As I sat eating my lunch and listening to BBC Radio 1 (everyone is entitled to their fair share of nostalgia), my doorbell rang. No, I'm not such a loner that it was a surprise to me that someone was actually at my door. I live in a private set of apartments that requires a non-resident to use the callbox to get whoever they're visiting to buzz them in. So, my surprise at having someone at my door is justifiable!
Anyway, I opened the door to this young man, dressed very smartly and carrying a clipboard. Almost immediately, he started talking rapidly in Italian. When I first arrived and listened to Italians talk to each other, it reminded me of my shouting matches with my sisters when I was younger. Whichever one of us could shout the loudest and get their point across first would win. Italians talk as if competing with each other over who can fit the most amount of words into a minute of conversation time. Theydon'tactuallybreathewhentheytalk. Of course, my dumbfounded look is normally enough to make them stop and realise that I don't actually have a clue as to what they're rambling about. But this guy just kept talking and talking and talking. I wanted to ask him to just continue whilst I went back into my kitchen to finish my lunch. Finally, when I saw that he was about to pause for breath, I immediately jumped in with 'non capisco. Sono inglese!'- the result of a week of Italian lessons. Aha! Some communication! So he began to speak a bit slower. I recognised phrases such as 'luce' and 'paggare' and finally concluded that he was here to ask me to pay my bills. It took me a good few minutes to form one sentence: 'Io non pagare le bollette' (i'm still chuffed at this achievement). I hoped at this moment he would just respond with 'ah ok! Ciao!'. Ma non, he went on to ask 'di dove sei?' 'Londra'. 'Sei una studentessa?' 'Si.'
I'm going to have to tell my Italian teacher tomorrow that I was able to hold a conversation in Italian with another person (after that other person realised that remembering to breathe was the only way any conversation would be possible) - just in case she's been doubting my ability.
After I had done the polite bit about asking about him (Marco, 26, a profession that deals with bills- didn't understand, but nodded anyway), he said something else that I just could not understand. But I smiled and nodded to be polite and thought the conversation was over because he was backing out of my door. 'Ciao!', I said, thinking that was that. Nope, he learned forward and said something about 'sympatica' and 'numero di telefono' as if I was stupid. Huh? When did I agree to this? He wrote down his number and left with a friendly wave.
So, I was left with a cold lunch, a half-made (cold) tea and the telephone number of Marco, 26, the bills guys, and I have no idea why. I can only think that when I nodded I must have been agreeing to something he had proposed. Dangerous ground. And that is the consequence of being lost in translation!
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