How's that again?

Nearing four decades ago, my first overseas assignment in the Foreign Service was to the American Consulate in Palermo on the island of Sicily, in Italy. From the moment we arrived, my wife and I took every opportunity to travel in and around the island, and by the time we were transferred, two years later, we had visited nearly every town and village.

Even our very first weekend there, we rented a car, and drove along the then-newly constructed autostrada (high-speed, divided highway) along the Mediterranean coast to a deserted beach at a nearby village, where we enjoyed a picnic of local wine and bread and cheese.

In fact, we enjoyed that outing so much, we decided to return to the same village the following weekend, only this time to do some more exploring. As we planned the second trip, I was concerned that I couldn’t remember the name of the village, but my wife reassured me that she had made a mental note of the name that appeared on the sign where we left the autostrada. She was certain she would recognize it again.

Now, I had grown up in Italy, and besides that, had been assigned to several months of Italian language classes at the Department of State’s Foreign Service Institute in Arlington, Virginia before we left, so when we arrived in Palermo, my language skills were pretty good. My wife, on the other hand, spoke virtually no Italian at that point (although, to her considerable credit, she taught herself while we there, so that she was eventually able to carry on a simple conversation quite nicely).

Anyway, that second weekend, we got in the car, and set out. Some miles from Palermo, I asked my wife for the name of the town, so that we could both be on the lookout for the sign. With utmost confidence, she responded, “Uscita. The name of the town where we picnicked last weekend is Uscita.”

Well, here’s the thing. Uscita is the Italian word for “exit”. So the name my wife saw on the sign as we left the autostrada the preceding weekend was the same name that was on the sign at every off-ramp the full length of the highway: Uscita … or Exit.

We didn’t find the town that weekend, but we did find another, just as beautiful.

Postscript: There was another American officer at the Consulate while I was there who spoke Italian poorly, and so he conducted almost all his business in English. When confronted by an Italian who happened not to understand English and therefore did not understand what was being said, my colleague simply raised his voice, and spoke louder, as if increasing the volume somehow increased the intelligibility. Funny world.