We’ve got it wired; this language thing.  

On our first night in Tuscany, just settling into the little town of Terontola that would be our home for nearly a month, Terri trucked into a small grocery store of sorts in search of some key essentials to get us through the weekend.  In her best L’Italiano, she explained that she needed trash bags, to which the helpful and very friendly storeowner kindly walked her over to a display of flip-flops. 

Next, maybe a day or two later, I pulled into the small parking lot of something called a ‘Supermarket.’  Terri got out to hunt for fruit and such, but it ended up being a discount shoe store. 

In Montepulciano, trying my best to learn of the local attractions, I ordered what I thought to be the famous local red wine; Nobile di Montepulciano.  I received a small glass vial of a clear liquid called grappa, (unfamiliar to me as a near teatotaller), which had the distinct taste of gasoline laced with nitroglycerin.  Aficionados might laugh at my ignorance, me, I just spat it quickly out before losing the ability to speak for the rest of my life.  

But by far the most adventurous language caper was when we showed up at the castle ruins of Castiglione del Lago, set beautifully high on the shore of Lake Trasimeno, Italy’s fourth largest lake.  We were decked out in our evening concert-going wear ready for a symphony, only to discover that it was a Blues festival instead.  Mimicking the good-natured flexibility of the Italians, we shrugged our shoulders, paid the fee, and went in anyway, thoroughly enjoying the authentic sounds of some of New Orleans’ finest (Dr. John and the Lower 911, to be specific).  It was the best symphonic blues concert any of us could recall.

Only in Italy.