The national inclination to downplay one’s resources is matched only by the widespread ability to savor a challenge.
Anyone who lives in Italy inevitably has a bit of investigatore privato running through his or her veins, for no other country proves a better setting if you’re intent on seeing things. Personally, I love the incognito feel. It combats even the nastiest case of writer’s block as private eyes have tons of tales to tell. Luckily, most of the suspects I stealthily follow are words instead of people. This week’s spy assignment: where does ‘Difficile’ go after dark? And when do the ‘Easy’ idioms come out to play?
The expression ‘E’ difficile’ has sauntered into my columns before.
The national inclination to downplay one’s resources is matched only by the widespread ability to savor a challenge. And I’ve always been fascinated by the Italian habit of treating trouble like a deep-cut gem whose shine is worth reveling in.
Let’s face it, the way Italians delight in tallying up obstacles supports one of their staunchest beliefs: difficulty is not the enemy. The king is dead; God save the king. If one obstacle dies another will crop up again, and its presence is sure to sharpen one’s wits and perfect one’s good senses.
But what about the flip-side? Many things are easy in Italy: finding a good meal at a fair price, touring a Gothic cathedral in even the tiniest of towns, being served your coffee before you’ve even ordered it-how come the simple things get less spit and polish?
Language questions like these so quickly morph into bi-weekly obsessions and, for me, this week was no exception. It had to be facile to write about facile, still, my plan was to get started early. One week before deadline, I laid this column’s cornerstone:
‘Filippo-what’s an idiom with “easy”?’
‘Easy?’ he repeated, not taking his eyes from the TV. A horrible political talk show haunts the house on Tuesdays, but it was a commercial break. ‘I don’t know,’ he shrugged. ‘E’ un po’ difficile.’
‘Oh, please…’ I started, ‘…don’t difficile me. Just find one.’
He sighed, looking at me finally. ‘Facile come … facile come rubare le offerte in chiesa.’
I laughed. ‘You’re making that up!’
‘No, I’m not,’ he argued. ‘It’s a real expression.’
‘How can stealing from the church coffers be easy?’
‘How should I know?’ he answered, suppressing a grin. ‘I didn’t invent it.’
No. He didn’t. But before the night was through, Filippo had provided a plethora of scary examples that have forced me to face the facts: easy things are not well looked upon in Italy. Their idioms prove it. ‘Easy as stealing candy from a child’ was evil enough without having to disappoint me with the ugliest idiom of all time: ‘Facile come sparare sulla Croce Rossa.’
‘Filippo, è terribile!’ I protested. ‘How can “shooting at the Red Cross” mean easy?’
‘Well, don’t get worked up at me about it,’ he argued. ‘This is your game. I’m just the fool who’s playing.’
I took a deep breath. Perhaps I had not been clear enough. ‘I’m looking for an expression that’s positive. In English, we say that something’s “a piece of cake.”‘
He thought for a moment. ‘Easy as chocolate?’
‘Almost,’ I nodded. ‘As easy as pie.’
Filippo shook his head. ‘No. We don’t have that. Food is not easy in this country.’
‘So, what do you say?’
‘I’ve already told you,’ he insisted. ‘But who needs to talk about easy things? Easy is unexciting … Either unexciting or criminal.’
I waited.
Finally, it came to him. Desperation, we’ve learned, engenders good answers. ‘Facile come bere un bicchiere d’acqua.’
‘Better,’ I told him, ‘but kind of boring.’
‘Exactly!’ he exclaimed, ‘This is what I mean. Easy things are boring.’
I rolled my eyes.
He shook his head, ‘You do know that life with you is not at all easy, right?’
‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘But you like difficult things.’
‘Touché,’ he smiled.
Touché, most definitely. But he never did come up with the word I wanted.
Three days passed before I brought it up again, triumphant as a cat catching a lizard on the rafters.
‘Filippo, I’ve found it,’ I told him, as if bringing home the rooftop prize.
‘What?’
‘How to say “a piece of cake” in Italian. A student of mine came up with it.’
‘Sentiamo.’
‘That test was una passeggiata. Easy as a stroll!’
‘That’s right,’ he grinned. ‘Brava-strolling is good.’
Filippo was relieved: it meant another week at least before the beginning of our next word feud. I, too, was happy as a clam. English speakers eat cake. Italians walk it off. Oh, what a wonderful world.
