Word gifts are all around. Sometimes they come as swooning song lyrics or arrive in the mail with greeting card sweetness. And sometimes, yes, sometimes, a lovely pair of parole will crop up in the most unlikely of places and rock a girl’s linguistic presumptions straight to the core.
On a good day, one should never put ‘advertising’ and ‘poetry’ in the very same sentence, yet I can’t help but commend the slogan used during a recent citywide bus campaign to encourage users to purchase annual passes rather than single 75-minute tickets. Good idea. Very possibly, bus riders are now the only people in the whole paese who are expected to know their plans ahead of time. Of course, my point is neither newfound convenience nor environmentally sound transport. The true source of intrigue is the billboards’ happy group of commuters as they gloat beneath the boasting, boldface phrase ‘SENZA PENSIERI’.
To be blunt, I love it. Call me a geek, but the ad makes me want to sing and laugh and go bungee jumping. Usually, advertisements promise easy things. Buy what is being hawked and you’ll either get the girl or be the girl. Or you’ll be transported to a breezy island paradise. Or your breath will be as fresh as an alpine squirrel’s as he stands on the porch talking to a polar bear. These bus people, on the other hand, are promising something truly worthy: buy a pass and you will be ‘Without thoughts.’
Now, I realize the whole concept may need a little getting used to. Certainly, in the English-speaking community, relinquishing one’s thoughts is not altogether a good thing. Admittedly, the average English-speaker has a real taste for the thought-filled flavor of his well-stewed mind soup. ‘I think, therefore, I am,’ Rène Decartes once wrote, and although he was French, the English speakers believed him.
‘It’s just an expression we use,’ my friend Donatella argued when I attempted to share my newest language treasure. Normally, she is quite willing to share in the pleasure of pretty phrases. This time was different. An expert on medieval literature, she does not accept that an advertisement should give me more of a thrill than seeing an illuminated manuscript at the Chiesa di San Marco. ‘Senza pensieri doesn’t mean “no thoughts”; it means “no worries,”‘ my friend concluded, as if settling a dispute.
‘Yes, but that’s the exciting thing,’ I insisted. ‘In Italian, “thoughts” and “worries” are synonyms. And it’s so perfetto. Have you ever had a worry that wasn’t a thought?’
She smiled and decided to humor me. ‘Do you know what D.H. Lawrence said?’
‘No,’ I answered. ‘That’s why I keep you around.’
‘He said, “Italians do not think, they only feel.”‘
‘How very snobby of him,’ I replied.
‘Maybe,’ she laughed.
Now, this is all well and good. But in order for linguistic infatuation to become a full-fledged language theory, something has to happen that forces one to sit down and write the article. In this case, the impetus did not come from purchasing a bus pass. It started with a late Red Arrow train and an attempt to make up for lost time by grabbing a cab at Santa Maria Novella.
I shot into the taxi, making room for my luggage beside me. There was no time to ask him to load up the trunk. ‘Lungarno Colombo 32, per favore,’ I rushed.
The driver made no move. ‘That address doesn’t exist,’ he said blandly.
‘Yes, it does. My friend lives there. I stay with her every time I’m in town.’
‘Le dico, non esiste.’
Oh, madre mia. I grasped at my memory straws. ‘It’s near … it’s right nextdoor to a doctor’s studio. Studio Bartolini, I think.’
‘I know,’ he frowned.
‘How can you know, if it doesn’t exist?’
‘It doesn’t exist as an even number.’
Hmm. Well, isn’t that interessante?
Not that I know what it means.
Yet I fear that if I think about it, it will make me worry considerably. Could it be that Italians are the only people in this world who manage to know something and not know it at the very same time? Eighteen years in this country and I’ve failed miserably at mastering that. But I am getting better.
‘Senta,’ I told the taxi driver, ‘if you want to convince me that 32 is an odd number, can we do it while you drive?’
With that, he took me there. And yes, the bus probably would have been easier. Still, the imperative ‘senta’ does wonders when it comes to putting pressure on the gas pedal.
And lucky for us, sentire means both ‘listen’ and ‘feel.’ Put it at the beginning of any no-nonsense command and you’re likely to get no nonsense. Even the most polite people had best write it down on their list of power words: when please fails to work, arouse cooperation with a combination of listening and feeling. Just in case, D.H. Lawrence can be considered more credible than this particular tassista.
Luckily, my friend’s house did not disappear on our way toward the river.
A lovely blue ‘32′ was waiting for me beside the door-even in every way. No worries, senza pensieri, and, thank goodness, no real need to review the algebra of integers.
