The 3 Most Useless Italian Words

The rain finally stopped that weekend and a ferocious wind brought the sun. I decided to go to a morning mass they were having for their special 40 Hours observances and as I was getting ready, besides the howling wind, I kept hearing weird scraping noises. When I left the house I noticed all the chair on the terrace had been blown into the far corner. That’s when I remembered Adriana saying once the table actually flew off the terrace and down the mountain. I went out to retrieve the chairs, but the wind was so strong I could barely walk back carrying each one and I had to push into the wind and drag each chair. I was terrified we would take off like the old women on her bike in the Wizard of Oz. Once they were all secured I headed down to church and on my way down the church steps an older women was grabbing the rail for dear life and yelling to me “Molto vento”. And I kept saying “Non parlo itlaliano”. And she keeps repeating it like I’m a dummy. And then I realized, I am a dummy, she’s trying to teach me the words “very windy”. So I finally smiled and repeated with big arm gestures “molto vento”. And we both felt proud of ourselves.

Let me digress for a moment and mention the three most worthless words in the Italian language: ‘Non parlo italiano’,or “I don’t speak Italian”. Every store I enter or every person I encounter who I have to say more than “Buon giorno” to, I then immediately say “Non parlo italiano”. They then smile, nod their heads and promptly ramble away in rapid and violent Italian and look at me like I understand and then pause for me to reply. I then say “Non capisco”, ‘I don’t understand’, and they are off and running again. This is why God gave them flailing arms and hands. I at least know, occasionally, where or who they might be talking about. And sometimes the particularly aggressive ones will actually grab my hands as If I’m Helen Keller and try to shake the information into me. It works. And luckily I have always used my hands when I talk so I have been able to get my needs across that way as this is a culture which understands the visual medium. The first time I went to the butcher I hadn’t known it would be open so I hadn’t looked up any words for what I wanted. It was easy to point at the chicken and wonderful to see him actually cut it up and skin it for me. None of that packaged crap we get at home. But then I wanted some ground meat for putting in pasta. The only word I knew was carne and he pointed at the steak. I said no and started miming making meatballs and stupidly repeating the word over and over. Then I started turning my hand in circles and going “rhrhrhrhrh” like a grinder and he suddenly understood. I watched him attach a part to this big machine, go in his cooler and take out some beef and whack off a few pieces and then put them in the grinder. He then asked me if that is enough and I said “si”. Talk about fresh and clean ground beef! The next time I went in there they were actually making these ground up things shaped like patties. I said “comme say dice?” meaning what do you call that. The young man said ”amahbogah”. I looked at him quizzically and repeated, “amahbogah”? And he nodded and I thought what the heck is that? He repeated it again, and so did I. By the 3^rd or 4^th time I laughed and said “Oh, hamburger” and he laughed and nodded. I bought four.

Back to church and our windy day. I sat in mass that day and listened more to the wind than the priest. As the church has this glorious position right above the sea and facing both water and cliffs it is also broadly exposed to the elements. The wind raged against those walls. The present church was built in 1572 on an existing structure from 1200. The majolica tile bell tower and cupola are famous sites on this coast. Inside various areas have undergone restoration, with a beautiful and colorful painted tile floor with the motif of the fruits of the area- oranges, lemons, etc  included in the design along with traditional religious decoration. The side altars are all in a bit of disrepair, but the center nave is splendid with bursts of Cherubs everywhere and Italianate taste gone wild, but beautifully so. Square pillars six by six feet wide hold up these ancient walls that are thicker even than the pillars. As I sat listening to the wind I actually felt fearful it was so loud, so deep and unrelenting. Moto vento did not seem to cover what I was hearing and feeling. I worried the church would start to crumble and pieces fall down upon us. Then I laughed at myself as I thought of all the years this structure had stood up to this sort of punishment. Besides the long unneeded and crumbling guard towers on certain points on this coast, the churches are the only surviving ancient structures here. They were built to last. For centuries people have climbed up or down these cliffs to pay homage to God here, to ask His blessings on their families, their fishing, their planting, their building. This small town of 2,000 people has eight churches or chapels. They BELIEVE He will keep them safe through it all, so they have built Him homes beside their own. I decided that day, that to worry about the church collapsing in the wind was both ridiculous and a sign of a lack of faith in God, myself and all the people who had sat in these pews before me. Moreover, I realized why the walls of my home here were two feet thick and why these wise people followed the bible by building homes on rock instead of sand. Moto vento cannot touch these sturdy peoples who have conquered the ability to live and thrive on the cliffs above this sea.