Italian-ish

Three years ago, I gave my lovely wife a trip to Italy as a Christmas gift.

We’d always dreamed about one day riding bareback through Tuscany, our long flowing hair trailing out behind us in the wind. (I stole that passage from a romance novel.)

And then, the world caught a virus. It was a nasty bug and Italy said ‘Arrivederci’ to all of us unwashed tourists.

Finally, after all this time, Italy has opened her bosom again and we’re finally taking our trip. So, I’m getting ready.

Fortunately, I am not a complete noob. I do have a little experience with Italian culture. I’ve seen all the Godfather movies and I have eaten many a meal at Pizza Hut.

Plus, my mother regularly fed us cans of Chef Boyardee when I was a little kid.

I practically have dual citizenship.

Still, I decided to brush up on my Italian-ish before jumping on a plane and heading to Rome.

First, there’s the issue of money.

Italian money isn’t like American money. Real money has George Washington or Abe Lincoln on it. But that Italian money has folks I don’t even recognize. I think the Pope’s on the dollar and it looks a lot like Mussolini on the twenty.

So, when the guy at the gastronomia (that’s Italian for convenience store, I think) asks me for money to pay for my sausage dog and grape Slurpee, I’m not sure if I need to hand him the green bill with Sophia Loren’s picture on it or the red one with Leonardo da Vinci face on it.

Maybe I should just stick to credit cards.

And there is the language issue.

I don’t know if you are aware of it, but the people over there talk funny.

And it’s not just the accent. They have completely different words for things.

Like, instead of fruit, they say frutta. They’re so close but just can’t seem to get quite get it.

Maybe they need to watch more Sesame Street.

It’s going to be hard talking to those Italy people if they keep mispronouncing all the words, so I am trying to learn a few phrases before I head over.

Like, where’s the bathroom?

They call it a bagno or banjo. I can’t tell, so to be safe I’ll be humming the theme to Deliverance every time I use the facilities.

And I have no idea how to say “Where do you keep the cans of Vienna sausage?” For some reason, they don’t have that phrase in the book I bought.

And then there’s this thing about the time being different.

I’m not completely sure, but I think when it’s Wednesday in America, it’s last Sunday in Italy.

Or maybe a week from Tuesday.

It’s going to really mess with me catching Monday Night Raw. I think it will be on TV on a Thursday morning over there, but I’ll have to ask the concierge at my hotel.

I think ‘raw’ in Italian is crud or mud or something like that. Maybe I’ll just say, “Hulk Hogan.” Im sure he’ll recognize that.

One thing I know I’m going to have trouble with is ordering a cup of coffee.

First, I have noticed that Italians like to drink their coffee out of these tiny little cups no bigger than the ones in my granddaughter’s doll tea set.

Every morning, my wife brews a mug of coffee big enough to drown a poodle in. How many of those baby cups will she have to order to fill up that mug?

And how many of those euro things is that going to cost me?

And according to the book I bought, they have so many rules about coffee. Can I order a cappuccino in the morning or will I be spat upon by some old lady if I want one with my dinner?

What I don’t want to be is one of those obnoxious sweaty American tourists that wears a tank top with the Italian flag on the front and flip flops with white socks.

So, I’m packing light.

No wife beaters. No cut off blue jean shorts. And if I wear a trucker hat, it will be washed.

After all, I will be an official representative of the United States. The last thing we need is an international incident.

I’ve heard people say that on the news and I’m not sure what an ‘international incident’ is. By ordering the wrong coffee drink, will I start a war?

Maybe that’s how the Vietnam War started. Some guy from the South went in a cafe up north one afternoon and asked for milk in his coffee.

From there, as they say in Italy, it was su. (that means on!)

Let’s just hope that I don’t cause any kind of incident- domestic or international.

I have no idea how to say “I surrender” in Italian.