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He
’
s
surprised
.
He
didn
’
t
realize
I
spoke
Italian
.
Neither
did
I
,
actually
,
but
we
talk
for
about
twenty
minutes
and
I
realize
for
the
first
time
that
I
do
.
Some
line
has
been
crossed
and
I
’
m
actually
speaking
Italian
now
.
I
’
m
not
translating
;
I
’
m
talking
.
Of
course
,
there
’
s
a
mistake
in
every
sentence
,
and
I
only
know
three
tenses
,
but
I
can
communicate
with
this
guy
without
much
effort
.
Me
la
cavo
,
is
how
you
would
say
it
in
Italian
,
which
basically
means
,
"
I
can
get
by
,
"
but
comes
from
the
same
verb
you
use
to
talk
about
uncorking
a
bottle
of
wine
,
meaning
,
"
I
can
use
this
language
to
extract
myself
from
tight
situations
.
"
He
’
s
hitting
on
me
,
this
kid
!
It
’
s
not
entirely
unflattering
.
He
’
s
not
entirely
unattractive
.
Though
he
’
s
not
remotely
uncocky
,
either
.
At
one
point
he
says
to
me
in
Italian
,
meaning
to
be
complimentary
,
of
course
,
"
You
’
re
not
too
fat
,
for
an
American
woman
.
"
I
reply
in
English
,
"
And
you
’
re
not
too
greasy
,
for
an
Italian
man
.
"
"
Come
?
"
I
repeat
myself
,
in
slightly
modified
Italian
:
"
And
you
’
re
so
gracious
,
just
like
all
Italian
men
.
"
I
can
speak
this
language
!
The
kid
thinks
I
like
him
,
but
it
’
s
the
words
I
’
m
flirting
with
.
My
God
-
I
have
decanted
myself
!
I
have
uncorked
my
tongue
,
and
Italian
is
pouring
forth
!
He
wants
me
to
meet
him
later
in
Venice
,
but
I
don
’
t
have
the
first
interest
in
him
.
I
’
m
just
lovesick
over
the
language
,
so
I
let
him
slide
away
.
Anyhow
,
I
’
ve
already
got
a
date
in
Venice
.
I
’
m
meeting
my
friend
Linda
there
.
Crazy
Linda
,
as
I
like
to
call
her
,
even
though
she
isn
’
t
,
is
coming
to
Venice
from
Seattle
,
another
damp
and
gray
town
.
She
wanted
to
come
see
me
in
Italy
,
so
I
invited
her
along
on
this
leg
of
my
trip
because
I
refuse
-
I
absolutely
decline
-
to
go
to
the
most
romantic
city
on
earth
by
myself
,
no
,
not
now
,
not
this
year
.
I
could
just
picture
myself
all
alone
,
in
the
butt
end
of
a
gondola
,
getting
dragged
through
the
mist
by
a
crooning
gondolier
as
I
…
read
a
magazine
?
It
’
s
a
sad
image
,
rather
like
the
idea
of
humping
up
a
hill
all
by
yourself
on
a
bicycle
-
built
-
for
-
two
.
So
Linda
will
provide
me
with
company
,
and
good
company
,
at
that
.
I
met
Linda
(
and
her
dreadlocks
,
and
her
piercings
)
in
Bali
almost
two
years
ago
,
when
I
went
for
that
Yoga
retreat
.
Since
then
,
we
’
ve
done
a
trip
to
Costa
Rica
together
,
too
.
She
’
s
one
of
my
favorite
traveling
companions
,
an
unflappable
and
entertaining
and
surprisingly
organized
little
pixie
in
tight
red
crushed
-
velvet
pants
.
Linda
is
the
owner
of
one
of
the
world
’
s
more
intact
psyches
,
with
an
incomprehension
for
depression
and
a
self
-
esteem
that
has
never
even
considered
being
anything
but
high
.
She
said
to
me
once
,
while
regarding
herself
in
a
mirror
,
"
Admittedly
,
I
am
not
the
one
who
looks
fantastic
in
everything
,
but
still
I
cannot
help
loving
myself
.
"
She
’
s
got
this
ability
to
shut
me
up
when
I
start
fretting
over
metaphysical
questions
,
such
as
,
"
What
is
the
nature
of
the
universe
?
"
(
Linda
’
s
reply
:
"
My
only
question
is
:
Why
ask
?
"
)
Linda
would
like
to
someday
grow
her
dreadlocks
so
long
she
could
weave
them
into
a
wire
-
supported
structure
on
the
top
of
her
head
"
like
a
topiary
"
and
maybe
store
a
bird
there
.
The
Balinese
loved
Linda
.
So
did
the
Costa
Ricans
.
When
she
’
s
not
taking
care
of
her
pet
lizards
and
ferrets
,
she
is
managing
a
software
development
team
in
Seattle
and
making
more
money
than
any
of
us
.
