The Italian Job

#12: Escape to Italia

That’s it. I’m learning Italian before I’m 30. Really. Call me a fool for learning a language I can’t use in business (I know it would’ve been more practical to learn Mandarin with China becoming a major economic superpower at hyperspeed and all); but who says life should always be measured in economic terms? Who has actually been able to accurately quantify delight? Even Mastercard admits to being unable to put a price tag on the things that matter.

My motivation is simple, really. It will be enough reward for me to finally understand what Andrea Bocelli or Josh Groban or the group Amici is singing. The bliss of closing my eyes as opera music rages in the background while being able to fully grasp the weight of each word welded to each note will be high enough a return. I can do more than inhale them and let them seep to my core. I can finally own the words of the grandest arias. It will be joy. Pure joy. (Of course, the prospect of driving my family and friends nuts with loud Italian singing also brings me glee. Haha.)

Around 7 years ago, my voice teacher gave me an Italian piece. The exact title escapes me at the moment but I don’t think I’ll ever forget the first line. The song mournfully pleads, “O cessate di piagarmi;” and while it is from an already-forgotten lifetime, that verse still sends soft currents of melancholy in my heart. “O, no longer seek to pain me,” it begs; and it makes me wonder if the request is directed towards another who has such significant power to hurt, or if it’s actually just a heartfelt plea to one’s self. We are, after all, ultimately responsible for the pain we feel.

In the movie, “Something’s Gotta Give,” Diane Keaton’s character deals with pain by learning another language. The more she gets hurt, the more multi-lingual she gets. How cool is that? Which then leads me to question myself if unacknowledged pain is the real driver of this current fixation with learning Italian… or even the force behind the recent leg of my fascination with opera. I don’t know if there is something more to the way I instinctively play Bocelli’s “Sogno” when I see gray skies than the simplistic reason that opera music just goes well with sullen skies in the way that my pink shawl just really goes well with my gray cashmere sweater.

Or maybe it’s just the month of June.

I came across one of my journal entries from two years ago and it was surprising to find unmistakable sadness behind the lines. I don’t remember being that sad but I distinctly recall singing to Josh Groban’s first album during that time. Come to think of it, his rich baritone underlined many moments of deep emotion in that period of my life. Two years after, I’m playing amnesiac to such era, having previously chosen to completely bury everything but Josh.

Yet here I am again, finding myself asking where restoration starts and where purging ends… where unforgiveness ends and where grace begins… when self-preservation stops and charity starts. I honestly don’t know. And I don’t know if I will ever be able to sufficiently and satisfactorily answer these questions. Facing them alone is hard enough. Compared to that, learning another language is a walk in the piazza.

Hence, I’m learning Italian.