A Semester Abroad Read Online Free PDF Page B

When I came back up and out the other side of it, I worried that one of the little cars or motorized bikes would hit me on the narrow streets. Small commercial cars were the only cars allowed beyond the walls and then only in the morning. In the small window of time they had, the drivers sped around like demons. There were times when I don’t know how they missed me at the very last minute. But they were the experts; I was the
americana
.
    My first day at the university I bombed the placement test. I was never a good test taker and I was nervous about speaking Italian. In my individual interview, I couldn’t seem to raise my voice when the proctor asked me about American film. He wanted to put me in the first level, the level for beginners, but I pleaded with him for placement in the second. Even though I barely understood anything, I had taken Italian for three semesters. I couldn’t be a beginner. It was a matter of pride.
    “
Posso fare secondo. Voglio secondo
,” I said, not even sure if I was speaking the right words as I begged to get into the second level, whether I was making my case better or worse.
    He looked over my written portion again. Thankfully, there were a lot of multiple-choice questions. I smiled the biggest smile I had at the proctor and said, pronouncing every syllable, “
per favore
.”
    When he sighed and started talking in fast-flowing syllables I still wasn’t sure of my fate, but I kept my face calm and nodded. Then he handed me a piece of paper with my class on it. He had given in, and I was in the second level.
    And so I found myself in Signora Laza’s class. Many days I watched the sun stream through onto the white walls and had no idea what the hell was going on. I kept telling myself that it was all part of the experience, but 
non ho capito
 became my party line to the 
professoressa.
 I sat next to Lucy, which was helpful.
    I didn’t understand a single complete sentence throughout the entire first class. Maybe I should have accepted defeat and gone to the beginner’s class. None of what I learned in class seemed familiar from my last semester of Italian at school. That last semester I had skipped many classes, and Italian was the last thing on my mind.
    Each day I understood a little bit more, but there was never a moment that I felt relaxed or comfortable. Every day there was a
pausa
, the break that would be customary in the three-hour-a-day lesson. I drank my cappuccino and wondered if it was ever going to get any easier. Luckily, I mastered the art of ordering cappuccino by the first week. That was my small victory.
    Lisa was bitter that she also got placed in the second level. Apparently, she expected to get into the third level but didn’t speak Italian as well as she thought she did. I wondered if my being in her level made it sting even more. I should have been above enjoying that, but I wasn’t.
    Janine got the first level and Michelle, who had never spoken a word of Italian, was able to avoid the placement test all together and just go into the beginner’s class of the first level. For our first week Michelle’s default was “
Mi chiamo Michelle. Sono
americana.”

    It was almost impossible to be comfortable in the apartment those first few weeks. I was always shivering. A warm bar was always preferable to a freezing apartment. The heat in my cold stone building came on in the evening and shut off somewhere in the middle of the night, leaving me to swim around my tiny empty bed for warmth. I started leaving my clothes out on the bed, so I could change under the covers.
    Some nights, I lay on my bed, pulling the scratchy brown blankets around me, trying to take the lesson in. I studied my Italian grammar book and tried to concentrate on the 
ezercizi
 in 
suffissi speciali
. Mostly it felt futile. 
Futile.
    I would have done anything to be able to veg out in front of TV with a bowl of microwave popcorn and a down comforter. I didn’t know how I was going to