As I write this, I have Italians in my basement. I say that with great kindness, because I love that they are Italian (as I am) and they have these thick accents that let you know that they are off the boat. They are Joe, and Joe D. There are other Italians that come with them sometimes, another Joe and Dave, but they aren't here today. It's a small job.
The Italians come to do various handywork, like today's job of cleaning out my basement and garage and hauling all the stuff away. Last year, they put in a french drain for me. They are soccer players with full-time jobs who have such a nose to the grindstone attitude that they rarely take time off. Today's job, and the others, are done on days off from work, weekends, and nights.
After their van pulls out of my driveway, the Italians will be heading to my parent's house to take away a daybed. Last week, they stained their deck. And in a few days, they will be returning to my home again to paint the inside of my garage white. Just so that I can see things better. (This summer, when a snake went into my garage and never came out, it really unnerved me, enough to get the garage cleaned.)
I listen to them speaking Italian, and it makes me desperate to learn. The language is so beautiful, even when spoken through gruff, determined mouths. I wonder, if I have enough handywork done, might I be able to pick up some of their naive tongue?