Come la mia anima piange per le parole dimenticate del mio viaggio.
How my soul weeps for the forgotten words of my journey.
Although I kept a travel journal with me at all times throughout my time in Europe, small glimpses of forgotten conversations between myself and my butcher Massimo or the beggar woman outside of the post office, come back to me, catching me unaware and causing my heart to catch in my chest. Even though I tried to be meticulous about the events, people, and encounters I experienced, life can only be captured like light in a child's small hands--held closely for inspection, until light fades with the crossing of the sun in the sky.
I'm curious if when I am able to return to Italy, how much of the Italian I learned will spring back to my memory. The other day, a friend who also recently returned from Italy, attempted to hold a conversation with me in Italian. It is safe to say that I understood about 80% of what he was saying (the 20% was all really BIG words that I never ever learned of course) but could not formulate a response. But hey, that is still something that I can still understand spoken Italian--now just figure in the different dialects and I'm back to square one. I think the solution to my problem is watching lots and lots of Italian movies (with subtitles on of course--how else will I learn those BIG Italian words?!?)
Certain Italian words, my favorites, whisper to me as I sit at my desk daydreaming about Viterbo: farfalla, libellula, mezzanotte...
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