A classic cup of espresso, known to the Italians simply as caffé, but to an American attempting to master even a small part of this beautiful language, a lesson in sounding real enough to order without saying the word.
A project in Turin, or Torino, depending on where you are from, affords an opportunity to be a key part of an Italian architectural, design and integration team. Well, at least until the concepts reach critical mass; with apologies, everyone else switches to Italian, and then the real work commences. For the rest of the team, it was a welcome relief not to have to think in one language and speak in another; for me, an effort in trying to keep up with not only the words I knew, but the words I needed to know to remain a contributor to the conversation. Am I there yet? By no means. Am I trying? Absolutely.
And the project progresses . . . at least until lunchtime.
Then it’s off to the local trattoria for bosco e mare, a harvest of shrimp, mussels, baby octopi and various other seafoods on linguini. Work is not discussed, although the stray Blackberry may momentarily bring a set of eyes away from the table and into intense focus; but the spell is broken by calls all around for caffé and discussions of where exactly Tennessee is in relation to Texas or Washington, DC, or Orlando. Work will come soon enough; we’re on sacred time, sacred enough to hear the greetings just before lunch change from buon giorno to buon appetito. Un caffé?
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