Dove posso trovare del burro di...

My mind goes blank. How is this happening? My friend just gave me the bloody word, and I have already forgotten it. I seem to recall a mixture of consonants, even some vowel sounds in random order, but nothing even closely resembling anything of linguistic function. I try to garble out of my mouth a random permutation and immediately regret the attempt. The employee and I stand there, face-to-face, communicating with blank expressions like two desperados realizing they just brought air horns to a gunfight.

Frustrated beyond measure, I attempt to communicate using the universal art of sign language, motioning with my fingers, outlining the minuscule object in question. The employee must think I am squeezing the udders of a cow, because he gives a little chuckle, motioning me toward the milk section. With both sides defeated, I drop the case (or he just left, I don't know).

Come on, it's peanut butter!

I guess I should have asked for the international food section. La sezione di cibo internazionale. After all, I knew how to say that. It's practically English.

**********

Those who know me know that language is not my strong suit. It is a wonder that English has survived Andrew Trees for as long as it has (some friends of mine claim it hasn't). Even so, hardly content with butchering one language to a pulp, I now continue my path of destruction into the pure-hearted romance languages; virgin with their crisp texture, melodic pacing, and exact pronunciation.

I have taken just enough Spanish in my life (four years high school, a semester in university) where it is in my head to some degree. Then I took a semester of Italian, which is pretty much Spanish with different spelling, different (often opposite) grammar, and pretty much different everything. Two years and no practice later, here I am. I'd say I can speak one language well: 3/4 English and 1/4 Spantalian.

To make matters worse, since I am in an international economics school, I have made friends from all over the world (a blessing, in itself). I hear English in my head, Spanish on the tram, Italian in class, and Brazilian (which for some reason they call Portuguese) at lunch. Whenever I want to say anything, my mouth feels like a trash compactor, loaded to erupt into my victim's ears its putrid concoction of sounds that dogs cannot hear. I cover my mouth in shame, open it for the prescribed dose, and wince as my patient takes the medicine. Then we both cry.

Not that I am satisfied or proud of this in any manner. Yesterday was the straw that broke the camel's back of frustration for me. I hung my head low as I returned via tram from the supermarket to my dorm, passing graffiti-covered walls on the outskirts of town, far from the inoculation of American or English-speaking influence. Those walls--I had failed them.

I feel like showing up to a foreign country without bringing the language with you is sort of like showing up to a sandlot game without bringing a glove. Sure, people will smile and be polite. You might be able to take a few fastballs with your bare hands. Maybe someone can even spot you their old beat-up little-league glove for a while. However, you just don't want to be that guy. It sucks. For everyone.

**********

My thoughts shamefully drift toward my largely unopened Italian immersion course materials in my dorm. I reluctantly make my way for the colossal tower of Nutella (why do they love this stuff so much?!) for discount in the center of the supermarket.

After all, I'm mute, not blind!

My First Post

St. Augustine mentioned that the world is a book, and that those who do not travel visit only one page. That is easy for him to say. He never had to deal with passports, travel visas, permits of stay, and debit card expiration dates. He did not need proof of residence, finance, and health insurance. Gold was the standard everywhere he went, and he didn't need to empty his pockets when going through port security. His known world was not much larger than a country.

St. Augustine and I are a kindred spirit with a common compulsion. We are also both guilty of a common arrogance--a narcissistic perspective that travel should be not only enjoyed, but expected, even easy. He preached surrounded by serfdom, slavery, and social conventions that he could not taste. So sit I here today, thousands of miles from home, zero from expectations, and far from done. I have been given an Augustinian highway as I callously whine because of the speed bumps. And I might even be missing the scenery.

My original goal was to visit 50 countries before my adult life begins (which I defined liberally by full-time job and/or marriage). 50 pages. Roughly a quarter of the book St. Augustine describes. I have summer, winter breaks, and long weekends; close-to-nothing transportation costs; and friends living in all six continents to help me out. I figured I could easily accomplish my goal, hopping from country to country, never spending more than three days in any one place. After all, a place is nothing more than a dot on a map, a passport stamp, a page.

How flawed my vision was. St. Augustine would have been appalled. This is not a book worth skim-reading or crash-studying with Cliff Notes. Places are not points to connect, but rather spaces to be filled. Yes, they are pages in a book, but they are also volumes in a collection, collections in a library, and libraries in a system. Thus a man may read more bound for a lifetime to his city-state than a merchant that has traveled the seven seas.

So here I am in Milan without a euro in pocket, yet blessed beyond measure. I forget this for a minute and return to my various weekend fantasies -- Venice, Rome, Florence, London, Brussels, Barcelona, Monte Carlo, Athens, Prague, Munich, Zurich -- thinking this would put me at twenty. And here I am in Milan.

I have never been a good reader. I have never been given a better opportunity to learn than right here, right now.