And we know what we’re knowing, but we can’t say what we see

In a city that speaks very little English, Italian has quickly become a necessary way of life. From the scuzzi’s I keep uttering as my lanky limbs clank around Perugia’s narrow shops to figuring out how to come across as a reasonably polite Americana, the Italian crash course we’re taking this week has become an obligation. Our afternoon “Survival Italian” stays dangerously close to its title.

To be honest, for the first few days here, I haven’t really eaten anything. Not so much by choice, but because of my ineptitude. I just can’t find it. And if I do, I can’t figure out how to buy it.

Italian Lesson #1: Shopping for fruits and vegetables is the Italian textbook exercise from hell. Once the store has been located and the proper greetings exchanged, I am expected to tell the owner of the store what I want and how much of it I’d like - in metric measurements, mind you - completely in Italian. And no touching! Consequently, each day I eat a little better thanks to a long list of vocab words, a cheat sheet scribbled on my hand and some solid hours of Italian lessons. So desperate have we been that the roommates and I have decked out our chicken with sticky notes with the Italian translations hidden underneath.

For a culture so renowned for their food, Italy sure does make it difficult to navigate your way to a fully stocked fridge. Maybe that’s why all of these women are so dang skinny. It takes about two hours walking uphill in every direction to complete your shopping list. For every food, there is a corresponding specialty store. Fruit comes from the fruit store. Meat comes from the meat store. Cheese comes from the cheese store. Paper comes from the paper store. It makes sense, but it sure ain’t no SuperTarget. After that initial shock, I’ve found it pretty refreshing.

The beauty of this, besides working up an appetite comparable to a small army, is that everything is so incredibly fresh.  So fresh, in fact, that I can’t even touch it - as I was so graciously reminded when a man handed me a plastic glove while I was making my selections in the grocery store. Ouch.