My fruit monger gave up. He was a patient man, a fair man, but I now had clearly gone too far. This young, impudent man not only touched his fruit, but insulted his character. "Non sono comunista!" he bellowed. He had a lot more to say, but to the untrained American ear, it sounded rather like, solononoglionomabuonomiaabonlagliono. Using my only other phrase of Italian-"excuse me!" I scooted away as quickly as I could, the entire market staring at me curiously; the American tourist trying to learn Italian in Italy. Later, nursing a latte and my bruised self-esteem, I was able to make the connection: red meant communist. All those words of warning had done no good: even without a leisure suit, I was still that ugly American tourist.

It was several more weeks before I mastered the art of buying fruit in Italy, and finally tasted a blood orange. Buying that piece of fruit was now more than honoring one of my mother's sappy memories, but a triumph of international commerce. It was delizioso! These are the times were you realize there is so much more to learn and I am so glad I came to learn Italian. Insistence makes perfection so I will be returning to Italy to learn Italian soon.