Scusi, non parlo Italiano molto bene. Your Fiat is parked on my foot.

I really love learning Italian. It’s hard, don’t get me wrong. I’m definitely not sailing through and magically acquiring fluency like in the classic, brainy heroine with a broken heart and/or bad fashion sense moves to a foreign country and transforms into a confident, beautiful, well-dressed picture of charm and elegance kind of way.
~Have you seen those movies? Fabulous, all of them. Usually, smiling locals only have to provide a chic outfit and a haircut and then our heroine is a new woman. I am such a sucker for transformation flicks.~

Some days, like today, I really wish that I had a Matrix-style jack chip that I could just plug in to my bella-cerebellum and be able to discuss Dante and the finer points of Italian Design and Art and perhaps even talk coherently to my butcher. But alas, not gonna happen. I actually need to work at this. Damn.
Yet, with this realization of the coming hard slogs over grammar texts, lives hope. One day I will begin to dream in Italian – I have been told that this comes along after you reach a certain stage in a language where you are more comfortable and have some vocabulary and skill. When this night comes, I will be extremely happy. Shocked and happy. And the next morning, I’m going to get my hair done, buy some new clothes and go stand in line at the butcher’s.