Our friend Giuliano watches after the many acres around this restored tenuta, (estate). We’re fortunate to live in a small portion of one old farmhouse on the much larger property. Giuliano, wearing a grayish brown small-brimmed hat, can always be found somewhere, cruising around on his orange tractor, typically with a cigar in his mouth. He readily admits that he actually only smokes 2-3 each week even though it may look like several hundred, because after all, everybody knows they’re not good for your health. We stop to talk when we find him bumping along down one of the nearby country roads, or wave from a distance as he heads down the farm lane to one of the fields—to do whatever he does, which is always a mystery to us. Giuliano is a fixture around here, keeping the place respectably cleaned up, yet still plenty countrified. We always enjoy his friendship and appreciate his ongoing support.

One day last summer, we ran into him down by the office just next to the small bridge. It was one of those rare moments when we were all on foot, instead of talking loudly between vehicles and over the rumbling engines. The conversation turned to this year’s olive crop, which is always a favorite topic. Everybody has their own grove of trees and looks forward to November when they can produce their own oil—and of course, each person’s oil is the best in all of Tuscany.

I began the conversation by saying that our olives will probably never be quite as plentiful as the others in the valley, because our little patch of ground is at 501 meters in elevation. The cutoff where yield and quality drop is generally considered to be 500 meters. Even though many would think our location is too high, we consider it the best of both worlds—lucky to be up high with one of the best views, but not so high that olives absolutely won’t grow. As I tried to express our elevation facts in Italian, I said, “La nostra casa è a cinquecento grade,” (“our house is at 500 degrees”). Once again, the error of my ways was immediately evident by observing Giuliano’s face. He immediately began a ridiculous over-dramatization of the mistake by saying, “Cinquecento grade!!! Dovete abitare, dentro un vulcano?”  (“500 degrees!!! You must live inside a volcano!”) Then, he and Cheryl both began a knee-slapping laugh over what I had just said. Okay, okay, so I made a small mistake and inadvertently substituted grade, degrees, for metri, meters. The fact is, they both knew exactly what I meant to say, but took full advantage of my fumble just to add hilarity to their otherwise pathetically boring lives (sorry, that was a bit defensive , and I apologize). There were basically two choices for me: cross my arms and wait it out, or join in and have my own hearty laugh as well—I chose the latter. Language faux pas can be devastating, embarrassing or just plain humiliating. Other times they are all three at once, plus ridiculous. At those moments, entertainment value is the only hope. Uproarious laughter is all that’s left. Enjoy!