English-speakers, with their obedient, pocket-dwelling language, are fascinated by it-the way Italians surround their speech with gesture, shaping the air between two people as if it were sand on which to build castles. Hands and arms often wave in the forefront, but those who want to know more about Italian strengths and weaknesses had best look at the legs, for the peninsula’s people can be categorized by how effectively they use them.
If I were to put a new theory on the table, it would be this: there are only two types of people in Italy. Those who deserve the country’s most common compliment and those who merit nothing but mile-long trudges through the snow. And once you know just how you are, you’d best find a chum among those you’re most unlike.
Gente in gamba stride wherever they walk. They are the go-getters and the receipt savers, the unassuming folks who foresee rain before the clouds do. Leg-people are quick on the uptake and land on their feet. Constructive types who carry solutions along with their pocket umbrellas, they swing on positive practicality as if the world were a jungle gym made for serious playing.
They are the leg people; they know precisely where to go and what rules to follow once they get there. No one but una persona in gamba realizes it’s mandatory to stick a 60-euro tobacconist stamp onto your passport to legally pass beyond European borders. And the real proof of their pudding lies in the fact that they never attempt to buy one last-minute from the check-in lady at the airport. Gente in gamba buy beforehand and are never banned from leaving the country. It’s too bad, really. We should spare no effort to keep them here.
The rest of us, the ones who are not in gamba miss the plane entirely-and not just because we’re lacking a travel stamp. Our hurdles are unforeseen and our forgetfulness inevitable. Our group’s name sounds more like a threat than anything else: ‘those who have no head, have legs.’ We are the chi non ha testa ha gambe people. Alas, for the headless, retracing steps is the only way to truly forge the path. We do not stride; we wander, for days on end, directionless. Sprinting is saved for the very last lap, when someone in gamba finally takes pity and tells us which racetrack we’re meant to break the ribbon on.
This newborn leg theory came from somewhere, of course. Like most good things in Italy, it first saw the light of day in the dining room. Served up at dinner once the second plate was through, language clues are substitute for dessert in my house. In truth, I can seldom resist it: the need to pose some quirky language question that’s worthy of ‘the face’. If you don’t know which faccia I’m referring to, try asking the Italian you love best to explain why words like ‘information,’ ‘news,’ and ‘advice’ are plural in italiano and singolare in inglese. I’m sure your favorite person will be quick about providing precisely the look I mean.
‘I’m thinking of compliments,’ I told Filippo, last night in lieu of tiramisù.
‘Thanks. Am I supposed to guess what they are?’
I shook my head. ‘No. I don’t mean compliments about you. Just compliments in general.’
‘Oh. Then maybe I’ll stop being interested.’
‘You don’t know how to stop being interested.’
This is, of course, my utmost compliment and the reason I most love the race. Italians cannot help but want to hear more.
Filippo conceded. ‘So, what is it you’re thinking about compliments?’
‘That you’re una persona in gamba.
‘I thought you said this wasn’t about me.’
‘It’s not about you. I mean, it’s not my opinion. I don’t think you’re in gamba. You just are.’
‘Well, so are you.’
‘No. I’m a chi-non-ha-testa-ha-gambe’.
Happily, this comment inspired my second favorite faccia preferita: the one of worried concession. ‘Beh. Forse,’ he admitted, with a smile small enough to hide the risk.
Beh, forse, incidently, is a man’s maybe-baby way of admitting that a woman is right, particularly when he fears that her accuracy will soon translate into trouble. There is no other translation for it. The phrase means fear, pure and simple.
Being the person in gamba that he is, however, Filippo’s paura was short lived. Leg-people are seldom off kilter for long. ‘Chi non ha testa ha gambe is not all bad,’ he said. ‘If you didn’t have to retrace so many steps, you wouldn’t find half as many things to collect. Slow people find things.’
Vedi? This is what I mean. Find the one that you’re most unlike and insist on sharing a piece of the road. It’s best to keep one’s opposite near. Life’s journey is long and its legs are many.
