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The Purple Horse
Mercato Centrale: the ongoing farmers’ market in the heart of Florence. The first floor reeked of spectacular meat delicacies like cow intestines, horse meat, and other mostly unidentifiable items, so being a vegetarian, I naturally fled this area of the market (except on days when I needed to make a stop at one of the bakeries, which was often—why had they thought to keep them on the same level as the meat? The thought of it is unpleasant!) and headed straight upstairs to the produce area.
Learning the names of my favorite fruits and vegetables in Italian quickly became one of my favorite pastimes, and I prided myself on being able to tell the vendors what I wanted to purchase without using any English. Of course, my phrases were simple, and if they were impressed that the silly American girl was using Italian and wanted to talk to me further, which sometimes did happen, I would freeze regarding what to say next. Often I could understand what they were asking or telling me, but was just unsure of a response, so I’m sure I came as a disappointment when I would just begin to shake my head and mutter my apologies or even pull out the dreaded phrase: “Non parlo Italiano.” Oh, it felt like such a failure when I had to do that! But I was trying, really I was, and as long as I had planned out exactly what I would say, and as long as they responded back exactly as I thought they would, and as long as they didn’t dare try to take the conversation any further, this silly American girl would walk away feeling on top of the world.
One day, I spied some heads of red cabbage at a produce stand in the market and knew I wanted to buy one to use in that night’s dinner. I turned with my back facing that particular stand and pulled out my pocket dictionary. I looked up the word for cabbage: cavolo. Taking a breath to prepare myself, I casually walked over to the stand. I started by saying that I wanted to buy five or six mushrooms. The vendor, who was quite friendly and was even singing and dancing about, happily obliged and tossed some funghi in a bag for me, making a little show of it.
He looked at me inquisitively as if to say, what else? I then asked for purple cabbage. It dawned on me awhile later that while the cabbage is technically purple, in the culinary world it is referred to as red. It dawned on me immediately, however, that he had no idea what I was talking about. I said it again, smiling this time, as if that would clear things up. He looked at me again with the same perplexed expression, now appearing somewhat amused. I said it a third time, pointing at the cabbage. A lightbulb went off in his head (most assuredly related to the pointing and having nothing to do with what I was saying), “Radicchio!” I learned later that this was a specific cabbage variety.
Walking away after the transaction was completed, however, I began scratching my head. Even if it were a specific type of cabbage with some fancy name, and even if I had used the wrong color, surely he would have known what I meant if I had said cabbage correctly. I turned my back again and pulled out the dictionary, glancing over the page for similar words. Cabbage, cavolo. Horse, cavallo. Is that what I said? Cavallo? I ran over the conversation in my head. I had said cavallo! And not just cavallo, but cavallo violo, or purple horse. I had a hunch they weren’t even selling horse meat of that variety on the first floor. In fact, I would have probably needed to make a trip to the Land of Oz for that kind of delicacy.
It was my first day at the Italian language school in Florence, and I quickly learned that in my class of fifteen, there were only two other American students besides me. I was delighted by this because I had been dreaming of feeling like a true international student, and being surrounded by other Americans at all times puts a bit of a damper on that. The class lasted four hours each day, and it was completely spoken in Italian. I loved every minute of it, but would grow tired around hour three, when the morning’s espresso would begin to wear off.
The first day, around this time, we were still learning to correctly speak basic Italian introductions and were in the process of going around the room sharing bits and pieces about our home countries. I suppose I may have zoned out for a few moments, and I should stress here that when having language lessons entirely in the language that is foreign to you, it is imperative to pay close attention with ears and eyes. Visual clues are necessary when trying to make up for a lack of vocabulary and grammar. There is no zoning out if you want to keep up. It is a constant game of deciphering what is being said.
I thought for sure that on this particular go around, we were sharing things which originated in Italy but which we enjoy in our home countries. And I even thought I was particularly clever when I recalled how American children are always told again and again the story of Pinocchio, which is Italian. I decided to go with that answer when it was my turn, and when that moment arrived, I blurted out assuredly, “Pinocchio!” There, I thought. None of the answers so far have been this good. I felt proud of myself for about, oh, a millisecond, before my teacher could not help but chuckle, then asked in Italian, “In America, you eat Pinocchio?” My face turned red as I realized that the topic of discussion had not been what Italian things we have in our home countries, but rather what Italian foods we have.
I laughed aloud at myself and shook my head to let everyone know that I wasn’t really that dense, then revised my answer at lightning speed, saying the first Italian food that came to mind that surely I could not mispronounce, “Pizza!” Having given a generic albeit acceptable answer, my teacher nodded approvingly and moved on. I forced a smile to counteract the amount of embarrassment I felt. If only I had paid more attention! Didn’t you realize everyone else was talking about food!? I lectured myself silently. No, I hadn’t. I just thought everyone was talking about spaghetti because they were unimaginative. Language class is not the time to daydream, I learned in that moment.