There are some days where I think I’ve got it. That I think I’m blending in to my tiny Sardinian town. Days where I think I can pass off as one of those natural italian blondes to the unsuspecting persons in a cafè, with my black jeans, nike trainers and aviator sunnies. Just conversing “con la mia amica”, whilst contently sipping my two sip espresso. Yes there are defiantly some days where I think I have the Italian language sorted. And then there’s the other 85% of my week. All the other days where everything I hear is jibberish. When ordering an espresso is fashionably stupid because two sips of coffee has the same effect as taking half a Panadol. Which is nothing. Days when I’m staring at my acquaintance with panicked eyes, fear radiating off me like a microwave and a brain on constant shut down mode. When the only italian response I can manage is “si” or “certo”.  These are the days I am super aware of just how enept I am at learning another language.

This is unfortunate, as I have infact spent the last six months at a school, taking lessons. My poor, poor Maestra. I am deeply sympathetic to this Italian Donna who has to experience my butchering of her language, twice a week, for 2.5 hours. I don’t think I’m a shining highlight of her week and I dread the day the word “esame” will be brought up in conversation. I honestly hope there’s a prize for participation when it does.

The reason I have led this most recent entry with a tiny intro to my language skills, is to give a background to an incident today that, for the sake of my health, could have been prevented. And big surprise, it involved food.

This evening, in celebration of the return of a family member from Milan, and because we really could not be bothered cooking, my live-in family and I decided to go to a pizzeria for dinner. This is fantastic. I love pizza. It was one of the top contending reasons why I said yes to moving to Italy for one year. And according to the family, the pizzeria we were heading to is one of the best they’ve experienced in Italy. I’m excited. I peruse the menu and see the usual favourites, Primavera, Capricciosa and the standard Margherita, but right down the bottom of the list, I also see something called “Pane Araba”. I’ve never heard of this before but the description says mozzarella, ham, salad (this is to trick myself into thinking that eating a whole pizza has some nutritional value) and tomatoes. Brilliant. This sounds like a go-er. I’m not even going to ask the family what it is. I’ll try this one, per favore.

Ten minutes later the pizzas are ready and naturally, mine is the last to be served. Now had I been successful at learning italian, I would have made this simple connection before I ordered my dinner. Pane, in italian, means bread and Araba, well, Araba according to google translate means Arab, but I don’t quite get the connection to Middle Eastern cuisine so I’m going to let this word go. So bread pizza, hmmm bread pizza. A pizza with bread on it. Once again, had I properly learnt Italian, this is something that would have struck me as odd, so I would have been prepared for what was placed infront of me. A pizza burger. I go to a top notch pizzeria and order a pizza burger. For the love of God, people were staring! 

I know what some of you are thinking. A Pizza burger does not sound like a bad thing. And dare I say it, some of you might even be a little bit jealous. But in a place where chicken as a pizza topping is scoffed at, ordering a Pizza Burger receives the same reaction as if you were to go into Dominos with a fake moustache and fake italian accent. They don’t know if you’re taking the piss or completely serious. As it turns out, I was completely serious.

In summary, I don’t regret what I did. I only wish I had understood the consequences of such a decision. The pizza burger was delicious, but I know, that come time to put on a bikini, I’ll only have myself to blame.