This evening, for the first time ever, I went to the free website Duolingo and practiced my very rusty Italian. By rusty, I mean back in the junkyard where the 1970s AMC Gremlins might be piled, since the last time I took Italian lessons and actually practiced the language was back in 1975–76, when my boyfriend Nick and I lived in Italy for ten months on our year-long European adventure. While there, we both landed jobs at the Milan British School, teaching English to Italians. This was due in large part to my brother John, who owned a smaller version of the British School in a town outside of Milan and who vouched for us to his friend at the big, impressive Milan school located right next to Gucci on Via Montenapoleone.

John was also responsible for providing Italian lessons for Nick and me right after we arrived in his small town, and if tonight was any indication, I learned a good deal more than I realized during that month-long intensive, along with almost a year of speaking, albeit haltingly for the most part. Tonight, I flew through most of the early lessons because I recognized the words. My pronunciation was not anything to write home about, but I have always been fairly good at grammar and vocabulary.

Since we are returning to Italy this October for an eight-day visit, I figured it might be an ideal time for me to brush up, with the goal of at least being somewhat conversant by the time we arrive. This is March, and October is seven months away. If I stay with it, there might be hope for me yet. I could perhaps confidently exchange a few lines with vendors and waiters. That would feel like a victory.

Whatever the case, tonight I had fun and also surprised myself. Who knew I had held on to that much Italian vocabulary? Yes, the accent might take a little work, but I know that it will come with time. If I just stay with it, and since the Duolingo approach is fun, then I might make my big brother at least smile when I head into that restaurant and say, “Vorrei un caffè e un cornetto, per favore.” That would be something, I tell you, and I’m feeling pretty psyched at the moment.

Here is a photo of me in Italy at age 22 on a cold day in winter: