HOW WE STUDIED ITALY

(Instead of studying)

Episode 1 (everyday a new episode)

“Cock-a-Doodle-Doo.”

Amnon went to the neighbourhood grocery with a list so short it felt optimistic:

Bread.

Milk.

Eggs.

Bread, point.

Milk, point.

Eggs.

Amnon faced the shopkeeper: short, stained apron, a cigarette that died and came back every three minutes, like a bad habit with good insurance.

The shopkeeper waited.

Amnon waited.

The silence began to take initiative.

Amnon knew four sentences in Italian.

None of them involved eggs.

He looked for a solution.

Creative.

International.

Something with feathers.

He leaned forward slightly, smiled politely, and said, calmly, confidently: “Cock-a-doodle-doo.”

The shopkeeper froze.

The cigarette fell.

Two women in line experienced personal growth.

To clarify, Amnon added a modest wing flap.

That’s when the shouting started.

The details were unclear, but the themes were consistent:

large gestures, the word Pazzo repeated like a diagnosis, and a firm editorial opinion about the door.

Amnon found himself outside.

Eggless.

But wiser.

In Italy, not every animal impression qualifies as speech.

That evening, the Italians in the apartment laughed for ten uninterrupted minutes.

The Israeli listened, nodded, and said: “Sure. Catholic grocery. At the butcher’s, it would’ve worked.”