La Bella Lingua: My Love Affair with Italian, the World's Most Enchanting Language

by Dianne Hales

  A tutti gli italiani che hanno condiviso la loro lingua—

  e la loro vita—con me

  TO ALL THE ITALIANS WHO HAVE SHARED THEIR LANGUAGE—AND THEIR LIFE—WITH ME

  Il cor di tutte

  Cose alfin sente sazietà, del sonno,

  Della danza, del canto e dell’amore,

  Piacer più cari che il parlar di lingua,

  Ma sazietà di lingua il cor non sente.

  Of all things, the heart grows sated—

  Of sleep, of love, of sweet song, and merry

  dance—

  Things which give more pleasure than the

  tongue does in speech,

  And yet of the tongue the heart is never sated.

  GIACOMO LEOPARDI, 1798–1837

  Italian poet, essayist, and philosopher

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Introduction: My Italian Brain and How It Grew

  Confessions of an Innamorata

  The Unlikely Rise of a Vulgar Tongue

  To Hell and Back with Dante Alighieri

  Italian’s Literary Lions

  The Baking of a Masterpiece

  How Italian Civilized the West

  La Storia dell’Arte

  On Golden Wings

  Eating Italian

  So Many Ways to Say “I Love You”

  Marcello and Me

  Irreverent Italian

  Mother Tongue

  Bibliography

  Acknowledgments

  Grazie. Grazie tanto. Grazie mille. Vi ringrazio.

  I wish there were more ways to say thank you to the many, many people who helped me with La Bella Lingua.

  I am most grateful to my collaborator, tutor, and coach, Alessandra Cattani, proprio un tesoro. I wouldn’t have been able to pull off this bella sfida (lovely challenge) without her creativity, vast knowledge, endless patience, and good humor. Our mutual friend Francesca Gaspari, director of San Francisco’s ItaLingua Institute, first ignited my passion for Italian with her vivacious zest for her native tongue. I send un abbraccio forte to Cristina Romanelli of the Società Dante Alighieri in Florence, who brought the history of Italian to life for me.

  Many distinguished champions of the language were extremely generous with their knowledge and time. I was honored to meet and interview Francesco Sabatini of L’Accademia della Crusca, Ambassador Bruno Bottai of the Società Dante Alighieri (La Dante), and Luca Serianni of La Sapienza in Rome. I became a fan of Valeria della Valle and Giuseppe Patota after reading their lucid books on Italian’s history and usage, but my admiration has soared since meeting them. I truly consider myself their humble allieva (pupil), and I thank Valeria for the very special gift of her friendship. I am particularly indebted to the amiable Lucilla Pizzolli of La Dante, who provided books, contacts, explanations, and enthusiasm. I also want to thank Alessandro Masi and Raffaella Fiorani of La Dante and Delia Ragionieri and Paolo Belardinelli of La Crusca.

  Many others served as my “faculty” in Florence, including Contessa Maria Vittoria Rimbotti, Enrico Paoletti of the local Società Dante Alighieri, Professors Ernestina Pellegrina and Massimo Fanfani of the University of Florence, Philip Taylor of Polimoda Institute, Pamela Pucci of the Florence tourism office, and Ignazio Leone of Libri d’Arte. A heartfelt grazie to Rita, Antonella, Annalisa, Daniel, and the entire staff at Palazzo Magnani Feroni, who made me feel a mio agio in Florence.

  I am thankful to Ludovica Sebregondi and Maestro Mario Ruffini for everything they taught me about art and opera, but most of all for the delight of their company and the joy of their friendship. The same holds true for Maestro Maurizio Barbacini and his wife, Antonella. In San Francisco, Kip Cranna of the San Francisco Opera and Luciano Chessa further enhanced my musical education.

  I learned to appreciate the language of Italian cinema with the help of Gianfranco Angelucci, Sergio Raffaeli, Maurizio di Rienzo, Tullio Kezich, and the helpful staff at Rome’s Casa del Cinema. I owe much of my knowledge of Italian cuisine to Guido Tommasi of Guido Tommasi Editore; Gabriella Ganugi of Apicius, the Culinary Institute of Florence; Luca and Francesco Bracali of the fabulous Ristorante Bracali in Ghirlanda Massa Marittima; poet and food historian Luigi Ballerini; and Leonardo Fasulo of Osteria Fasulo in Davis, California, whose food makes us feel that we’re eating in Italy. I am grateful to several women, among them Giulia Pirovano of the Camera Nazionale della Moda Italiana, Anna Fendi, and Elisa Roggiolani, and to David Mohammadi of San Francisco’s Emporio Armani for all they’ve taught me about Italian style.

  Beppe Severgnini’s wit and insight deepened my appreciation of Italian and its speakers. The effervescent actor and dantista Roberto Benigni opened my eyes to an entirely new way of appreciating Dante. Vito Tartamella taught me more than I ever thought I’d want to know about Italian’s parolaccia or bad language. Alberta Campitelli of Rome’s office of Beni Culturali provided an enchanting insider’s view of the city’s historic villas. Aldo Colonetti of the Istituto Europeo di Design greatly broadened my understanding of Italian design. I thank Raffaele Simone for the gift of his book and his perspective and Maurizio Borghi for introducing me to the works of Niccolò Tommaseo. I add un bacio to Crescenzo, Andrea, and Simone D’Ambrosio, whose much-missed father taught me some of my earliest Italian phrases.

  My research in the United States began at the Istituto Italiano di Cultura di San Francisco, where I was fortunate to find Annamaria Lelli, Valeria Rumori, and the aptly named Robin Treasure. Elisabetta Nelsen of San Francisco State University was a rich source of ideas and insights. Carol Field, both through our talks and her books, provided a wealth of information on Italian cooking and cooks.

  I also thank Stefania Scotti, my conversation and literature teacher for several years, for preparing me for my first research trip to Italy and her husband, Federico Rampini, for helping me identify sources. My thanks also go to my other Italian teachers, including Lorenza Graziosi, Valeria Furino, and Tony Sottile. Among others in the Bay Area who contributed to my research are Carla Falaschi; Lido Cantarutti of the Marin Italian Film Festival; Caterina Feucht, Armando di Carlo, and Steven Botterill of the University of California, Berkeley; Carla Melchior; Paola Sensi-Isolani of St. Mary’s College; chef Daniel Scherotter of Palio d’Asti restaurant in San Francisco; and Sandow Birk and Marcus Sanders, coauthors of an illustrated contemporary version of the Divine Comedy. Grazie, also, to Judith Greber and the wonderful women of her writing group, who encouraged me to think—and write—outside the box.

  The books and translations of Julia Conaway Bondanella and Peter Bondanella of the University of Indiana were invaluable resources, and I was even more appreciative of the mini-tutorial they gave me in Italian literature, history, and cinema. I also am grateful for the assistance of Peter D’Epiro and Mary Desmond Pinkowish, authors of Sprezzatura; Beverly Kahn and Aldo Belardo of Pace University; Valerie Steele of the Museum of the Fashion Institute of Technology; Paul Salerni of Lehigh University; and Traci Timmons of the Seattle Art Museum.

  Italian translates “friendship” as amicizia, but I learned its true meaning from Roberto and Carla Serafini, who served as my first Italian instructors and taught me so much about language, food, history, and their beloved Rome. Other dear friends, Andrea Fasola Bologna and his son, Lorenzo, modern reincarnations of true Renaissance men, welcomed my family into their magnificent home and their lives. I send baci e abbracci (kisses and hugs) to la mia cara amica Cinzia Fanciulli, another of my guides into Italian culture, and her ever-charming husband,
Riccardo Mazurek. I am grateful to another Italian friend, Narriman Shahrokh, for her careful reading of the final manuscript.

  I wrote the proposal and first draft of La Bella Lingua in a very special place called L’Ercolana. We thank the most gracious Alain and Cristina Camu for sharing their home with us. I add an affectionate grazie to Giustina, Maria-Augusta, and Ubaldo, our extended family in Porto Ercole, and to Ferruccio and Erasmo of F-Marine, delightful companions on land and sea.

  La Bella Lingua might have forever remained a dream if not for the encouragement and expertise of another tesoro, my wonderful agent and friend, Joy Harris. It was pleasure indeed to work again with my gentilissima editor Jennifer Josephy, who shares my enthusiasm for all things Italian and who was absolutely critical in helping me find the voice for La Bella Lingua. I thank Anne Chagnot for all her help and send complimenti to copyeditor Alison Miller, designer Maria Carella, and production editor Ada Yonenaka.

  My deepest appreciation, as always, goes to my carissimi, my dearest Bob and Julia, who never expected to end up with an Italian wife and mother. Sharing this adventure with Roberto e Giulia has made it all the more fulfilling and fun.

  A tutti, grazie di cuore.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  I am neither a linguist nor a scholar, but throughout La Bella Lingua, I have tried to use the most widely accepted forms of Italian spelling and punctuation. If I have committed any strafalcioni, the Italian word for blatant linguistic blunders, I apologize. The fault is entirely mine. La colpa è solo mia.

  “LEARNING A NEW LANGUAGE IS LIKE GROWING a new head,” a European friend told me long ago. “You see with new eyes, hear with new ears, speak with a new tongue.” Neuroimaging has proved her right: the mental gymnastics of groping for even the simplest words in a different language ignites brand-new clusters of neurons and synapses. And so I, lacking a single drop of Italian blood, can nonetheless claim something utterly, wholly, irrevocably Italian as my own: the language hot spots that have been growing steadily deep within my brain for more than a quarter-century.

  Never did I—a sensible woman of sturdy Polish peasant stock—expect to become madly, gladly, giddily besotted with the world’s most luscious language. But when I traveled through Italy on a mostly mute maiden voyage, Italians had talked constantly to, at, and around me. Yearning for a few words to offer in return, I decided to study their language.

  My first teacher was an intense young woman from the Abruzzi who had recently moved with her new American husband to San Francisco. She insisted that I repeat an Italian sentence that translated into “I am going into the corridor to smoke a cigarette.”

  “But I don’t smoke,” I objected.

  “Italians smoke,” she countered. “Signora, questa frase è importante.”

  “It’s not important to me,” I persisted. “I am never, ever going into a corridor in Italy to smoke.”

  She sighed. I changed the subject and asked her what she missed most about Italy. “La piazza,” she said as wistfully as if it were the name of a loved one left behind. After a few seconds, she added, “La domenica.”

  “Sundays?”

  “When you go to Mamma’s.” She began to sob. Shortly thereafter she packed up and returned to Italy.

  My next teacher, an aspiring actress who taught Italian to local children, displayed picture books of baby ducks and puppies. When I balked at learning ninnananne (lullabies), she handed me off to her father, who taught Italian at the local community college. Tony, a trim Neapolitan who biked over the hills to my home, would break into arias, dropping to one knee to serenade me with “E lucevan le stelle” and “Che gelida manina.” One day, arriving in a fierce rainstorm, he shook himself dry on the doormat and unforgettably taught me a new word by proclaiming himself inzuppato—literally “dunked in the soup.”

  Soon I was a goner, inebriated with Italian’s sounds, lovesick for its phrases. My next classroom was a Sausalito bungalow festooned with so many cherubs and hearts that I thought of its voluptuous owner as la mia Valentina. A Romana (and professional chef) of indeterminate age with henna hair and a full figure Italians might describe as abbondante, she served me delectable merende (snacks) and juicy tales of long-ago lovers.

  “Aspetta!” (“Wait!”), Valentina would prompt as she eased the cork from a bottle of prosecco and then sighed at the sound of its pop. “Viene!” (“She comes!”) From her I learned my first smattering of parolacce, or naughty words, as well as slang for various anatomical parts. I have never looked at a fig in the same way since.

  At the ItaLingua Institute, a warm and welcoming pezzo d’Italia (piece of Italy) in the Bay Area, I took seminars on opera, art, manners, poetry, architecture, wine, and cinema. In grammar workshops with its native-born teachers, I paddled through Italian’s treacherous tenses, trying to navigate the confounding conditional and the slippery subjunctive. With even greater effort I struggled to corral its impish pronouns, which flit from the front to the back of sentences, disappear entirely, or latch on to verbs like fleas to a cat’s ear.

  Crossing the line from tourist to scholar, I decided I was ready to study in Italy. However, the first teacher I had arranged to study with developed a leg cramp while swimming off the Amalfi coast. A Sicilian prince sailing nearby swept her onto his private yacht—and then into a castello by the sea. She never again gave lessons—or, for all I know, decamped from her royal digs. I had better luck at a private school in a Renaissance villa in Assisi, where a distinguished professor, Angelo Chiuchiù, headed a faculty of striking young women (who did indeed excuse themselves to smoke cigarettes in the corridor).

  Although my basic grammar skills earned an encouraging “Complimenti!,” il professore grimaced at my accent. “Non è bello,” he said, recounting an anecdote about Richard Strauss, who told an orchestra that they were playing all the right notes yet not making music. I must have looked crestfallen, for he hastened to assure me that this was “un problemino,” a teeny-tiny problem. All that I had to do was talk with more Italians.

  Returning to Italy every year since then, I improved my Italian in the most tried-and-true way: by tripping over my tongue and learning from my mistakes. At Camponeschi, our favorite restaurant in Rome, the waiters giggled when they overheard me describe the wonderful view from our apartment terrace of the roofs of Rome. Instead of the masculine tetti (roofs, pronounced tet-tee), I had used the feminine slang tette (tits, pronounced tet-tay).

  After other embarrassing slips, I learned to hold double consonants for three beats to avoid saying “ano” (anus—and its cruder forms) instead of “anno” (year). On a boat we chartered to Sardinia I invited our co-captains Ferruccio and Erasmo (an Italian George Clooney look-alike) to accompany us to dinner in Porto Rotondo because after so much time together I feared that my husband was getting bored—except I said that he was getting boring. (It made for an interesting three days at sea.)

  Somewhere en route to fluency, I turned into Diana, pronounced Dee-ahn-aah, and entered a parallel universe where I wear my heels higher and my necklines lower, dance barefoot under the Tuscan moon, and swim in island coves so blue that the Italians say the color twice: azzurro-azzurro. Best of all, I have realized how right the British author E. M. Forster was when he urged visitors to drop “that awful tourist idea that Italy’s only a museum of antiquities and art.” “Love and understand the Italians,” he urged, “for the people are more marvelous than the land.” Indeed they are—and I have had the good fortune both to love and understand some of them and to be loved and understood in return.

  In our stays at historic Monte Vibiano Vecchio, which produces outstanding Umbrian wines and olive oil, Lina, our adopted nonna (grandmother), showed me and my daughter, Julia, whom she dubbed her coccolona (cuddly one), how to impastare our hands with dough and roll pici, the local pasta, to cook on the cantankerous old stove she calls la bestia. Its gracious owners, Andrea and Lorenzo Fasola Bologna, taught us not just the names but the tastes of wines made with Sa
ngiovese, Syrah, Sagrantino, Merlot, and Montepulciano grapes.

  My friend Carla Nutti, a va-va-voom gorgeous blonde, instructed me in how to bargain with vendors at the Sunday flea market on the Tiber and how to negotiate Rome’s slippery cobblestones in heels (you shift your weight to the ball of the foot as if tiptoeing). On shimmering Sunday afternoons, she and I would sit on a shady terrace as she read me poems by Giacomo Leopardi, a brooding nineteenth-century intellectual whose words seemed to dance in the breeze.

  Being married to a psychiatrist turned out to be an even greater advantage in Italy than it is in the United States. Although many Italians might never go (or admit going) to a psichiatra, they relish the opportunity to tell their stories to one. Long before my husband, Bob, could capisce un’ acca (understand an h) in their language, Italians would pour out their souls to me to translate for him. Bob, an accomplished nodder, listened empathically. “Mi dica” (“Tell me”), he’d say. “Ho capito.” (“I understand.”) When my Italian wasn’t nimble enough to translate his advice, I’d offer my own—for better or worse.

  This, I came to learn, is in itself italianissimo (very, very, very Italian). At grand rounds at the medical school of the University of Pisa, Galileo’s alma mater, Dottor Giovanni Cassano stepped to the lectern to introduce Bob as the day’s speaker. Deeply tanned, with spiky silver hair and gleaming white teeth, Italy’s best-known psychiatrist exuded the same charisma as the celebrities who have flocked to his care. Although they had met before, he had obviously never read Bob’s curriculum vitae.

  “Dottor Hales,” he began in Italian, “graduated from West Point, the United States Military Academy, in 1970.” He paused and reflected, “at the time of the Vietnam War.” He then observed that my husband had trained as a paracadutista (parachutist). As he skimmed ahead, his face suddenly lit up.