by Frank Graziano (Loyola College)IN A PLACE where it seems awkward looks are the standard greeting for sloppy American students, its nice to see a smile. Seven is the local bartender at Café del Corso and he’s as generous and gregarious as he’s big.
“What the fack?” he says as soon as I walk up to the bar for my daily Panini. When trying to assimilate the most basic meeting point for people of different cultures is crude humor and curse words. Every day I sit with Seven and chat over a panini about girls, movies, and the previous night. It’s the best conversational Italian practice you can find. Unfortunately for two young men the conversation almost always ends up in the gutter after about ten minutes, but those first ten are golden. I can only retain so much serious information, but taboo sticks like glue.
Sometimes as I sit in front of Seven staring into space trying to translate on the spot I’ll tell him to forget it, its not important, but he’ll promptly tilt his head and squint, as if to say, “At least try.” Every time I think I’m annoying him with my broken Italian, he puts on the same face. I’ve come to see that while I’m translating in my head, Seven is also translating in his. His grasp of English is growing, and because we’ve become so familiar, we’re not afraid to try new words or ask what something means. Plus now anytime some Italian I’ve inadvertently offended mutters some obscure curse about me to his friend, I can turn and say “scusa,” and put on that same face of understanding Seven gives me when I stutter.
“My dream is to come in New York,” says Seven. I give him my number and make it perfectly clear that Ill show him the same unconditional hospitality he’s shown me. He smiles and knocks me off my stool with a pat from his hefty paw.
“Me too, buddy, me too,” I take a second after to explain the nuance.
