T A B L E_T A L K How did you learn a second language? Discuss immersion, classroom and other methods in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk ___________________ Dying to go to Italy? Read all about it at barnesandnoble.com ___________________   R E C E N T L Y An innocent abroad: Part One By Bill Barich A semester in Florence shapes a young writer's life (12/20/98) If you film it, they will come By Steve Rushin A passionate sports fan begins his cross-country pilgrimage with a visit to Iowa's Field of Dreams (12/18/98) Christmas in Germany By Deanna Hodgin A family visit to Nuremberg's Christkindlesmarkt turns into a lesson for adults and children alike (12/17/98) Brahmaputra: Tales From the River By Tiziana and Gianni Baldizzone Extraordinary photographs portray a mighty river's journey through Tibet, India and Bangladesh (12/16/98) The yuckiest food in the Amazon By Mary Roach What tastes even worse than rodent knee and saliva-flavored manioc mash? (12/15/98)   Browse the Wanderlust Feature archives     Wanderlust's Official Travel Book Partner		AN INNOCENT ABROAD, PART TWO | PAGE 1, 2, 3 - - - - - - - - - - Classes start. It is a torture. Every morning around 7, the marchesa raps on my door and asks, "Permesso?" Sometimes I am awake and dressed, but more often my head is buried under a pillow. She sets a plastic tray on my bureau, always the same -- a hard roll, butter, marmalade and a pot of strong coffee. Always, too, she is smiling. I envy her, really. I crave such equanimity myself, such a perfect balance on earth, but I fear I'll never gain it. The streets teem with children in school uniforms. They tote books, they run in packs, they are adored by passing adults, who chuck them under the chin and pat them on the head. Kids are the true royalty in Florence, little princes and princesses whose every whim must be indulged. Childhood flies, after all. The madonna's glow? It comes from the glowing infant she clasps to her breast. The traffic is intense. Diesel fumes, belching old buses, motorscooters that buzz like mosquitoes. I am forever dodging hellbent drivers and also soccer balls. The kids kick them back and forth, bouncing them off walls, cathedrals, monuments and cars. No surface is spared from serving as a temporary goal, even the statues in the piazza across from my college. Our school building has many windows, and that's too bad. I spend my classroom time staring at the piazza and wishing I were out there, where real life is going on. I watch the ancients seated on benches, their bodies bundled in overcoats despite the autumn warmth. Leathery faces, a white stubble of whiskers, intricate debates over who remembers what, and why. The sun shines on bambini playing in the dirt. All the young mothers are beautiful, even when they're ugly. The professors drone on. They have an amazing capacity to block out our snoring. It's tedious to listen to a packaged lecture on the Renaissance, when the Renaissance is alive outside. I touch it almost daily, in fact. San Marco is near my flat, and I go there and sit in awe before Fra Angelico's extraordinary frescoes. "The Mocking of Christ," "The Annunciation." He painted them from 1438 to 1445, but they could have been done yesterday. The frescoes are rich in emotion, in spirit, in longing -- a longing I am beginning to share. What do I long for? I want to be part of a civilized world, not the kindergarten of America. A world where art, literature and music matter, where history is present and palpable. The old palaces in Florence, they alert me to how every human endeavor ends -- chipped, battered, in debris. It's not so bad. I can accept it. That's what I think at the moment, but I am still young and not yet on familiar terms with grief. Daydreaming again. There's a song running through my head, one by Rita Pavone, a pint-sized belter from Torino, who's a teen sensation. She rules every jukebox in town and will be mentioned in a Pink Floyd lyric someday and even perform on "The Ed Sullivan Show." We hear Rita when we escape into a cafe after class -- un bicchiere di vino rosso, maybe a game of 8-ball if we can find a pool table. In the cafes, we talk with astonishing energy. We cook up new theories about the nature of existence and advance arguments to celebrate our own brilliance. It's no use, though -- the Italian guys put us to shame. How sophisticated they are as they linger for an eternity over a single aperitif, their jackets draped over their shoulders and their manicured hands free to punctuate their words! The only thing that interrupts their weary languor is a pretty woman passing by. Then they pant like dogs. I've decided cigarettes are essential to the pose. Sartre, he's always pictured smoking, isn't he? Hanging out with that Simone de Beauvoir? It must be imperative for an intellectual to smoke, so I spring for a 10-pack of Nazionale con filtro and fire up a couple every day. My eyes water at first, and my throat gets raw. I have coughing fits, but I stick to the program, cancer be damned. Gradually, I do start to feel smarter, although I can produce no objective evidence to support those feelings. A month goes by. The grapes are harvested, the Tuscan landscape flames with color. I buy a cheap bicycle and ride into the countryside. I ride along the turbid brown Arno and watch the men fishing with long poles. The rains come in November, but the days are often still sunny, if bitingly cold. I go to the Mercato Nuovo for a new wool sweater and rub the snout of Il Porcellino, the famous bronze boar, for good luck. But things are changing, winding down. Cynthia has an Italian boyfriend, for instance. It's inevitable, really, since those guys will pursue an American blond to the ends of the earth. Guido isn't a bad sort, though, despite his enameled hair and open-necked shirts. He is a pacifist guitar player who lives in a ruined villa in the hills of Fiesole along with his mother and two brothers, one a Marxist and the other subtly and sweetly loony. N E X T+P A G E | Florentines care about the basics: bread, olive oil, family, the soul - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Become a Salon member. Click here.