Eat, Pray, Love

a goal, anyway, to want to study a language. It’s not like I was saying, at age thirty-two, “I
want to become the principal ballerina for the New York City Ballet.” Studying a language is
something you can actually do. So I signed up for classes at one of those continuing educa-
tion places (otherwise known as Night School for Divorced Ladies). My friends thought this
was hilarious. My friend Nick asked, “Why are you studying Italian? So that—just in case Italy
ever invades Ethiopia again, and is actually successful this time—you can brag about know-
ing a language that’s spoken in two whole countries?”
But I loved it. Every word was a singing sparrow, a magic trick, a truffle for me. I would
slosh home through the rain after class, draw a hot bath, and lie there in the bubbles reading
the Italian dictionary aloud to myself, taking my mind off my divorce pressures and my
heartache. The words made me laugh in delight. I started referring to my cell phone as il mio
telefonino (“my teensy little telephone”). I became one of those annoying people who always
say Ciao! Only I was extra annoying, since I would always explain where the word ciao comes
from. (If you must know, it’s an abbreviation of a phrase used by medieval Venetians as an in-
timate salutation: Sono il suo schiavo! Meaning: “I am your slave!”) Just speaking these words
made me feel sexy and happy. My divorce lawyer told me not to worry; she said she had one
client (Korean by heritage) who, after a yucky divorce, legally changed her name to
something Italian, just to feel sexy and happy again.
Maybe I would move to Italy, after all...
Eat, Pray, Love