Italians are a pragmatic lot. Ask someone in Rome for directions: they will wave in (presumably) the right direction and say "Avanti!" roughly translatable as "go a few blocks that way and ask somebody else."
Anyway, the scene is a bright Sunday morning in late October. I'm boppin' down the Via del Governo Vecchio, en route to the internet hotspot, with nothing on my mind more momentous than boarding passes. I encounter three ladies of a certain age and dignity, decked out in their Sunday best.
--Lei parla Italiana?
Uh oh. This is a test.
--Un po', I exaggerated. And with greater accuracy: non abbastanza bene. No, not well enough at all.
--Campo de' Fiori? one of the three asserted, with an interrogative upbeat. And the others chorused: Campo de' Fiori!
Ah. Now that one I can handle. I think. Mutter mutter "al sud." Mutter mutter "a destra." Mutter mutter "attraverso il Vittorio."
And then it dawned on me. There is an easy way out of this.
And I gazed in admiration as they undertook their progress in the direction of Campo de' Fiori.
Today I am an Italian.