In preparation for my college semester in Italy I enrolled in Italian 101. The teacher was a charming native and despite his dedication to the task, little of what he said sank in. Only out of his kindness, with perhaps a touch of pity, did I pass. I left for Italy knowing a few basic words and not much more. My high school experience studying Spanish had not been markedly different.

Most of the students upon arrival rented hotel rooms within the boundaries of the tiny medieval city. I wished for a more authentic experience and chose an option several kilometers out of town. It was an old farm house where an Italian student shared her apartment with one of my American classmates and me. I was immediately immersed into an Italian speaking world and rueful that I had not learned more. Fortunately my schedule included several hours of intensive language classes each day.

It took several weeks of frustration but soon the conversations in cafes, shops, and on the street were emerging from inchoate melodies into distinct sounds then distinct words. And my terse responses were becoming sentences and after a month or so the sentences were becoming complete thoughts. The farmhouse was too far from the center to walk, and buses were slow and infrequent, so the daily hitchhiking induced chitchat with the drivers and my responses to their questions were beginning to flow in a smooth patter. Within a few months I had Italian friends and began conversing freely, a feat I never could have imagined.

I meet people today who tell me that they are incapable of learning a foreign language. I always let them know that they are very likely mistaken.