Lingua Archives - Itch.world

A three-minute escape to Italy.

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May 12, 2019 In Lingua, Live By Nancy

Brava!

I think I’m addicted. I find myself going out of my way to do certain things that might provoke a hearty Brava!, usually accompanied by a beaming smile. Once you are used to people saying brava to you daily there is no going back. (Of course brava has its gender and singular/plural equivalents: bravo, brave, and bravi.)

For me the easiest way to earn a brava is to provide correct change, or pay 2.16€ instead of just 2.00€ so that a 1.66€ purchase is easier to make change for. When I travel to the U.S. or Britain I find myself plunking down ridiculous configurations of bills and change for a coffee, trying to make the job of the cashier nice and tidy, all with the secret intent of earning a brava. The clerk usually looks at me like an idiot and wonders why on earth I’d be giving them 2.16 in cash instead of making life easier by paying with Apple Pay or a contactless credit card. And then I know that I am not in Italy anymore.

Another way to earn a brava is to express an opinion that is slightly beyond brutally obvious, or might echo a matter of taste that the other person in the conversation shares. “I think that shutter would look better painted in gray” might very well elicit a “brava, brava, brava!”

I never wanted to know the true degree of awesomeness really being expressed, preferring to compare myself to an opera diva or a world-class ballerina when I make correct change, but John made me ask. So I talked to my hairdresser about it, asking him to rate brava on a scale from OK to Fabulous. Turns out it’s about a quarter of the way up the scale from OK. Another quarter up the scale is bravissima. I will still happily take any brava I can get. Try it, you may see what I mean. Next time you execute a great parallel parking maneuver, or think of the perfect response in a conversation, give yourself a hearty bravo and see how it feels.

March 3, 2019 In Best Of, Lingua By Nancy

Word of the week: motozappa

Motozappa. It makes your mouth zing to say it. Its more Germanic sounding English translation, rototiller, is left stuck in the mud on a rutted dirt road by comparison. Just say the two together and you will see what I mean. Having words like motozappa is of the many reasons it’s great to live in Italy. (In addition to being considered tall—at 5’4”—and having what I am often told is an exotic name, Nancy.)

The next time you happen to be in the yard just think of how much more you could do if you got your hands on a motozappa. The zappa part comes from the verb zappare: to turn over, dig over, dig out (soil, ground).

February 23, 2019 In Lingua By Nancy

Word of the week: magari

This a word that I hear all the time and that can be used to mean a lot of different things. The dictionary translates it simply as “maybe” or “if only” but that just scratches the surface of how useful this word is.

You can use it to express “Of course! I’d love to!” as in an ironic a response to whether you’d like to go to Paris for the weekend (implying “Of course! If only”).

It often has a strong wistful sense, a kind of “if only” from deep in the soul. “How I wish it was true.” The kind of word you’d pull out to express the regret of a relationship that should have ended differently: “Magari it could have gone differently.” It can also has a meaning of “God willing,” as in things like passing one’s exams, or finding great fortune. This meaning can be accompanied by a bit of a shrug and wave of both hands.

The last set of meanings are “maybe, and what if” “Magari we should open a bottle of wine,” “What if magari we get to the restaurant and they don’t have room?,” or “Magari he would notice she dyed her hair red” are all situations in which magari would be perfectly at home. For starter usage, though, you can’t beat the wistful look into the distance and slight shrug of its “what if” meaning.

Magari you can now speak Italian.

December 8, 2018 In Lingua, Live By Gianna Delle Valle

How are you?

“How are you?”

Such a routine question. “Come stai?” But try asking a distant acquaintance (or any random stranger) on an Italian beach in summer and brace yourself for the hour-long conversation that will follow.

Answers will detail how many hours slept and the quality of sleep, the state of bowels and urination, if the appetite is normal, how the stomach feels, if there are any sore muscles, how healthy teeth and gums are, and if there is any hint of a headache.

If any blood tests have been done recently the conversation will cover key results, and how to improve any findings that are off, such as cholesterol. Descriptions will follow of diets tried, the miracle of kiwis, herbal remedies, new pills on the horizon, special yoghurts, or anything that will fix whatever item needs improvement.

If you are at the centre of the universe then every day you need to have an awareness of the most important thing in the world—you.

By going abroad I was surprised that internal systems seem to work without monitoring. Bowel movements, sleep patterns—these things work without constant checking!

And equally surprised that the last thing we monitor is our true selves, our souls. As if we expect it all to work. As if it does not matter.

November 8, 2018 In Lingua, Live By Donella

What’s the f***ing big deal?

I’m delighted to include an article by our daughter, Donella, who will occasionally chime in with a teenager’s perspective.

On a recent train ride from Florence, I sat near a very sweet Italian boy, who was four, and his mother. They had just left their nonna in Florence, and were already very worried about her whereabouts. Well, the mother was. She wanted to use her phone to check in on the nonna. The son, however, also wanted the phone—to play. He grew impatient with his mother’s fretting and started saying “Ma cazzo mamma eh!”, which translates to “But fuck mom, eh!” At first, I was shocked, but she just laughed, and soon I joined in. They’re just words, right?

That is one of the perks of being a child in Italy; almost no words are off-limits. From middle school on, students can happily swear in class and the teacher will, at most, give the child a scolding look, but more likely will swear right back. This particular freedom of speech lends itself to the very Tuscan mentality of confrontation. Upon reflection, that is the very best thing that happened to me in Italian school: I learned to stand up and defend myself and what I believe in.

Almost no words are off limits. Almost. Some of the most colorful taboo words seem innocuous at first. “Dog,” “pig,” and “cow,” for instance, are tame words, until you pair any one of them with any religious figure. “Diocane” (“god-dog”) is a classic, and is strictly forbidden to use in a classroom, and even more so at home.

This type of swearing is called “bestemmiare,” and essentially means any insult to god. When said in anger it is perceived as much more offensive to God than if it is said in a playful manner, or even to accentuate a sentence. Bestemmie are used by all members of society, old and young (my brother described it as “cool” when he was 12), farmer to president. I remember that one of the most amusing headlines in several national papers a few years ago was when a priest tripped in a procession, and said “Diocane!”

You can take anything, literally anything, not considered to be “nice” and pair it with Dio, Madonna, or Gesu’, and ta-da! you have a bestemmia. You can put your chosen noun before or after the name, and you can be as creative as you want, the essence will always still be there. The most common nouns used are “cane” (dog), “porco” (pig), and “puttana” (slut, referring to the Madonna). However, I have heard many variations, one of my favorites being “diociclope”, or “cyclopsgod”.

People have fun with it, and many people adopt it into almost every sentence, for emphasis, my driving teacher being one of them. It’s a sign of how deeply I’ve internalized Italian culture that, even though I am not religious, whenever I hear a bestemmia uttered in anger, my breath catches in my throat.

October 7, 2018 In Lingua, Live By Nancy

Con Calma

One of my favorite Italian expressions is “con calma,” or “calmly.” I hear it used several times every day.

The phrase is very different from “calm down” in English, which, to me, has this slightly judgmental, and even a bit condescending quality, that hints that you are overreacting. The effect is to make me feel less calm. By a lot.

A perfect example of “con calma” was a morning when I was at a cafe near the beach on a small island. There was a big crowd of hungry people waiting for their morning coffee and pastries, and only one woman working—her two co-workers hadn’t come into work that day. The waiting crowd kept telling her “con calma.” With calm. Meaning we get it, you are doing the best you can, it will all work out, breathe.

There’s a local restaurant that we love that serves squares of pizza from big sheets and little else. There’s the wife who serves and works the register, and the husband who cooks in the back. The two could win the Olympic gold in pairs for “con calma.” It’s always a comforting and calm experience eating there, even on Wednesday lunch during the school year.

Wednesday is the long day at the town’s public schools, so the kids don’t get out in time to go home for lunch. The elementary school has a hot lunch provided, complete with three courses, china plates, and actual flatware. Served by volunteer grandparents at long tables. But there’s no school lunch available for the middle school students, and people seem to fear that they might go hungry, or have to eat something cold, in which case the world might end. So parents have organized this thing where a couple of them go to this restaurant with all the kids’ requests for pizza—all custom made and assembled into labeled bags—which the volunteer parents then deliver back to the school a couple of hundred yards away.

The restaurant comes to a standstill for other patrons, who all stand around waiting for about 45 minutes while the staff of two completely focus on each order for the kids. “Paolo gets one slice of salami pizza and one hot dog pizza, a bag of chips, and a Fanta.” Times about 30. It’s town “con calma” in action for all concerned—the relaxed and understanding patrons, the husband and wife team, and the parents who make it all possible. No one is flustered or annoyed. After all, in Italy, everything stops to make sure that kids eat well.

I can’t think of an equivalent phrase in the U.S.—maybe because being calm, an acceptance that others are human, that situations come up, and, as a result, things might not move as quickly as we’d like—aren’t things we particularly value or want to accept.

As I go through my day and am stressed about little things I frequently tell myself “con calma” and it reminds me to save the stress for things that really deserve it.

September 6, 2018 In Lingua, Live By Nancy

Furbo: clever like a fox. And my son.

Italians have this great word, “furbo.” It means sly, clever, fox-like, and is one of Tuscany’s most prized character attributes. A guy who is furbo won’t be able to get a permit for a pool but will join the community fire watch and offer to put in a reservoir in case a fire breaks out. And then build it in the shape of a swimming pool. That happens to be in his yard. (And we’ve met him. And he’s told us, in detail.)

I wasn’t expecting to use this vocabulary word when I was doing one of my most dreaded tasks as an Italian mother—parent-teacher conferences. There’s no schedule, just a block of time when all the teachers sit at desks in the classrooms and the parents stand in line in the hall and wait their turn.

If a waiting parent is particularly organized they will post a list so other parents can note the order in which they arrived. But mostly, you run from one classroom to another trying to hold your place in multiple lines while attempting to chat in Italian. (Another great word is “chiacchierare,” for chatting or gossip.)

And then you have to go in and talk to the teachers. One by one. And no one speaks English—not even the English teacher.

My sessions never take long. The average parent’s turn with a teacher is about 15 minutes. For me, it’s one. Every parent wants to be next in line after me.

When I went to Sebastian’s first conference at his new school, the basics were conveyed quickly, and were consistent with what previous year’s teachers have told me. “He’s smart. Doesn’t work had enough. Too much energy. But lovely.” This last round, however, he got two “furbo” ratings and one “Furbissimo.” (Italian adds this useful suffix “-issimo” to mean an extreme level of something.)

I was crushed. My little boy furbissimo? On the way home I called John, in shock, to share the upsetting news. He couldn’t have been more delighted. Our son was really becoming Italian.

August 31, 2018 In Lingua, Live By Nancy

The art of obscenity

Last winter, my Facebook feed was overwhelmed by contagion. Scanning the posts, it was clear that an alarming percentage of my American, English, and Italian friends were sick with the flu. And while I felt for them, the thing I really noticed was how differently friends from each country talked about their illness. Americans were sure to share details, for instance, “I’m dying. Never been this sick. The stuff I’m coughing up is GREEN.” The Brits were, well, British. “Been in hospital for 10 days. A bit under the weather.”

But the Italians… They were all about the balls. (And not the balls one uses to play sports.) Balls are a vital part of talking about a wide range of subjects, but they turn out to have a special place in capturing the suffering that comes with the flu. A female friend posted: “Ho due palle gonfie di ste teste di cazzo … Va a finire male me lo sento.” It means: “I have two swollen balls thanks to heads of dicks. This will not end well, I can feel it.” Italians love to swear, and Tuscans are known to be particularly bold and colorful. I’ve found grandmothers to be particularly impressive.

This phrase has uses beyond illness, and it also is frequently used to express “I am annoyed by these stupid people.” I highly recommend using it under your breath during the next meeting you are in when someone is annoying you. You have equal rights to the phrase whether you’re a man or a woman. I’ve recorded my son Sebastian saying each of these so that you can get it right.

Interested in dabbling in Italian testicle-based phrases, but need something a little lighter? You could try “che palle” meaning “what balls” or “how annoying.” (It’s also the name of a chain of arancini (fried rice balls) shops in Sicily.

Other phrases you might want to know:

“Mi hai rotto le palle.” meaning “you have broken my balls.” This is used in response to a distinct action that has happened.

If what is bothering you is more ongoing feel free to use “Mi fai girare i coglioni,” “You have twisted my balls.”

And the ever useful “Tu sei un coglione.” “You are a ball.” (Yes, it’s singular.) A bit softer as it is commonly used, more like “You are an idiot.”

Ready to expand your ball-adjacent Italian vocabulary? Try “a cazzo di cane,” which means “like a dog’s dick.” It’s used frequently to describe a job done badly.

More on the Italian obsession with balls at a later date. Just a friendly reminder. These are not my words. I am a mere reporter, aiming to be as scientific as possible, in linguistic matters.