Communicating in Italy: A Game of Charades

I probably walked by the butcher's station 5 times until I got the courage to order my "polle." 5 times. 5. Whole. Times.

The Mercanto Centrale is right down my street, so it is an easy walk in the mornings to go pick up my groceries for the day. You MUST eat them that day. Everything is fresh and not processed, so it will only last you until the evening. I learned to either cook it all and put it in refrigerated containers for future meals, or do as the Italians do and mangia, mangia, mangia!

At the daily market, you walk by a plethora of fresh fruit and veggie stands, as well as butcher shops, cheese and wine counters, etc. The difficult part is that you absolutely cannot touch any of the items. If you want to purchase something, you tell the owner of the stand what you want and how much, and he/she will pick it up and bag it for you. 

So, to order 2 oranges, I hold up 2 fingers and point to the oranges. To order an onion, I hold up my index finger and gesture towards the onion. Simple.

But how do I just order a little bit of chicken? 

The butchers were covered in blood, and I watched as one took a butcher knife and lobbed the snout off a pig's face. Literally. Right there. And he hung the face above the counter on a hook to advertise the pig for the day. There were chicken carcasses sitting in the front shelf, and I finally approached, pointing towards the chicken, and said: "Polle, per favore." 

The butcher looked at me, and asked something in Italian. I responded with my go-to phrase: "Parle englese?" 

He shook his head, saying: "Despiace" (I'm sorry). 

I assured him it was fine, and proceeded to gesture that I just wanted a little chicken. He then ran his hand across his chest and said, "Breast?" 

I clapped my hands and nodded enthusiastically, repeating "Si! Si! Si!" (Yes, I probably looked ridiculous. But I wanted chicken. Really badly). 

And it was good chicken.

A few days ago, as I was consulting with a program leader about the gluten free restaurants in Florence, she enquired about the severity of my disease. I replied that I could have no contamination whatsoever, and she assured me that I didn't need to be concerned. 

"Just say 'MOLTO allergico a glutine. MOLTO!'" She waved her hands wildly as she repeated the phrase, and I tried to articulate the sentence as she did. She stopped, and smiled.
"Just use a lot of hand gestures. They'll get it. Italians love hand gestures."

Boy, was she right. 

I feel like I'm eavesdropping on everyone I see here. Because I can look at them and know what they're talking about. I walk down the street, and I know what people are talking about. The man across the street tells his friend about a purchase he made in the market. The child tells his mother about what he did in school. The girl tells her friends about the purse she bought. I can see all of these conversations and can discern what they're doing based on their gestures. And I've found that my gestures have already become more wild in the past week alone. 

Italians also love to be close to you when they speak. Something you read about in books that analyze different cultures and their communication techniques, but not something you fully realize until you are there. I am comfortable with low threshold barriers, so this practice isn't so hard for me--what does make it hard is the fact that most Italians only shower once every 3 days. And, when you add to that the fact that they're waving their arms around madly using gestures...it's quite a fragrant conversation.