The author moved to Italy in order to learn the language
and explore some of the world's most beautiful cities,
including Venice, pictured above. Photo by Laura Burkett '90.


Old Dog Learns New Tricks
by Laura Burkett ’90

Dedicated to anyone who has ever had difficulty learning a foreign language

I feel like a dog.

No, I’m not sick and no one treats me badly. (Even as I write this, I am acutely aware of just how strange idiomatic expressions can sound to non-American English speakers.)

Nonetheless, I feel like a dog—in many ways.

I came to Italy to learn how to speak Italian. I am convinced that this melodious language is so beautiful, in fact, that even phrases like merdina del cane per la cena (“dog poop for dinner”) sound appealing. Despite the frustration of learning a new language at 33 (no small task, I assure you), the language still sounds as beautiful to me as the first time I heard it.

If you know me, you know how impatient I can be. And it takes me longer than most to truly absorb new information. I can never take it at face value; my brain works in such a way that I must understand the structure, rules, and logic behind every stated fact, theory, or construct. I pity (and hereby thank) any educator who has ever called me student—I know I was a nightmare! I’m not proud of my stubborn learning process. It drives even ME crazy. (Did I really receive a degree in mathematics?)

To make matters worse, my frustration doubles when I look around the room and see my classmates nodding in apparent comprehension and instant internalization of all they are told. (I like to picture them eating merdina del cane for dinner, just because a professor told them they should eat it.) Imagine how I feel as a 33-year-old flunkie in my class full of 18- to 23-year-olds with bright futures, flashy disco pants, and plans for Saturday night.

“Italian is an easy language to learn,” according to people and guidebooks everywhere. It strikes me as ironic that these people had already mastered the language long before they made their sweeping generalization. Perhaps this is something akin to adults telling small children that losing a tooth is no big deal, shots don’t really hurt, and, worst of all, “We won’t laugh at you if you make mistakes.”

Let’s face it: these were all just little white lies told to make us feel better in scary situations. At least for me, losing a tooth was a big deal, shots still hurt (d#@!it), and PEOPLE LAUGH WHEN YOU MAKE MISTAKES!

Just for the record, Italian is not an easy language to learn. At least not for some of us. There are many reasons for this, both general and specific to my thick-headedness. In my experience, most non-Americans speak at least two languages from birth—their native tongue and English. Then they pick up (annoyingly effortlessly) a third and possibly fourth while on vacation or while working abroad for a year. Many of them also study Latin at some point, which immensely broadens both their scope and speed of comprehension of other languages. I, on the other hand, was not taught Latin. Living foreign languages were not obligatory, at least not to the extent that I became fluent.

Layer on top of this inherent flaw the “Laura factor,” i.e., my special learning process. It is true that I make everything harder than it needs to be, particularly in the classroom. I toil over every single word—nay, eve-ry sin-gle syl-la-ble. I have become a “low-talker,” speaking too softly for anyone to actually hear me. (Some of you may remember the reference from TV’s Seinfeld.) I endlessly struggle for either immediate comprehension or brute memorization of new words and phrases. I hide in the language lab so my teachers can’t see me. I avert my eyes when la professoressa engages the class in dialogue. I appear so inept that once an instructor gave me a look of pity and told me to “not worry so much” and “just enjoy Italy and the time you spend here,” rather than trying to actually help me.

Then there’s all the stuff that happens outside of class: social interaction with Italians. Mathematically speaking, there is an exponential increase in my level of fear when faced with the prospect of simple things like asking a shop owner if she has a blouse in a different color or telling the clerk at the post office how I want to mail a package.


CENTRE-IN-ITALY—Sheri Shaneyfelt ’90 (left) and Laura Burkett ’90 unexpectedly learned they both live in the central Italian city of Perugia.

The truth is that while I may muster the courage to get the correct words out, I am terrified by the high probability of a full-on Italian reply at warp speed. Once you have demonstrated that you know a little bit of the language, the listener then cuts loose with a 2,000-word soliloquy that in the end amounts to “We had it in green but now we are out” or “You should send it second class.”

For example, I was out searching for a new apartment and had to call a woman to make a viewing appointment. Once we finally met, she burst into laughter at my attempts to speak her language. I don’t mean a friendly it’s-good-that-you’re-trying chuckle, either. This was pure, knee-slapping, doubled-over laughter. At least I waited until I got around the corner to burst into tears.

With all the trials and tribulations, there is still a sliver of hope. My very first Italian friend, Alessandro, seems to be moderately impressed—bless him—with my progress to date. He and another friend, Mara, insist that I know more than I let on, that my pronunciation is better than average, and that my comprehension and application of the language’s fixed grammar rules will make me a better Italian speaker in the end. And thus I press on.

So, just when I start to feel a little better about myself, there comes the inevitable invitation from Alessandro or Mara to go out for drinks with a group of Italian friends. This is where the dog analogy comes in. (I knew you were wondering.)

On one of these occasions, I was trying to be invisible and smile as if I understood the conversation around me. I almost started laughing out loud (out of context) when I realized that I was behaving just like a dog. Like a dog, I understand very few words that are spoken to me. I only respond when spoken to directly, and only when spoken to by one of my “masters”—Alessandro or Mara. Otherwise, a look of utter bewilderment descends over my face like a black cloud. For some reason, Alessandro is the only person I can even halfway understand. He claims this is because (like a dog or other animal) it was with him that I first “imprinted” in my early infancy stages as a speaker of Italian.

Anyway, throughout the evening, I became exhausted by the efforts of active listening and straining for comprehension. I found myself (like a dog) watching my master, waiting to hear one of the 10 to 20 words I understand. Then the big moment came: someone threw me the proverbial bone and asked ME a question in Italian.

Five faces turned to listen to my response. I froze, panic-stricken, cheeks burning with humiliation, unable to understand or formulate a response. The five disappointed faces turned back to their original conversation. I decided it was time to go home.

C’mon. We all know that dogs don’t do tricks when they are supposed to, when there is an audience, when it really counts.

If I were a dog, I think I would be a border collie. They’re very smart dogs, you know. They have lots of energy and understand more than they let on. Their wardrobe consists of black and white, the most versatile of colors. They may not be elegant or sexy, but they’re fun to be with and they can do numerous party tricks when they’re in the right company.

But best of all, they do not eat dog poop for dinner.

Laura Burkett ’90 was a marketing manager in England for Coors Brewing International before abandoning the corporate world to travel for a year. Her adventures have included trekking in Nepal’s Mount Everest region, overland safari touring in Africa, and living in Italy while learning to speak the language. Her e-mail address is lauraburkett23@yahoo.com.

Venice photos provided by William Levin


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