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There
are
spontaneous
conversation
classes
everywhere
.
Today
,
I
was
sitting
on
a
park
bench
when
a
tiny
old
woman
in
a
black
dress
came
over
,
roosted
down
beside
me
and
started
bossing
me
around
about
something
.
I
shook
my
head
,
muted
and
confused
.
I
apologized
,
saying
in
very
nice
Italian
,
"
I
’
m
sorry
,
but
I
don
’
t
speak
Italian
,
"
and
she
looked
like
she
would
’
ve
smacked
me
with
a
wooden
spoon
,
if
she
’
d
had
one
.
She
insisted
:
"
You
do
understand
!
"
(
Interestingly
,
she
was
correct
.
That
sentence
,
I
did
understand
.
)
Now
she
wanted
to
know
where
I
was
from
.
I
told
her
I
was
from
New
York
,
and
asked
where
she
was
from
.
Duh
-
she
was
from
Rome
.
Hearing
this
,
I
clapped
my
hands
like
a
baby
.
Ah
,
Rome
!
Beautiful
Rome
!
I
love
Rome
!
Pretty
Rome
!
She
listened
to
my
primitive
rhapsodies
with
skepticism
.
Then
she
got
down
to
it
and
asked
me
if
I
was
married
.
I
told
her
I
was
divorced
.
This
was
the
first
time
I
’
d
said
it
to
anyone
,
and
here
I
was
,
saying
it
in
Italian
.
Of
course
she
demanded
,
"
Perche
?
"
Well
…
"
why
"
is
a
hard
question
to
answer
in
any
language
.
I
stammered
,
then
finally
came
up
with
"
L
’
abbiamo
rotto
"
(
We
broke
it
)
.
She
nodded
,
stood
up
,
walked
up
the
street
to
her
bus
stop
,
got
on
her
bus
and
did
not
even
turn
around
to
look
at
me
again
.
Was
she
mad
at
me
?
Strangely
,
I
waited
for
her
on
that
park
bench
for
twenty
minutes
,
thinking
against
reason
that
she
might
come
back
and
continue
our
conversation
,
but
she
never
returned
.
Her
name
was
Celeste
,
pronounced
with
a
sharp
ch
,
as
in
cello
.
Later
in
the
day
,
I
found
a
library
.
Dear
me
,
how
I
love
a
library
.
Because
we
are
in
Rome
,
this
library
is
a
beautiful
old
thing
,
and
within
it
there
is
a
courtyard
garden
which
you
’
d
never
have
guessed
existed
if
you
’
d
only
looked
at
the
place
from
the
street
.
The
garden
is
a
perfect
square
,
dotted
with
orange
trees
and
,
in
the
center
,
a
fountain
.
This
fountain
was
going
to
be
a
contender
for
my
favorite
in
Rome
,
I
could
tell
immediately
,
though
it
was
unlike
any
I
’
d
seen
so
far
.
It
was
not
carved
of
imperial
marble
,
for
starters
.
This
was
a
small
green
,
mossy
,
organic
fountain
.
It
was
like
a
shaggy
,
leaking
bush
of
ferns
(
It
looked
,
actually
,
exactly
like
the
wild
foliage
growing
out
of
the
head
of
that
praying
figure
which
the
old
medicine
man
in
Indonesia
had
drawn
for
me
.
)
The
water
shot
up
out
of
the
center
of
this
flowering
shrub
,
then
rained
back
down
on
the
leaves
,
making
a
melancholy
,
lovely
sound
throughout
the
whole
courtyard
.
I
found
a
seat
under
an
orange
tree
and
opened
one
of
the
poetry
books
I
’
d
purchased
yesterday
.
Louise
Gluck
.
I
read
the
first
poem
in
Italian
,
then
in
English
,
and
stopped
short
at
this
line
:
Dal
centro
della
mia
vita
venne
una
grande
fontana
…
"
From
the
center
of
my
life
,
there
came
a
great
fountain
…
"
I
set
the
book
down
in
my
lap
,
shaking
with
relief
.
Truthfully
,
I
’
m
not
the
best
traveler
in
the
world
.
