Tell me. If that isn't Paradise.

I like Italy. In large part. Because it’s different.  A different place, a different language, a different approach to life. I am compelled to adapt. With a limited vocabulary.  That makes me more observant. I have to pay more attention. To ascertain what’s being said. I’m more likely to listen to the tone of a voice.  To notice hand gestures. To read facial expressions. To catch random familiar words. For hints of the topic at hand. Also, I take advantage. Of Italians that speak English. Maybe that’s rude of me. For not mastering the Italian language. Faster. Faster. Faster. Making me come across as typical American. A bit rude. The very thing that I wish to avoid. Better to fit in. In order to do that, I have to be a little bit clever and innovative.  Almost childlike.  As if I’m a four-year-old. Trying to figure out the gist of what’s happening. Fortunately, my Italian amore. Speaks fluent English.  In fact, she teaches English and English literature. She might even understand English grammar better than I. Able to ace a grammar test. That I would fail. Wow! I’m proud of her. For being everything I’m not. Bilingual. She even dabbles in Russian and Greek and Latin.  And she has a nice accent. Anyway, folks, I’m planning on spending February and March. With dear Cristina. In Sardinia. The second largest island in the Mediterranean Sea. No snow. No freezing temperatures.  Even in the wintertime. Go to the library. For a book about Sardinia. Then tell me. If that isn’t Paradise. --Jim Broede