Salviettina Rinfrescante by Zeke Roth-Reynolds
“ Vorresti una salviettina rinfrescante?” asked the flight attendant. He looked up from his iPhone and was smitten. She had a face fairer than the evening air— one that’ d seen a thousand planes take off. And for all he was able to answer, she might as well have asked him for the molecular formula of the jet fuel that was going to propel his connecting flight across the Adriatic, or what the name was for the cloying shade of yellow faux-leather on the seats. In Italian he could tell a woman that she was beautiful, but not ask where the bathroom was.
She asked, and for a moment he froze with fear. What did she want from him? In way of learning Italian he had done little more than selectively glance at a picture book his mother gave him to learn the language— Italian Through Pictures. The online schooling he did was all so that he could teach English to foreign language learners. He could recall a certain Dr. Shane Dixon, with eyebrows like restless caterpillars and a lavender sweater vest, telling him all about how language was like cake. He didn’ t remember how it was like cake, but there were a lot of weird analogies throughout the course, and after a while it got hard to keep them straight: language was also like basketball, a camera, Dr. Dixon’ s crazy aunt Ethel, and a colander— hell if he knew why. None of this helped him in his present situation.
After a brief moment of paralysis he told her all he could:“ Sei bella, e questo è tutto quello che so”—“ you’ re beautiful, and that’ s all I know.” He had the words right, but after pronouncing them with his finest American accent and icing them with nervousness, his response was as unintelligible to her as her initial question was to him. She simply smiled, as if to say“ nice try,” and placed a moist towelette on the tray in front of him.
4 by Gene Hopman-Whipple