First, though, I must get settled into school. My classes begin today at the Leonardo da Vinci Academy of Language Studies, where I will be studying Italian five days a week, four hours a day. I’m so excited about school. I’m such a shameless student. I laid my clothes out last night, just like I did before my first day of first grade, with my patent leather shoes and my new lunch box. I hope the teacher will like me.
We all have to take a test on the first day at Leonardo da Vinci, in order to be placed in the proper level of Italian class for our abilities. When I hear this, I immediately start hoping I don’t place into a Level One class, because that would be humiliating, given that I already took a whole entire semester of Italian at my Night School for Divorced Ladies in New York, and that I spent the summer memorizing flash cards, and that I’ve already been in Rome a week, and have been practicing the language in person, even conversing with old grandmothers about divorce. The thing is, I don’t even know how many levels this school has, but as soon as I heard the word level, I decided that I must test into Level Two—at least.
So it’s hammering down rain today, and I show up to school early (like I always have—geek!) and I take the test. It’s such a hard test! I can’t get through even a tenth of it! I know so much Italian, I know dozens of words in Italian, but they don’t ask me anything that I know. Then there’s an oral exam, which is even worse. There’s this skinny Italian teacher interviewing me and speaking way too fast, in my opinion, and I should be doing so much better than this but I’m nervous and making mistakes with stuff I already know (like, why did I say Vado a scuola instead of Sono andata a scuola? I know that!).
In the end, it’s OK, though. The skinny Italian teacher looks over my exam and selects my class level: Level TWO!
Classes begin in the afternoon. So I go eat lunch (roasted endive) then saunter back to the school and smugly walk past all those Level One
students (who must be molto stupido, really) and enter my first class. With my peers. Except that it becomes swiftly evident that these are not my peers and that I have no business being here because Level Two is really impossibly hard. I feel like I’m swimming, but barely. Like I’m taking in water with every breath. The teacher, a skinny guy (why are the teachers so skinny here? I don’t trust skinny Italians), is going way too fast, skipping over whole chapters of the textbook, saying, “You already know this, you already know that . . .” and keeping up a rapid-fire conversation with my apparently fluent classmates. My stomach is gripped in horror and I’m gasping for air and praying he won’t call on me. Just as soon as the break comes, I run out of that classroom on wobbling legs and I scurry all the way over to the administrative office almost in tears, where I beg in very clear English if they could please move me down to a Level One class. And so they do. And now I am here.
This teacher is plump and speaks slowly. This is much better.
