Talking Italian by Daniel Scott

It was on a balmy night during the Italian summer, sitting in a central Perugia night club, that I had the most cause to be thankful that I'd decided to spend time learning the language at the town's university. Nestled opposite me was Enrica, who at that moment I was convinced was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen, her tawny Latin curls, doleful green eyes, caramel coloured skin and cream jumpsuit lent an ethereal air by the bouncing strobe lights of the disco. I'd known her now for three weeks ( since a Dutch friend Mauritz from my course had moved into her spare room ), but had been in love with her for much, much longer. It was that which formed the basis of a faltering and circuitous but 100% genuine ten-minute Italian monologue which I was presently delivering to her. A monologue which was rapidly running out of steam. Then, and recollecting this moment still sends tingles down my spine, Enrica reached out with her left hand, laid it lightly but firmly on mine and said: " Ti amo, Danielle " ( " I love you, Daniel " ).

Just goes to show that even in the language of love, the old adage my Dad had often repeated to me was true: " Minimum of words, maximum communication. " But although Enrica had done the rest, I'd done my best, and that was considerably better than what I could have done a few weeks previous. It was then that I'd arrived apprehensively in Perugia literally language-less beyond the obligatory yes, no, pizza, bira, lasagna, please.

But then at the University for Foreigners in the central Italian town of Perugia, almost equidistant from both Rome and Florence, all students beginning language courses are pretty well in the same boat. And aboard my particular boat ( a crew 90 strong ) were representatives from a veritable smorgasboard of nations, from as far afield as Australia, Peru, Nigeria, the US, Iran, India, Mexico and from most countries in Europe, a total of over 35 altogether. Age ranges were similarly broad, from a hardy sixteen year old Austrian girl to a Kiwi couple in their seventies. Some were setting sail for work purposes, some as part of their formal education and some simply for the experience. Whatever, from day one of the journey, under the patient and often playful guidance of Valeria, a proud thirty-something Perugian woman with tightly curled black hair, we were learning the lingo in the tried and tested way of the university: by talking Italian. And after a week of hardly arduous class and homework, the less shy among us, even some whose common mother tongue was English, were conversing in the host country's patois. After a month, the roughly four daily hours of tuition was really paying off as many cross-international friendships were forged, both among students and with locals, as well as the odd liason.

Now, while falling in love ( with an Italian ), is not a guarantee of attending the University for Foreigners, and anyway might not be everybody's bag, becoming besotted with Italy and particularly its central regions, Umbria and Tuscany, is par for the course. Perugia itself, apart from being the town where the Italian language is allegedly at its purest, is also rich in history and atmosphere. Perched high on a hill, the old Etruscan town, where the university is situated, is full of steep, narrow cobbled streets, laid-back cafes and miraculously preserved ancient buildings. Some summer days the whole place seemed baked like a mould in an kiln, the heat hanging still in the air. On days like these I'd breakfast on doughnuts and cappucino outside a favourite cafe, hit the university for a couple of hours in the morning, enjoy a cheap lunch in the student restaurant, grab a siesta in the sun in a fragrant park and return to class for a couple more hours in the late afternoon. On afternoons off, groups of us would migrate by train to the nearby Lake Trasimeno to cool off. Back in town, in the early evenings, the whole population would seemingly come out to stroll the broad central pedestrianised street, the Corso Vanucci, young men and women flirting shamelessly, other people nibbling at delicious gelatos, or to simply stare and chat perched on the steps of the church.

During my stay I also spent many weekends exploring the region. While the attractions of both Florence and Rome were of course unmissable, I also discovered for myself a wealth of smaller towns: Siena, with its clam-like central square and orange/red rooves simmering with history; Cortona, another hill-town with spellbinding views; Orvieto, the home of fine wine and a finer cathedral; and Assissi, with its palpable sense of religion on every street. Attending a couple of the region's festivals was also unforgetable: the unrivalled rivalry and pagentry of Siena's Palio ( a horse race around the central square ) and the more bizarre but equally passionate Corsa dei Ceri in Gubbio ( where three teams of men race the hugely heavy images of three saints 24 kilometres up and down a mountainside whilst remaining duty-bound to always finish in the same order ).

Finding my way to and around these places would of course have been possible without knowing Italian but probably not as enjoyable. However, later on that same night back in the club in Perugia, I had further cause to be grateful for learning the language. Locked in passionate embrace with Enrica, I suddenly became aware of a nearby flurry among a group of my polyglot friends, followed by some more distinct cries of " Salva te ", which roughly translated means " save yourself ". The cries, I eventually realised, were directed at me. Darting smartly onto the dance floor, I saw him, cutting a swathe through the smoke. It was Angelo, Enrica's estranged, Sicilian, and it has to be said far better looking ( than me ) ex-husband. The same Angelo who had recently beaten Enrica's brother almost to a pulp for suggesting that him sleeping with her best friend during their marriage hadn't been too ahm, sensitive. Shuffling awkwardly on my feet to the music, I gulped as he came straight for me. " What were you doing with my wife ? " the small, stocky and not unaggressive figure demanded to know. " We were just talking, " I croaked, " just talking Italian ".