cafone

cafone
peasant, bumpkin, hick

Every country has its share of jerks, clods and ignorant slobs, but Italian reserves the word “cafone” (pronounced cah-fon-ay) for its home-grown variety. This utterly Italian insult traces its history back to Cafo or Cafonis, a centurion of Mark Anthony, mentioned several times by Cicero. Its linguistic pedigree includes a debut in Italian literature in 1861, the year of the nation’s unification, in a publication called La perseveranza (Perseverance).

Cafone can apply to any generic dork, but Italian offers distinctions for the son of an ignorant bumpkin (figlio d’un cafone), a crude slob (cafone rozzo), a tasteless boob (cafone sciocco), an ill-mannered fool (cafone maleducato), an officious ass (cafone impertinente), a tasteless jerk (cafone senza gusto), and a disgusting boor (cafone ripugnante).

The most recent Galateo (Italian etiquette book) includes a “dizionario delle cafonate,” an alphabetical listing of boorish behaviors that include throwing chewing gum on the ground per la gioia delle suole altrui (for the joy of others’ soles); sticking a finger into un pertugio del corpo (a body opening), grattarsi ostentatamente (scratching oneself ostentatiously) and using fingernails as stuzzicadenti (toothpicks).

I have used cafone exactly once—at a free concert celebrating April 21, Rome’s official birthday, at the city’s opera house. The mainly elderly Romans, dressed smartly (as their generation always does), were already seated when a pudgy foreigner in shorts and a tee shirt squeezed into our row to take the empty seat next to mine.

“Please don’t let him be American,” I prayed, but as soon as I heard his string of “Excuse me’s,” I knew he was. Just as he sat down, he erupted into a volcanic sneeze. Obviously lacking a handkerchief, he blotted his nose with the back of one hand and then wiped it dry on his hairy thigh. The appalled woman on my other side and I locked eyes and almost simultaneously mouthed the same words, “Che cafone!”

Cafone also can refer to something molto buono (very good): pane cafone, the simple daily bread of Naples and the surrounding region. You don’t need Italian to follow this basic recipe. Just watch Mr. Bread at work:



Sayings and Expressions:

If you encounter a cafone:
Ma Lei, cafone ci è nato o ci è diventato? -- Were you born rude or did you become rude?

Synonyms (useful if you ever find yourself trading insults with a cafone): rozzo, villano, zotico, buzzurro, maleducato

albergo

albergo

hotel

As we were tooling around Lago Maggiore many years ago, my husband asked me, “Who is this guy Albergo and why is his name on so many buildings?” I gently explained that “albergo” means hotel.

Derived from the Germanic haribergo for a military barracks, albergo dates back to the Dark Ages, when barbarian hordes swept over the Italian peninsula. The Romans, who described their orderly style of warfare as bellum, couldn’t withstand the disorderly tactics of the Germans, whose werra (war) became the Italian guerra and the root of the English “guerilla.”

Other Teutonic imports to the Italian language include scherzare (to joke), ricco (rich) and russare (to snore). Some words reflect the miseries the barbarians inflicted-- gramo for wretched, scherno for scorn, smacco for shame. Others reveal contempt for the occupying forces. Italian uses zanna, from the German for tooth, only for an animal’s fang or tusk and stalla, German for house, for a horse stall or a pigsty.

Over the centuries Italian evolved as a sort of linguistic hotel, accommodating guests from many languages. The Spaniards, who presided over the Kingdom of Naples, contributed courtly words such as complimento (compliment), baciamano (handkiss) and parata (parade). French added stylish touches such as moda (fashion) and cravatta (tie) and changed the meaning of parrucca, which had meant one’s natural hair in Italian, to wig (a "big wig" is a parruccone). A friend taught me a Russian import when she accused me of being a stachanovista (workaholic), from Stachanov, a Russian miner who introduced new techniques to increase productivity.

Today foreign words make up an estimated 10 percent of the Italian vocabulary. In the linguistic albergo italiano, English occupies the presidential suite. Several thousand terms have settled into mainstream Italian, including computer, software, best-seller, killer, manager, cowboy, popcorn, massmedia (one word), playboy, coffee break, stress, babysitter, flirt and weekend.

Some English words have simply acquired Italian endings: chat became chattare; blog, bloggare; and skype, skypare. However, others have taken on a uniquely Italian spin. In Italian a “golf” refers to a pullover; a “mister,” to a coach of a soccer team; a “smoking,” to a tuxedo; a “spot,” to a commercial; and a “fiction,” to a film for TV. From American politics Italian journalists took “ticket” for a party’s presidential and vice-presidential candidates and created “tricket” for three contenders in an election.

Sayings and Expressions

albergo per famiglie – residential hotel
alberghi per la gioventù – youth hostels (ostelli della gioventù)
albergo a ore – cheap motel (literally a hotel by the hours) where lovers rent rooms for a tryst
albergo a gestione familiare – a family-run hotel, a bed-and-breakfast
“Questa casa non è un albergo!” – “This house is not a hotel!” a common complaint of mother whose children are constantly coming and going

goloso

goloso
crazy about a food

Dictionaries translate goloso as gluttonous. I disagree. Yes, it stems from the same word--gola (throat)—as in peccato di gola (sin of the throat, which may be my favorite kind). But like swine, gluttons snarf up everything edible. A goloso may be a buongustaio (food lover), a buona forchetta (hearty eater) or a ghiottone (gourmet) but also craves a particular type of food, such as cioccolata, nutella, supplì (Roman rice and cheese balls) or (in my case) fiori di zucca (fried zucchini flowers).

The Italian lust for food dates back to ancient Rome, where citizens savored exotic delicacies such as flamingo tongues, roasted swan, cherries from Asia, pistachio nuts from Syria and dates from Egypt. According to culinary lore, Nero was a goloso for flavored snow from nearby mountains—the original gelato.

The love of both food and language played a pivotal role in the creation of Italian as we know it. In the late Renaissance a group of irreverent young Florentine intellectuals set out to separate the literary equivalent of wheat from chaff. The members of L’Accademia della Crusca (the Academy of Bran) playfully gave themselves names related to cooking and baking, such as Lievito (yeast or leaven), Macinato (milled into flour) and Grattugiato (grated). Working diligently for decades, they produced Il Vocabolario della Crusca, the first great dictionary of officially recognized words in Italian—or in any European tongue.

Every year the Crusconi would gather for an annual stravizzo, a term they defined with understatement as “eating that happens together with pleasant conversation.” The menu from one stravizzo (its modern form stravizio denotes debauchery or excess) presents five staggering courses that included veal, tongue, prosciutto, pigeon, chicken, capon, lamb, meat rolls, soup, several varieties of pasta, artichokes, Parmigiano, strawberries, pears, peaches, biscotti—and stuzzicadenti (toothpicks).

By the end of such an eating orgy, each of the word-lovers was pieno come un uovo (full as an egg). Sooner or later many a goloso ends up that way.

Sayings and Expressions:

buongustaio -- food lover
buona forchetta -- hearty eater
ghiottone – gourmet
pieno come un uovo – stuffed (literally full as an egg)
prendere qualcuno per la gola -- get to someone through his love for food
(literally to take someone by the throat)

piacere

piacere

noun: pleasure, favor
verb: to please, to be pleasing

“Piacere,” Italians say when introduced, and the very sound evokes a tantalizing sense of delights to come. As he pronounces each syllable, an Italian man may clasp a woman’s fingers and pull them close to (but not touching) his lips. This chivalrous gesture, however quaint, never fails to charm me.

As a literary term, piacere dates back to the Middle Ages and the “sweet new style” (dolce stil nuovo) of the first poets –Dante foremost among them—who wrote in vernacular Italian rather than traditional Latin. Italians still take time and make space for pleasure in their daily lives. And they know well both what is to their liking and how to ask for it.

English-speakers declare “I like it” when they see, hear, or taste something that elicits their approval. Rather than such a blunt opinion, Italians register appreciation indirectly with the phrase “mi piace” (it is pleasing to me), words that capture the seductive, subjective nature of pleasure.

I learned the importance of choosing the right phrase to ask for a preferred pleasure years ago from a Venetian gentleman who chided me for using the word voglio (I want) in a simple request. “Voglio is for babies, shaking their hands and crying,” he said.

Vorrei—the conditional form, “I would want” or “I’d like”—functions well when buying a train ticket or ordering lunch. However, grander requests—a balcony seat overlooking the altar at Easter Mass in St. Peter’s Square, for instance, or a sunset spin around the isle of Ponza (in the photo above)—require language of a higher level.

“To get what you want, you must ask like a principessa,” my self-appointed Venetian tutor insisted. And so he taught me the elegant conditional form mi piacerebbe. (It would be pleasing to me). In Italy these gracious words conjure up a magic more potent than “Open Sesame!” Whenever I unfurl them as a preface to what I would like, no one ever says no.

Expressions and Sayings

a piacere -- as much as one likes
per piacere! -- please!
piacere [di conoscerla]! -- pleased to meet you!
con piacere -- with pleasure
fare un piacere a qualcuno -- do somebody a favor
mi farebbe piacere – I’d be pleased to (literally it would give me pleasure)

tu, Lei, voi

you (informal), you (formal), you (plural)

You are always “you” in English, regardless of age, gender, rank, or number. In Italian you might be tu (informal), Lei (formal) or voi (plural). If you happen to be royalty or a pontiff, you might even be called Loro (which generally means they or their). Other languages also distinguish between formal and informal terms of address, but only in Italian can the choice of a second-person designation spell the difference between bella and brutta figura.

If this seems confusing, don’t blame the ancient Romans. They used tu a tutti, the casual “you” to everyone, from slave to emperor. In the Middle Ages, their Italian descendents, wanting to accord special respect to worthier persons, began using the plural “voi,” for someone as valuable as two lesser “tu’s.” Until the twentieth century Italian youngsters said voi out of respect when talking to their parents and grandparents. Many southern Italian dialects that date back to medieval times still use voi as a polite form of address.

Sometime in the 1500s, probably in the resplendent courts of the day, voi gave way to Lei, the word for “she.” Contrary to a common assumption among Italians, Lei did not derive from the Spanish (usted serves as its formal you) but stands for Sua eccellenza” (Your Excellency), a feminine noun. Italians addressed every stranger or superior, male or female, as if he or she were a principessa.

The fascist dicatator Benito Mussolini, seeking a more virile language for his macho vision of the Italian nation, substituted the comradely voi, the plural “you all,” for Lei. Under his rule, voi was obligatory in schools, public offices, movies, radio and public ceremonies. Italians quickly returned to the traditional Lei when their hated dictator fell from power. For years after World War II, il voi for just one person persisted only in the mouths of American movie stars. Thanks to professional Italian dubbers, on screen Cary Grant, Audrey Hepburn, Jimmy Stewart and Grace Kelly always addressed their costars as if they were Fascist loyalists.

When I first started studying Italian, I decided to dodge the formal-familiar dilemma entirely by learning only the polite “Lei” form of address. I honestly figured I wouldn’t get to know anyone well enough to need “il tu.” (This happily turned out not to be the case.)

One day when I was jogging on a country road in Tuscany, an agitated man explained that his dog was trapped in a steep ravine. He could push him from behind, but would I call the dog to come to me? He, of course, addressed me in the respectful “Lei” form. And I, knowing no other, did the same with the dog. The man nearly fell over laughing at the sound of my oh-so-polite imprecations, which translated as, “Mister Dog, would you please be so kind as to come to me?”

Sayings and Expressions

Diamoci del tu!: Let’s give each other “il tu.”
La ringrazio: I thank you (formal)
Ti ringrazio: I thank you (informal)
Vi ringrazio: I thank all of you.

Ciao!

ciao

(chaow)

hello, goodbye

The cheery Italian ciao, which does double duty as “hi” and “bye,” dates back to the glittering heyday of the Venetian Republic. I learned its history on my first visit to La Serenissima (Italians’ nickname for the watery city) from a waiter at the café where I would sip espresso and watch the pigeons swoop across the Piazza di San Marco.

Ciao, he explained, was a local invention. Centuries ago Venice’s courtly correspondents signed letters, “Il Suo schiavo” (your slave). Meeting on the street, acquaintances would bow and repeat these ingratiating words. However, in the Venetian dialect, which softens the hard sound of sch (pronounced sk in other regions) to a chewy sh (as in show), Suo schiavo came out s’ciao or sciao, which melted into ciao as it migrated to other parts of Italy.

Despite its origin as a formal salutation, ciao has evolved into a casual greeting. Various teachers have instructed me to use ciao only with those I know by first name (and to include their names in the greeting, as in “Ciao, Luigi!”), with children or in informal settings like dances and tours.

Italian men of every age in any piazza cry out “Ciao, bella!” (Hi, beautiful!) to compliment passing lovelies. (None would stoop to a cheesy “Ciao, baby!”) Telephone conversations with my Italian friends end with a stream of ciao’s—not just the equivalent of bye-bye, but a rapid-fire ciao-ciao-ciao-ciao-ciao until one of us surrenders and hangs up.

When hundreds of thousands of Italians emigrated from their impoverished homeland in the late 1800s and early 1900s, they often lined the railings of the departing ships. Straining for a last glimpse of Italy, they stared at its coastline until it blurred into the horizon. One by one Italians bound for North or South America would whisper a final “ciao” to the country many never saw again.

During World War II, i partigiani, Italy’s underground fighters against Nazi Germany, a former ally, set new words to a workers’ folk song. “Bella, Ciao!” became the unofficial anthem of the resistance. Its lyrics tell of a young man who goes to fight with the partisans. If he dies, all he asks is be buried on the mountain, where a beautiful flower will bloom in memory of the partisan who died for freedom. Its chorus--“O bella, ciao! bella, ciao! bella, ciao, ciao, ciao!” (“Oh beautiful, goodbye. Beautiful, goodbye! Beautiful, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye!)—can still bring tears to the eyes of older Italians and stir the emotions of young Italians at political protests.

For a traditional rendition of this rousing tune, click on:

Expressions and Sayings:

Venetian dialect: “Oh, va be’, s’ciao!” -- “Okay, never mind!”

Milanese dialect: “Se gh’inn gh’inn, se gh’inn  no, s-ciao!”-- “If there is [money], there is; if there isn’t, goodbye!”