Argentines speak sometimes I can barely understand them. They don’t pronounce the words in full and on top of that they speak rapidly with intonations I have never heard before. However speaking is even harder than understanding. Some phrases come out smoothly but most of the time I find myself stumbling for a word or needing to visualize my conjugation table in my head mid sentence. I have just come to realize how language is an incredible barrier between people.  
First of all, the moment I open my mouth it is clear that I am a foreigner, already giving me a certain identity in interpersonal relationships.  Second of all there is absolutely no way of understanding someone like you understand someone of your own culture, because even if you are able to speak their language you do not speak the same cultural language. There is significance in different intonations, word choice, body language, interpersonal norms etc. In our own country we are all used to just being humans, but here we are something else—we are a different type of human because there is a clear and obvious barrier between us. We are not from here.
When moving to a different place I would say that language is most definitely what marks the ultimate barrier. When I moved from San Diego to New York the consistency of the American English made the difference far less drastic between the suburban San Diegan that I was and the upbeat, jaded, coffee drinking New Yorkers.  In addition, as a daughter of Israeli parents who has fluent conversational Hebrew, when I go to Israel, which is wildly different than the US, there is less of a barrier between me and Israelis just because of the consistency of the language. I think this is the reason why people want to learn new languages. It gives us access that we can otherwise not get to a whole other type of population.
Right now I am a strange mix of tourist, student, and inhabitant of the city. I am able to speak and understand them about 60% to 70% but never able to communicate truly. However the truth is that through my broken but improving Spanish I feel as if I am slowly but surely beginning to access this foreign place. 

Coming to France, I had already studied the language for five years.  That being said, I still stumbled (and continue to stumble) all over myself when I trying to communicate in French.  And for my moments of linguistic discomfort, I have created a mantra that sounds something like “Je suis presque bilangue” (which – hopefully – means “I am almost bilingual”).  I love the way the word “presque” sounds and how it feels to pronounce it.  It’s going to be so sad when I can no longer use that word to describe my linguistic skills (a small price to pay for the ability to communicate fully in my favorite language in the world).
 
I sometimes feel conflicted about having come to a country where I do have a good basic knowledge of the language.  I know that being abroad without knowing the local language can, for some people, be an incredibly challenging and rewarding experience.  I sometimes feel like I am missing out. 
 
Botton discusses the “exoticism” in “the neighborliness of the u and i in Uitgang” when exiting the airport in Amsterdam, which is very similar to what I discovered in Bruges on a trip to Belgium last weekend (67).  Flemish has a similar exotic look to Dutch.  It was weirdly wonderful to be in a place where the street signs were practically unreadable (and definitely unpronounceable) simply due to the large number of similar letters strung together in unfamiliar combinations.  It made me want to learn more languages!  It also absolutely terrified me that anything could look so foreign!  I realized that I couldn’t remember a time when the French language looked as foreign to me as Flemish did.  It’s possibly that it never did because the way that French words are formed (letter-order wise) is not as far from English as are the words of Flemish.  (Yet there are still times when I look at or hear a French sentence and it seems to be some garbledy-gook as foreign as the word Uitgang seemed to Botton). 
 
Knowledge of the language is not the only thing it takes to get to know a country as Botton points out when discussing Flaubert’s trip to Egypt.  Flaubert had dreamt of the Middle East all of his life and upon reaching the country, “he simply replaced an absurdly idealized image with a more realistic but nevertheless still profoundly admiring one” (95).  He immersed himself in the culture (as well as the language) and even earned himself a new name given to him by the locals.  In a similar way, my love of Paris and of French continues to grow seemingly in spite of (and because of) all of the idealized images that we, as citizens of the world, have of France and Parisians.  One thing that has been incredibly important for me to realize is that real life goes on here.  Paris is not just a place for me to drop in on to admire from afar.  I’m learning the pace of the city.  I’m learning how to be French.  Of course this is very much colored by the fact that I am not French: I can’t hear the differences between all the French sounds, I eat food while running down the street to class, and I find it unlivable to be without an air conditioner in the summer.  But these are things that I am sure I could get used to should my linguistic desires continue to veer towards the francophone side of things.
 
Perhaps I don’t have a completely different name in France as I do in America, but the French twist on the pronunciation of  “Audrey” is so “exotic” that my name becomes somewhat wonderfully unrecognizable.  It seems that I’m beginning to “fe[el] an intense longing to spend the rest of my life [here]” (75).

I often like to imagine myself being a confident public speaker, cracking jokes left and right, the “life” of any given conversation. In reality though, I’m delusional. When it comes to talking to strangers in English, I usually become very self-conscious and sometimes stutter slightly. Now in Buenos Aires, 90% of my interactions with other human beings take place in Spanish. To say the least, communication can be frustrating.
 
The other day, for example, I found myself caught in torrential downpour without an umbrella and still about fifteen blocks from my home-stay. To make matters worse, I was carrying a bunch of books in my bag and knew it wouldn’t take long for all of them to become a soggy mess. I ran a kiosk and right as I opened my mouth to speak to the owner, I realized I had no idea how to say plastic bag in Spanish. I found myself mired by my own limited vocabulary, quickly becoming more frustrated as the calm porteño before me slowly raised his left eyebrow ever higher. Eventually, I got a few plastic bags and made it home, soaked but content, but this small moment of frustration is one of many here.
 
Though I find having conversations in Spanish here to be quite difficult, I am glad that porteños are so patient with me. When receiving directions after having asked for them, which I do basically every day without fail, they usually see the confused look on my face and repeat what they just said a little slower and in a more pronounced manner. However, these exchanges are usually ended by a phrase I’ve begun to loathe, ¿Entendés? (Do you understand?). I’ve mainly just started hating this because I don’t always understand, but I’m too stubborn to just be honest and say that I don’t know what they’re saying. However, I have found one thing that helps in conversations without fail.
 
In Buenos Aires, body language and hand gestures are extremely important aspects of local culture. This comes in handy when I don’t completely understand directions someone has given me out don’t know the meaning of a certain word. Whether fluid movements or jerking motions, gesturing can help you get a point across here. One of my favorite little motions that I’ve come across here involves coffee. I thought of it the second I read part of Botton’s text: “To condemn ourselves for these minute concerns is to ignore how rich in meaning details may be” (75). In this city, you can just walk into a café, make eye contact with a waiter, and use a simple one-handed motion to tell them what kind of coffee you want. It really is a small detail, I know, but it says so much about the laid-back, relaxed culture here and the fact that it’s beginning to grow on me.

Before even looking at this week’s prompt, I found myself noticing something about the Spanish here in Buenos Aires: to me, it truly seems like a foreign tongue. This city is notorious for having a Castellano accent that is particular to only their region of Argentina. But what has seemed incredibly odd to me is the physical transfer of the sound waves of what I hear in cafés and on the streets into my ear… it is not my native language. And I have been exposed to Spanish before, but always in a classroom setting. Finally placing myself in an area where it completely and totally surrounds me has made it sound so unfamiliar despite my knowledge of the language. Moving past this strange realization of finding myself in exotica has been difficult.
 
In the classroom, I am a confident Spanish student, always eager to learn new grammatical concepts and more vocabulary. Interacting with the locals here, however, I revert to complete shyness and instantly freeze up despite my years of education in the language. I can think in my head in excellent form exactly what I want to say, but more than often it does not come out the way it should. Simple quips I’ve got down, for example, “How much does this cost?” or “can we have the bill, please?”, etc. But having formal conversation makes me blatantly American; usually the instant someone tries to talk to me I have to respond with, “¿como?” (“what?”) and they say either, “oh, am I talking too fast for you?” or the classic, “so, where are you from?” It can be frustrating at times, because my general pattern is I finally understand them a couple of seconds after my initial response of confusion, but at that point it’s too late. I took the picture above in San Telmo (a beautiful barrio here) where on Sundays there is a giant artisan market, called the Feria de San Pedro Telmo. The abovementioned example of a normal conversation for me occurred a lot there, with my attempted haggling skills. I’m here to improve my Spanish, and I know it’s going to take time, but the hope I have for myself is seriously waning. But supposedly patience is a virtue…
 
I’ve been here for almost two full weeks now, and I hope that being in a Spanish class again as well as exploring the city more will help me accept Spanish as not so foreign. The trouble with second languages is, when they are new, it’s hard to be able to listen and understand what is being said in that tongue. It is natural to try and translate it in one’s head to a native language and go from there. This is the biggest challenge for me, and I can’t wait to get to the point where I hear it and understand it just as it is.
 
So in this exotica, I find myself fascinated with certain aspects of the culture and daily life, but the language is nothing new, yet it seems entirely new. As de Botton mentioned in regards to his trip to Amsterdam, “exoticism is located in particular areas” (67). And language should not be one of them for me, yet communicating inevitably is.

I agree with Botton that there is usually an initial pleasure from seeing or hearing a foreign language when traveling.  However this was not the case for me in Viareggio, Italy. I had the opportunity to take a day trip to a nearby beach town in Tuscany to see the famous Carnival parade. This is celebrated all over Italy, however both Viareggio and Venice are famous for their crazy festivals. The only expectations I had for this day trip was that it was going to like one big party. There was a huge celebration in Viareggio, however it was not like any party I’ve been to. People were dressed in a diverse range of costumes and had there faces painted. People were drinking on the street and children were everywhere. Everyone was skipping and dancing throwing confetti in the air and spraying silly string. It was a lot of fun, however there was one problem... I did not know what they were celebrating!

The carnival is famous for its parade of paper mache floats. These huge masterpieces were very creative and beautiful, however they were very different than any parade I have seen in the United States. These large vehicles, were decorated with signs, and messages. There were large animals or figures, such as a wolf, devil, phoenix, or even politicians. They were intimidating and hovering over a group of people standing and dancing on the float. My conflict with the Italian language began at Viareggio because I wish I understood what each float meant. They all were symbols of protest or the publics opinion about the complex government here in Italy. There were pictures of politician’s faces and signs written in italian, that I couldn’t read. Outside of my basic vocabulary, no dictionary would tell me the significance to the slang painted on each float. Basic words recognized were “economia” and “rivoluzione.” 

I felt uncomfortable at Viareggio because I have little knowledge of Italian politics, and won’t understand the public opinions until I can communicate with them better. The I learned from the parade that Italians may be relaxed and slow paced but are very passionate about their rights and customs. Other forms of expressing their opinions are the organized strikes that occur in the transportation system. While there have been a few days that I could take the bus or train, I noticed that the Italians don’t mind the inconvenience because it is making a statement. I hope living here for the semester will give me a better understanding of their opinions. 

 The body language of Argentina enlivens the city in every capacity. I’m not sure if it’s a cause or effect for me; whether my shortcomings of the language lead me to gesture emphatically to make my message more clear or whether it shows my mastery of the culture that every point is driven home with a dramatic hand motion. Each facet of Porteño life comes with distinct and uniquely vibrant body language.
 
Walking down the streets here is loud and close and goes beyond the invisible boundaries that we in the United States keep so dearly. Here in Argentina, staring is not considered rude. Indeed on the collectivos (buses), streets, restaurants, people will gaze directly and unabashedly. At first, I found this uncomfortable and I would avert my eyes, but I’ve learned to stare directly back at people, even giving them a good ole’ New York up-and-down. Two can play at that game. A friend taught me last semester that you’re much less likely to get robbed if you look people directly in the eyes because you could identify their eye color in the event that you were mugged. Though the cat-calling here is creepy, funny and awkward, it’s even funnier when men hit on you through gestures. My favorites being when a man swept the ground a few feet in front of me with their hands or applaud you from cars.
 
The maté culture has its own set of unspoked etiquette. Maté is the bitter and highly-caffeinated tea they drink here out of gourds and metal straws. Argentines drink maté like it’s their job if only they had good work ethic. There’s always the owner/ keeper of the maté who it gets passed to each time the gourd is drained and they are in charge of refilling it with hot water. It’s uncustomary to thank the owner for the refilled gourd because it causes a break in the conversation. The maté gets passed around in groups, usually in a circular fashion. It’s discourteous to hold onto the maté for too long or to skip people in the group. All of this happens in an unspoken dance of passing and sipping, without causing a break in the conversation, study session, etc.
 
Mealtimes have subtle but definite differences in body language. When I moved into my new homestay, Mavi, my madre, was appalled when I came to dinner the first night barefoot. When I told my friends about this, my Chilean friend didn’t skip a beat before telling me how uncustomary it is to dine barefoot. At mealtimes, Argentines will usually have a bread or cracker to scoop whatever they’re eating. Pasta, salad, mashed potatoes, it doesn’t make a difference, they seem to like having a carb vessel for their food. Being a celiac, I feel the need to explain myself whenever I don’t want to scoop rice onto a cracker. Mealtimes last hours, in the words of my father, they don’t just eat, they dine. I love the lack of urgency at meals, people aren’t checking they’re phones, they engage in conversation as if they don’t have better things to do. I feel the more time I spend here, the more porteña my actions become. 

The picture is of a maté-to-go. 

I took a cab yesterday to meet up with a childhood friend that happens to be in Accra for a week. On my way home I chatted up the cab driver because it was Valentine’s Day (which is huge here in Ghana). He asked me why I was alone and I told him that my husband was back in American. He told me that he didn’t have a wife but the reason he drove the cab was so he could make lots of money and then get a wife. He spoke English with confidence and very clearly too. It wasn’t until he said, “You see, I want to touch you, but you have husband so I know that I can’t” that I lost it. I couldn’t help but laugh at him. His name is Benjamin and he is only 20 years old. I didn’t feel threatened by him and I can honestly say that I think something must have been lost in translation because he seemed confused as to why I was laughing so hard. So he said it again. “I wish I could touch you.” In the back of my head I knew I had to be careful, but I wonder if he meant this as if he wanted to give me a hug. He dropped me off and shook my hand and told me Happy Valentine’s Day, to be safe, and to friend him on Facebook. The language barrier definitely has its shining moments at times, but for the most part I find it more interesting than I do frustrating.

I’m enrolled in Intensive Twi, which meets twice a week for two hours. My professor, like all my other professors, teaches us in a very slow manner and repeats himself repeatedly. I think all 35 of us here find this incredibly irritating and hard to accept. I have to take it class by class in order to sit back and enjoy the slow pace of my three hour long lectures. Twi is probably my favorite though. Being able to learn the language at a slow pace helps me absorb it more. Twi is a language that is actually very simple. By simple I mean that it makes sense. The way the language is set up is the way language should be set up and it makes it more motivating to learn and to use it.

I love how excited Ghanaians get when we use Twi and how helpful they are when we don’t pronounce something right or when we don’t know how to say something at all. They are all my Twi professor in a way; constantly helping me communicate with others.    

The picture above is from a Saturday that I spent at the Police Hospital where a morning session of pregnancy school was being taught. This is where mothers can come and learn about giving birth and the proper ways to take care of themselves and their baby during pregnancy. The entire session was taught in Twi. The mother took notes and when I started looking around at what they had been writing down I noticed that all their notes were in written in English.

Question: What is the most spoken language in Abu Dhabi?  Answer: English. 
 
Question: What is the second most used language in Abu Dhabi?  Answer: Urdu
 
Before coming to the UAE I had one semester of intensive elementary Arabic.  Even though that means I can only engage in general greetings, single clause phrases, and negotiating prices, I thought it would at least help me.  Yet, I’ve never once even thought “Ahhh!  I wish I spoke more Arabic!”  Other than the random “inshaallah” (God willing) and “yalla” (Let’s go) I haven’t had a single moment of Arabic language necessity. 
 
This goes to show how international of a city Abu Dhabi is.   Only 10-15% of the people are actually Emiratis- UAE citizens.  The rest are either rich expat Westerners or South / Southeast Asian workers.  In fact, I’m sure that I’ve more often wished that I spoke Urdu, Hindi, or Tagalog than Arabic, by far.  Especially in taxis, because you never know quite for sure if the driver understands.  It is true that all signs are in both Arabic and English, but most often the Arabic is just transliterated English.  Since I can read the letters it is always fun to sound it out: “Mi-ku-du-nul-dz. . . . ohhh McDonalds!” In general, English is the way to go.
 
What has been fun though is how many languages are spoken around me, not only on the streets, but also at the school and my internship.  I’ve had conversations in all of the languages I am familiar with: German, Italian, Spanish, and Swahili- and it is fun to think that in my four months in the Gulf my other languages will get better.  I’ve also made close friends with a Russian student and so I’ve been exposed to a lot of Cyrillic writing and cool little Russian sayings.  I have another friend who is constantly on skype or her phone with family in Turkish- though I have little desire to learn much of it, and another one who sometimes uses Norwegian phrases. 
 
Language has definitely been a part of my experience here, as it has my whole life, but in a way than I didn’t expect.  It was similar in Tel Aviv last semester. I didn’t take Hebrew there, and I never felt like I had to learn much of it.  I’m sure that being in countries where English is heavily understood provides me with a different kind of abroad experience than others.  Maybe it makes these destinations less ‘exotic’ in the way that De Botton discusses, but language familiarity allows me to more deeply explore other cultural, political, and economic issues that interest me and assist my education. 
 
However, when I do finally return to the states- after my 14 months away have ended- I’m sure it will be nice to relax and understand everything going on around me.

I’ve always been good with languages, so when I decided to spend a semester in Florence I assumed I wouldn’t have any issues communicating with locals, but
when I got off the plane in Pisa I began to panic. Asking for a taxi was a disaster. I must have gone up to at least ten different people asking for help, but all I got in return were stares and laughs. For some reason, local Italians think that if they prove to me that they know American curse words, I’ll find it amusing and forget that I asked them for directions, help, etc… How would I survive four months in a country where the only word I knew how to say was ciao? I instantly realized that using hand gestures and making eye contact would be my key to survival. A week went by and so far I had survived. I soon began to notice that I wasn’t the only one to use hand gestures regularly. Botton states that language is not simply composed of words, but “there are gestures, sounds of people’s voices, silly remarks…” (77). Not only have hand gestures allowed me to communicate with locals, but I promised myself that I would try to incorporate the Italian I learned in class into my every day activities. Sure, it was elementary Italian but at least it was something. There have definitely been times when I confidentially walk into a supermarket asking for something, hoping I’ll get a response in Italian. But mid-sentence I realize that I just threw English, Spanish and Italian into the same sentence.  Oops. Not only have I used the wrong words or mixed in a different language (embarrassing!), I have also been corrected for mispronouncing a saying or word. The first time this happened I couldn’t believe it! How could someone be so rude? Would I correct someone if they asked me a question and were clearly not fluent in English? I hated these people. It made me want to purposely speak English to annoy them. However, the fourth time I got corrected, I realized that these people are only trying to help me. If I’m going to try and learn this language, I might as well learn it the right way, right? This will definitely take some time, but I’m determined to go home speaking Italian. I probably should have ordered an Italian rosetta stone.