Lost in Translation
That’s where the sexy factor of my trip is, lost in translation.
It is become increasingly clear that I am missing the sexiness that Italy was supposed to bring. Because visually, I should be in heaven right now. Really. There are many, many fine pieces of humanity walking around the narrow streets, rowing Gondolas down the Canal, drinking a cafe in the mid-morning light. Italy manufactures a high quality of many, and I appreciate the artwork every day I am here. But unfortunately, that’s where it seems to be ending.
Because I can’t talk to ANY OF THEM! None. Even with the ones that speak a bit of English, it is a struggle. And I know I should enjoy it. I should relish having a tan, European stroll up to me and speak sweet Italian nothings in my ear. It’s suppose to be the ultimate aspect of a romantic adventure. But instead of sexy and charming, it’s freaking frustrating, that’s what it is. Because it really is nothing. I got nothing. No, that’s an overstatement. I have remedial Italian-A level knowledge of the language, so I can’t even let the words wash over me because my mind is going a million miles an hour trying to pick up any words it can. “Did he say I was beautiful? Yea, he said beautiful. But, wait? Why is he now talking about meats? Did he say he works at a meat shop?!? Did he say I look like meat?!?!? Garrr”
Lost in Translation. Which is sad, because I have grand dreams of finding my perfect Italian and having beautiful Bl-italian children and living on Lake Cuomo next to George Clooney and having an affair with George in his villa where Ocean’s Twelve was filmed. Maybe the dream is more George centered than it should be. Maybe i should go to Lake Cuomo this weekend instead of Rome. I don’t know. I’m all muddled.
I still have hope though. I have nineteen more days. Something could change. Everything could become perfectly clear. Here’s hoping.
~Antonia
3 years ago • Notes