Learning a new language is a lot like learning to walk—there are many little missteps, miscues and, unfortunately, more than a few harmless tumbles. Such has been the case in our mis-adventures with Italian— a never-ending source of entertainment.

In the early years we were driving a lot, searching out some remote back road for something we needed to set up our place, or we were simply out exploring—looking for adventure. In any case, we inevitably had to stop somewhere along the way to ask for directions. During that period, language wasn’t so much about the rigor of grammar and sentence structure as it was about simple straight-forward pronunciation. Not knowing the subtleties of accent and innuendo, we bumbled our way through a number of confusing and quite amusing moments for everyone involved.

An early escapade was when I (Em) was out alone looking for a particular village close to the famous Tarot Garden sculptures done by the late Niki de Saint Phalle. If I could just find the small town of Capalbio, then locating the garden would be easy as it is tucked away in the woods on a nearby farm. In the region called the Maremma, wetland, I stopped along the coast around the town of Grosseto in southern Tuscany, got out of the car and walked over to an older man who looked to be one of the locals out for a stroll. I asked where Cap-al-BEE-o could be found. The man had a pained look on his face. Without a word, he shook his head slowly back and forth with his mouth turned down, chin up combined with a slight shoulder shrug, which is Italian for I don’t have a clue. So, I repeated Cap-al-BEE-o, but this time with more vigor and an extra dose of Italian verve. Still, there was no recognition whatsoever, his head still moved side to side. After the third try, with even more energy and a few hand gestures tossed in, just in case he didn’t hear me right, his face lit up. He then launched into an expressive routine with arms waving. His response was so assertive, I thought perhaps I had offended him, or done something terribly wrong. He said, “Oh, Ca-PAL-bee-o,” drawing the word out and pointing his crooked index finger eastward across the rolling fields to a town visible on the hill.

Thus I discovered that by putting the accent on the wrong syllable, it was possible to baffle any listener. I turned and looked into the distance toward Capalbio and thought, “It seems that I am so close and yet . . . so far away.”

p.s. 
By the way, if you ever go to Capalbio you must have lunch at Ristorante la Porta da Alma. Lunch (pranzo) was roasted right next to the table in an open fireplace—fantastico!