Moving abroad is one thing. Learning a new language is another. The fact that Italians are true language artists whom I seriously suspect of constantly inventing new words does not really make things easier. Not easier, perhaps, but definitely more fun.
Because no matter what we talk about, and no matter what I say, in every conversation I have with Italians, they exclaim at some point: “But Anne (Anna!), you’re such a …”
Not a day goes by that I am not labelled by an Italian with a word that describes what I would be. Wait, what do I mean by that? Well, Italians seem to have a name for every state of being. And if they haven’t got one yet, they spontaneously come up with a word. So regularly, I come across another little mystery in the Italian language. Because no matter what we talk about, and no matter what I say, in every conversation I have with Italians, they exclaim at some point: “But Anne (Anna!), you’re such a …”
When I cross the street ignoring the red traffic light, I hear – mildly impressed and with (misplaced?) pride – “ma quanto sei italiana!” You are so Italian!
Such a what? A freddolosa without a doubt, that I hear a few times a week. A freddolosa is someone who is always cold. When I cross the street ignoring the red traffic light, I hear – mildly impressed and with (misplaced?) pride – “ma quanto sei italiana!” You are so Italian! When the next time I’m waiting for the light to turn green however, I hear – with a slightly irritated undertone in their voice – “ma che olandese che sei”. I’m sure that by now, you could already guess what that means: you are so Dutch. And do you remember how I told you a while back the Italians always call me a romantica here?
But it’s a close call I have to admit, because would that friend have told me that I was a maiala (pig), he would have definitely received a with Italian passion formulated answer from me, asking him how on earth he dared to say that
Yesterday, when I posted yet another photo of a very full plate of pasta carbonara on Instagram, within no time an Italian friend commented: “ma che maialina che sei”. What a little pig you are. Wait, before you feel pretty insulted in my place, it’s important to know this thing about the Italian language. Because by adding the ending ‘-ina’ to a word, you turn it into a diminutive. And in Italian, just about all diminutives are by definition not meant to be mean. But it’s a close call I have to admit, because would that friend have told me that I was a maiala (pig), he would have definitely received a with Italian passion formulated answer from me, asking him how on earth he dared to say that.
When Alessandro, my flatmate, held a little dinner party last Friday and I sent a video of the utterly ridiculous amount of food considering we were only seven – from gnocchi amatriciana to Nutella-cakes and from pizzas to the typical Roman cicoria – to an Italian friend, the only response I got was: “cicciona!”. It probably doesn’t surprise you when I say you have to carefully consider who you’re saying it too
Just as you create the diminutive of a word by adding the ending ‘-ina’, you do exactly the opposite with the ending ‘-ona’. This phenomenon doesn’t exist in neither the English nor the Dutch language, so let’s stay with the example of the pig to clarify things: maialona means: large pig (maialina – maiala – maialona). There is no need to say that you’d better leave it out of your head to ever call a woman a maialona (are you still following me? Maialina = sweet, cute, funny. Maialona = you’d better leave the country as soon as you can). Yet the Italians use such a so-called magnifying word to describe a bigger woman: that’s a cicciona. Although it is a common word, you have to be careful when you use it. A woman can safely say about herself that she is a cicciona, or as my Italian friend Veronica said last weekend: if I did not work out so much, I would definitely be a cicciona. My nonna and mother are a little ciccione. However, a cicciona is not just a bigger woman, because the unspoken meaning of the word hints on the fact that her voluptuous size is mainly due to a great love for all that delicious food. So when Alessandro, my flatmate, held a little dinner party last Friday and I sent a video of the utterly ridiculous amount of food considering we were only seven – from gnocchi amatriciana to Nutella-cakes and from pizzas to the typical Roman cicoria – to an Italian friend, the only response I got was: “cicciona!”. It probably doesn’t surprise you when I say you have to carefully consider who you’re saying it too. It could be a reason to end a friendship for an Italian who has been dieting desperately for years. It goes without saying however that I truly think every single woman, regardless of her size and whether or not she thinks herself a cicciona, is beautiful and perfect the way she is.
Asking around amongst my Italian friends taught me that nobody had ever really heard of it. Nobody, except Ursela
But if cicciona is the magnifying word, is there also a ciccia? And if there is, what does that mean? Asking around amongst my Italian friends taught me that nobody had ever really heard of it. Nobody, except Ursela. Our dear cleaning lady Ursela – who, while lighting up her cigarette on the balcony, reassured me that she would rather die of lung cancer than of the coronavirus but, at the same time, almost got a heart attack when I tried to leave the house while my hair wasn’t fully dry yet – has been calling me a ciccia ever since we first met. When I quickly put the word through an online translation machine and the dubious translation ‘flab’ came out, I asked her what she meant when calling me ciccia. She didn’t really know that either, she said, but she was sure that I was a real ciccia. She had never used the word on anyone before, she added. So, whether the cleaning lady compliments me every week or actually calls me something ugly will remain a mystery of the Italian language forever.
Heavily sighing, he then directed me towards the Pantheon where I was allowed to look around for a whole five minutes while I heard him mumbling under his breath “ma che testarda che sei”. Luckily, I know that putting on your sweetest smile always works with Italians
What surely wasn’t intended to be a compliment was when I got called a real testarda the other day: stubborn, or rather, quite hardheaded. When I went for an evening stroll through ancient Rome with a friend – which remains as magical as ever, however long I live here – as restaurants and bars are closed after six, I immediately told him that no matter what, I wanted to pass by the Pantheon, my favourite monument in Rome. Si, si, he said, but after strolling by the Coliseum, through the Forum Romanum and back via Circus Maximus two hours later, there was suddenly only half an hour left until the curfew. Casually, my friend remarked that we would skip the Pantheon, which immediately led to a vehement protest on my part. Despite his arguments about how we would not make it home before the curfew, I refused to give in. Heavily sighing, he then directed me towards the Pantheon where I was allowed to look around for a whole five minutes while I heard him mumbling under his breath “ma che testarda che sei”. Luckily, I know that putting on your sweetest smile always works with Italians.
I was enthusiastically greeted with two of amusement radiating eyes and a very enthusiastic “Ciao gnocchetta!”. Eh sorry, gnocchetta? You know, gnocchi, those little typical balls of dough made from potato starch
And that’s how the Italian language still has many surprises in store for me, which regularly puts a big smile on my face. In fact, last Thursday I was enthusiastically greeted with two of amusement radiating eyes and a very enthusiastic “Ciao gnocchetta!”. Eh sorry, gnocchetta? You know, gnocchi, those little typical balls of dough made from potato starch. So, you tell me, how could I not totally love the Italian language and its sixty million word artist?