Many years ago while traveling in Morroco I visited a hammam. They are always segregated by gender either by hours of operation or location and the luxury of design and accommodations, or lack thereof, can vary greatly from place to place.

A woman led me a few steps to a tiled anteroom where I was directed to remove my clothes and shoes, underwear was optional. It took me mere minutes, but for the native women wrapped in layers and layers of clothing disrobing was a time consuming undertaking. Despite the extreme outdoor heat, this tradition apparently was meant to keep them cool. I have no way of knowing if it succeeded, but I suspect ages of tradition, not unlike evolution, tend towards survival. I do know I sweltered under the oppressive sun in my thin dress. I put my belongings in a locker and was given a towel. I was the only foreigner there and had little recollection of the procedure despite a quick foray many years before in Paris. I was shown where to fill a pail with hot then cold water to comfort and cautioned of the slippery marble floor, conveyed without a common language.

The hammam had a few separate areas with differing grades of heat, neither too hot nor too cool. It was a place and time for women to relax unencumbered by the outside world. One could sit on a small stool or floor mat and the regulars came with their own brushes, loofahs, soaps, combs and cloths. I had thought to ask beforehand, so I had the basic necessities.The room was shared and the ambiance warm and communal, I watched the others and scooped the water from the pail with a cup guiding a cascade from the top of my head down along my body. The water fell in streams more soothing than a shower. They scrubbed, I scrubbed, they rinsed, I rinsed, they washed and combed their hair and I followed suit. The speech was low, ebbing and flowing, peaceful. I reveled in this privileged and tranquil domain. All was done slowly, there was no urgency in the motions and the cleaning was meticulous, thorough. For many this was a weekly visit, but for me I was hooked, and returned the next day.

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.

As a child, the extent of my winter sports consisted of sliding down hills, ice-skating on occasion, and the requisite snow ball fights. No one I knew personally skied, and my only knowledge of the sport came from watching the Winter Olympics on TV.
While studying in Italy one winter some fellow students and I headed off to Bolzano, a town in the Italian Alps, not far from the Austrian border. I couldn’t imagine a more perfect location to ski. The sharp irregular peaked mountains ascended dramatically into the air and the sun competed with no cloud in the sky. The opportunity to take advantage of this magical environment was not lost on my companions and they indicated little desire to stay with me, a complete beginner. I made my way to do the best I could on my own. When I was asked what length skis I wanted, knowing only what I had picked up from afar, I lifted my arm straight up over my head(my only point of reference were the Olympic skiers) to make my desire clear. And there I was with the magnificent Alps before me with not a clue on how to get started. My attire consisted of jeans and a jacket, neither waterproof and if I managed to stay upright on these impossibly long and thin skis for more than a few seconds I do not recall. Getting a lesson never occurred to me; I’m not sure I even knew they existed. After many gallant attempts and then a few more, the sun lowered in the sky and now cold and wet from my ongoing contact with the snow, I claimed defeat. I left that day assuming skiing was a sport completely beyond my capabilities.

It wasn’t until many years later that a friend suggested I try again, but this time on very short skis. They were neither elegant nor sleek as the ones I had failed on, but they were skis I could maneuver and control. After a few lessons I was mastering the basic techniques and heading down hills on my own.

My very first time in Europe was as a student studying for a semester in Italy.
Our group landed in Rome and the following day our professors gave us a tour of this magnificent city. If I had had a guidebook, I am sure dozens and dozens of must-see monuments, sculptures, fountains, streets and churches could have been dutifully checked off on this day. We ran here, we ran there, we oohed and we ahhed…very quickly. But at the end of this day I felt oddly dissatisfied and unfulfilled. I had seen a great deal, but could recall very little of it. The sense of frenzy is what remained.

Seeking a different experience, I asked if I could forgo the second day’s group activities and was told no. Thus I feigned illness; I was “unfortunately too sick to go”. Knowing I had several hours of this new day ahead of me I wandered the streets, got lost-of course, sat at cafes sipping cappuccinos, watched the daily life pass in front of me, ate gelato and something for lunch I am sure, and revisited a few of the same sights I had seen the day before. This time I was setting the pace. I lingered, I paused, I strolled, I dallied, I absorbed the sights and sounds. Rome was emerging from the blur.