Adventures in foreign languages

A while back, I booked my ticket to Istanbul from Bologna, Italy.  I will meet my cousin, Andrew there.  At the time that I booked my flight, it wasn't clear how long I would stay in France before wandering over to Italy.  I ultimately decided to stay as long as possible at Roquecave while still comfortably make my flight.  The trip from the tiny French farm to the airport in Bologna would take me a day and a half and involve 5 different buses and trains and even a car.  I ended up making it to Milan after one 14 hour day of travel, and having a day in Italy to spend as I pleased.  

There were a few mini-adventures in Milan that probably interest nobody but I’m going to blog about one of them because it is so stereotypical of my foreign travel: my adventure at the post office. 

Background:

Milan was my only shot to take care of a few things needed to be done before hopping on a plane.  I had a couple of hours before I needed to be at the train station to get all the errands done.  My last stop was the post office.  I wanted to mail some things home that were taking up unnecessary space in my backpack/suitcase but I didn't know how much it would cost.  If it turned out to be too expensive, I intended to bite the bullet and keep hauling them around.

Keep in mind that I speak absolutely zero Italian.  I speak French and English and just started learning Spanish online.  

Adventure in a foreign language:

I found the post office by asking the lady behind the bakery counter where I grabbed breakfast for directions.  She didn't speak any English, but . . . when said quickly, the first two syllables of Post-off-ice sounds enough like Posta--fice.  So she recognized "Posta", the Italian word for post office :)  Her gestures for turn left and turn right coupled with names of streets were enough to get me there with only one wrong turn.

I nosed my way into the post office and didn't see any boxes for sale.  Drat.  I needed packing materials.  Then I remembered I had seen a grocery store next door to the post office. . . So I waltzed into the Carrefour intending to look for supplies.  I was early enough in the morning that they were still stocking the shelves - bingo!  I had my choice of boxes.  A quick run back to the hotel to grab all the stuff I wanted to mail, and the front desk happened to have a roll of packing tape that the let me take with me.  I was set.

I head back to the Post Office carrying my box full of stuff and feeling fairly resourceful at this point.  Unfortunately, when I got to the counter, the lady behind it did not speak any English.  None.  Zip. Zero. 

Our exchange looked something like this

• She rattled off a lot of Italian questions that I did not understand a word of. 
• "Is English OK?"
• Shaking of the head.  No, sorry, no English
• More rapid fire Italian questions.
• I gesture to the box in front of me. 
• She asked another question in Italian. 
• I look at her helplessly, and simply answer “Texas.”
• This makes her laugh and she asks another question in Italian, this time with hand gestures that look like an airplane. 
• I shake my head and say the word for “cheap” in English and French.  This makes her look puzzled.
• "Economico?"
• "Si!!" 
• She starts typing furiously into her computer, takes my box and puts it on the scale. This is promising.
• She turns the computer screen towards me and points to the figure, “Quatro-something something???”  [The questionmarks are audible]
• "Yes!  That price is OK."
• A quick nod from the lady and she takes my tape from me, and in an exaggerated way, starts to tape over the markings on the box from the bread company that used it first.  She is still talking in rapid fire Italian.
• I do not understand her words, but I do comprehend from her actions and finger pointing that all the markings on the box need to be covered up.  I can do that.  It will take a lot of the hotel’s tape.  I nod to indicate that I understand.
• Then she hands me two pieces of paper to fill out and slowly explains them to me, or at least tries to.  I understand only her explanations for “To” and “From” because they are the same words in French. 
• I get a lucky break:  The papers turn out to be an address form with carbon copies and a customs form and happen to have the boxes labeled in both Italian and French (don’t ask me why, because that makes no sense to me!)  It allows me to successfully fill in the paperwork, using the instructions in French.
• I return to the counter with the paperwork and a box almost covered in tape.  
• She looks curiously at the blank address for the Sender (me) and says something in Italian while shaking her head.   I understand that no return address is somehow a bad thing.
• I look helpless again and say “vacation”  It’s the same word in French.
• She asks me another question in Italian that I do not understand.
• I hold up a finger – "Wait!  Can you use the hotel’s address?"  I show her the address from the reservation on my cell phone.
• "Si!"  She fills in the missing blanks for me and, speaking nonstop Italian, runs to the back where she finds packing peanuts to help fill in the gaps in the box, at no cost to me.  She really is a nice person!  Then she gestures that I can close up the box. 
• She starts typing rapid-fire into her computer, and halts around the customs form.  More rapid fire Italian.  I think she needs to know the contents of the box, which I’ve written in English.  [At least, this is what I think she asks me because she’s pointing to the words “hiking poles” that I wrote down in English on the customs document.] 
• I look helpless again and make an exaggerated movements indicating I’m hiking with poles. 
• "Ah!  Trekking??" [again the questionmarks are audible]
• "Si!  Trekking poles!" 
• She indicates to cross out hiking and write trekking.  Then she continues typing things into her computer, and sticks no fewer than 4 items all over the box.
• This box now is marvel of tape and packaging and I have been at the post office for almost 45 minutes.  She finally smiles and takes the package away.  
• I smile gratefully at her, saying grazie over and over, one of the very few words I know in Italian.

I am late to get to the train station.  It’s an error that will cost me approximately 20 dollars to fix.  But, when in Italy, nothing is on time.  So I embrace the fact I am in Italy now and am a few pounds lighter.  I will go celebrate the fact there are very nice people all over the world, and I just successfully mailed a package from Italy to Texas.  

On to the food tour of Emelia-Romagna!