Once upon a time I was a star Italian student. I could carry on conversations over imaginary cigarettes in the cafeteria, and I translated Vogue Italia to those less fortunate then I. Not anymore. Having to talk with people over the phone makes me jittery, but in Italian even worse. "You English speak?" I resort to. Shame on me! Then I remembered, in the depths of my wardrobe is a notebook I used for the years I spent studying Italian. Wouldn't it be a scream to unearth it?
And a scream it was. Amongst the scratchy handwriting, pages and columns filled with sketches of women with Louise Brooks bobs and finger waves (some things never change), recipes photocopied from Martha Stewart and a gushing letter of recommendation from my Italian teacher that actually made me tear up, was proof of my proficiency.
I'm hoping that as soon as I get there I have some sort of "awakening" that has happened in times past, but I think I'll be studying this notebook before bed this week, trying to ignore the embarassing reminders of times past.