Story Andrew Edwards

Illustration David Zavertnik

When asking a guy out on a date, it helps to speak his language. I don't mean having similar iTunes libraries or sharing a passion for obscure literature. I'm talking about talking. If you think your sweaty palms and nervous chatter are embarrassing in English, try mustering the courage to say "Hi. I've been checking you out for months. How about joining me for an aperitif?" In Italian.

It's a sweltering afternoon in early September when I first meet Egidio, the clerk at my host university's bookstore. My friend Liz and I swear we've met the physical incarnation of a Michelangelo painting. With his curls of chin-length hair bouncing off a jawline a Renaissance sculptor couldn't have chiseled, I half-expect him to produce a lute and serenade me. One "Ciao, bello," and I'm smitten. I've found the man who will sweep me away on a Vespa to lazy afternoons sipping limoncello and lusty nights swimming in the Trevi Fountain. I just have to ask.

But, despite two years of language classes, all I can do is splutter, “G-g-good afternoon, wh-what’s your n-n-name?” in broken phrasebook Italian. Somehow, he understands my mangled attempt at an introduction and coolly answers, as if he's used to nervous American exchange students making passes at him, "Mi chiamo Egidio, e tu?" My mind goes as blank as my stare, and he notices. "How do you say, ehh, what eez your name?" he translates in a thick accent. I manage to stop drooling long enough to fumble a response and compensate by buying more copies of Dante's Inferno than a literary scholar would know what to do with. I then slink out of the bookstore in defeat, ignoring Liz's insistences that "he was totally flirting with you."

After two weeks, my Italian has progressed — with a considerable amount of sweat and tears on the part of my maestra. I've got a brand new pair of Prada loafers, and Dante has reached the center of Hell — I want to know what happens next. So, one particularly sunny Thursday morning, I gulp down my usual espresso-plus-two-sugar-packets and make my way back to the bookstore, trying my best not to skip down the cobblestone street outside my flat. Today, Egidio has his hair pulled back in a ponytail. Is it just me, or are his cheekbones higher?

I approach the counter, and suddenly my confidence escapes faster than a schoolboy from a ruler-wielding nun. I inquire after the shelf on which I can find Dante's Purgatorio and hope he will forgive my affinity for butchering his beautiful language. After some small talk punctured by not-so-small awkward silences, I thank him for his help and make my exit. At least my grazie no longer rhymes with Yahtzee. The spring in my step is gone as I trudge back home, furious with myself. Why do I choke every time I gaze into those chocolate gelato-colored eyes? Sure, Egidio always greets me with a wink and a kiss on each cheek; that's just Italian hospitality at its finest — and sexiest.

But later, as I prepare to rejoin Dante on his epic journey, I discover a sticky note attached to the book’s back cover. A series of numbers is scrawled across it. My heart skips like I'm back on the cobblestones. A phone number?

It seems Egidio, my Italian future-husband, has made the first move toward our dreamy life together. Our dolce vita will put Federico Fellini’s to shame. After all, it's the correct number of digits: It must be his phone number. I follow modern communication protocol and send him a text message.

Five hours go by. No response. Discouraged, I pick the book back up, ready to drift asleep among lines of five-hundred-year-old romantic poetry. Suddenly, a series of all-too familiar numbers catch my eye from beneath a print of an old fresco on the book’s cover.

The same number of digits as on the sticky note. A bar code? Not a phone number.

Weeks pass, but neither weekend train rides to Florence nor trying to keep straight the differences between Romanesque and Renaissance architecture have helped me forget Egidio. Finally, the day of reckoning comes. Liz, tired of explaining she doesn't know why my Italian experience doesn't resemble that of Diane Lane in Under the Tuscan Sun, drags me back to the bookstore, one last time. "Just do it,” she says. “Have some palle" (one of Italy's most beloved words, meaning balls).

Egidio sees me come in and flashes me a grin and his familiar wink. My knees experience their familiar wobbliness. The bookstore is busy today, so I decide to wait at the back of the line — I'm not jumping at the chance to make a fool out of myself in front of an audience. One by one, the customers (or, more likely, fellow admirers) exit, until only I and a man I presume is a local student remain. My palms turn clammy and suddenly I feel as though Dante is nothing but a big whiner — the Inferno can't have been any hotter than this tiny shop feels at the moment. But, just as I start kicking myself for leaving my phrasebook at home, I come to a realization: I don't need it.

As it turns out, there's nothing like having a crush on someone for mastering a second language. I've navigated vast seas of vocabulary, scaled treacherous grammatical heights, and finally learned to speak Italian — all in the name of lust. Granted, being able to order pizza without a friend’s help might have been part of it. But if it wasn’t for Egidio, I'm sure I would have never learned the all-important distinction between the pronunciation of penne (a tube-shaped pasta) and pene (a tube-shaped body part).

Finally, I’m confident enough to win a date with my Latin dreamboat. Emboldened by this epiphany, I turn my attention back to my surroundings. The man in front of me is deep in conversation with Egidio. I notice his hair could stand to be washed, and his definitely-not-Armani cologne could stand to be poured down a drain. I also observe that the two men's conversation seems unsettlingly like the one I've envisioned between Egidio and myself. I pick up words such as "dinner," "drinks," "dancing," and "tonight."

No. This isn't happening.

I watch and listen in disbelief. I’m seconds from victory and the trophy is being snatched from under my fingertips. Even worse, Egidio, the Romeo to my Juliet, is totally buying it — he's going out with this greasy-haired stronzo. I'm ready to chalk up the past three months as a complete waste and never show my face in Italy again, when I catch myself. Maybe all the effort hasn't been in vain — maybe Dante could still reach Paradise.

It's my turn. I walk up to the counter and ask, with flawless grammar and pronunciation, "Dov'è si trova il libro Paradiso di Dante?" Egidio's perpetual composure is momentarily broken — he stammers as he points to the correct shelf. Minutes later, I'm back on the cobblestones, book in hand and a grin on my face. I may not be in Paradise, but I'm certainly not in Hell. And, even though I'm still dateless, my Italian is practically perfect.