Neighbor

What a relief it is to meet our new neighbor, C. She grew up in Scotland, is thirty years old, and teaches fourth grade at the nearby American Overseas School of Rome. These days, she's reading Rudyard Kipling to her students, and doing her best to skip over the racist bits.

I take refuge in C's spacious apartment, where she lives all alone. I sink into her sofa, and happily speak my native tongue. Unlike C, who is proficient in five languages, I am a humble monolingual. Despite seven years of French classes, my French is poor. My Italian is barely there, and my Farsi is only developing.

With C, I soak up the intellectual stimulation of real conversation, much like the repartee that I enjoyed in college. When she asks if I'd like "real espresso, or that watery stuff that you Americans drink," I of course choose espresso.

C is average looking, with pale skin and freckles, and yet she fancies herself to be sexy and outrageous. Told with her fun sauciness, I hear all about C's many failed love affairs, and about the Italian movie directors with whom she hobnobs.  Too bad I don’t know enough about the Italian cinema to be impressed, though. Franco Zeffirelli is the only name that I recognize.