Newly arrived in Italy, I get on the bus leaving Malpensa Airport. I feel nervous. Am I ready?
“Una biglietta per favore, ” I say.
The driver breaks into a glorious speech. To me, he could be Guiseppe di Stefano. It was beautiful. I am mesmerized and don’t listen for meaning.
He is waiting for my reply, no doubt expecting me to respond with a recitative matching the dramatic proportions of his.
I am chuffed. Could he really think I am Italian? I soon nip his assumption in the bud with a reply that reveals the extent of my Italian skills. Let’s just say that I can speak operatic Italian.
“Largo, per favore,” I plead.
I take my seat and glance around me. The blur of hand gestures accompanying the tempo presto of the Italian language hurts my eyes. A melodic polyphony of voices envelops me—open vowels and exclamations. The language sounds, to my ears, like cream, like pannacotta, smooth and glinting; you could eat it with a spoon—soft on the lips and sweet to consume. I eavesdrop and understand more than I had anticipated.
Across the aisle from me is an Italian gentleman in his late 60s. In linen pants and a crisp cotton shirt, he is impeccable. The leather on his shoes gleams like an old violin. I don’t even have to hear him speak to know that he is Italian.
He begins arguing animatedly with a signore who is sitting alongside the driver. They are discussing vino. They could be age-old friends, but they are not. They are just filling the time pleasurably.
Ten minutes later, I remove my light coat. It is warm. The Italian gentleman watches appreciatively. I conceal a smug smile.
“Caldo?”
“Si.”
He asks me where I am from.
“Australia,” I respond. There is a murmur of appreciation on the bus. Everyone has been listening.
“Ah, si, Melbourne?”
“E Perth. Queste è mio prima giorno in Italia,” I say excitedly, eager to use my Italian.
“Your first day?” Signore can speak English.
“Si.”
The Italian gentleman is becoming more vivacious.
“Your firsta dayee? Ah … si … You musta hava drink, bella. We will celebrate.” He fumbles in his portmanteau for a drink.
I wait and watch, intrigued, half expecting a vino rosso and a wineglass, given his excited disposition. Not wanting to rebuff such overwhelming hospitality, I begin to think of how I might say that I do not
drink wine.
Instead he retrieves a plastic cup of water covered with foil from his flight. He holds it in his fist, victoriously, for the bus to see and then gives it to me, saying, “Drink. Welcome!”
Other passengers echo his sentiments. I feel so wonderful.
I drink the water as he questions me.
“Why you come in Italia?”
“Per la opera. Io canto. Io studio opera in Melbourne e Milan ha buona opera.”
I could be Maria Callas by the way he is looking at me. He is clearly excited.
“Opera. Ah bella!”
The Italian gentleman turns to the audience behind him and frenetically explains why I am here, to murmurs of approval.
“Soprano?”
“Si!”
“Ah…” his expression assumes a breathy tone. Call it soprano veneration.
“Soprano,” he declares and begins to intone, “Regnava nel silenzio…”
The man on the front seat starts whistling a medley of Puccini arias.
I am ecstatic. It is true, living confirmation that the general populace of Italy knows its opera.
