Lost in Translation

I have never mastered a second language, though I have studied both Spanish and French. They both came in handy as a foundation during the couple weeks I spent in Italy one summer with a group finishing up their Rhode Island School of Design master’s degrees. One of the students was my husband, John.

I made separate travel arrangements because the group was going together on a charter flight out of Boston. I went over the details with John so that we could meet up at Leonardo da Vinci airport where I could then join the group to arrive at the pensione together. Unfortunately, I found only after I was standing in line to board, that my flight would be landing in Ciampino, a good 30 minutes from the planned meeting spot. It was 1985—no internet, no cell phones, no way of communicating. And I didn’t know a whit of Italian. However, I did have the Italian-English Pocket Dictionary with me.

I spent the last hour of the flight memorizing how to ask, “Where is the bus to Rome?” Dov'è l'autobus per Roma? Except I then didn’t memorize what some of the answers might be. Consequently, when I asked my question, to the delight of a porter, he brightly replied something I did not understand. My face fell. He continued speaking to me in Italian, and I then just shook my head. He took pity on me and walked me over to the bus. I got on. Without a ticket. There’s more to this part of the story, but suffice it to say I somehow managed to get myself to the pensione where I finally met back up with the group.

Every morning we had Italian lessons. We learned the basics of greetings, how to order food, how to make change and generally pay for things, how to shop in the market, and a good many very useful phrases, which included understanding a good many responses. My Spanish and French helped me to learn quickly, but I was still not proficient.

During a side trip to Venice, John and I sat in the same train compartment with a very nice older woman. She began speaking to us, and I did my best to answer her in a halting and disconnected jumble of words. I understood better than I could speak so when she gave me a compliment, I said, Grazie. But apparently I said it with a perfect Roman accent, which was more like grah-zee-eh, because she clasped her hands together and chirped back her pleasure in hearing the word pronounced this way.

The group was staying on for a total of six weeks, but I was scheduled to leave after the first two. On the day before my departure, John and I decided to make a fish chowder for the group for dinner to mark my last night in Rome. We went into the Campo de Fiori to buy everything we needed. The fresh tomatoes, green peppers, onions, parsley, butter, and bread were easy to find and purchase, but finding white fish proved challenging. When I asked each vendor where I might find pesca bianca, I was met with puzzled looks and shaking heads. Everyone said, Non lo so. They didn’t know. How strange.

After wandering the market a bit, we found a fish market. I asked the fishmonger, in my best accent, for pesca bianca. He frowned, thought for a moment and said, Non pesca bianca. It was hard to believe that white fish could be so difficult to find. Undaunted, we looked at the selection he had, which included all sorts of dark fish including mackerel and anchovies but, indeed, nothing like what we had hoped to find. John and I conferred in English trying to decide whether to settle for the darker meat fish or keep looking when the fishmonger’s eyes opened wide. He said, Ahhhh. Non pesca bianca. Volete pesce bianca! He walked over to a freezer chest, opened it up, and pulled out a bag full of beautiful halibut fillets. Questo! Or in French: Voila!

I had been asking for pesca (pay-ska) bianca, which means white peaches instead of pesce (pay-shay) bianca, which means white fish. What a difference a single letter can make.

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2017