No Sorry, That's Italian.

She was and probably still is named Señora Righello. And she was a truly terrifying woman. She believed herself to be cultured and with that came a vein of pretension that never left. She had traveled around the world; learned Spanish in Argentina, Portuguese in Brazil, French in Canada, and Italian in Italy. And she never failed to remind us.

I mentioned she was truly frightening and that deserves an explanation.

Señora Righello stood 5' 10 without her heels, which by the way were not heels. They were riding boots that buttoned (buttoned, not laced) to her mid calf. She had hair, that I would equate to lions mane of red hair. And by red, I mean a fiery burning reddish orangish tangle of curls. She was a pale woman. Not sickly green pale (as that would clash with her hair) but, more of a plaster pale. Like she had been working with sheet rock.

Her attire was always a skirt or a dress. I don't have any recollection of her wearing pants or denim for that matter. When she wore skirts, they were always long (thank God). Long, ruffled and distinctly foreign. And everyday, everyday without fail, she would have a ridiculous flamboyant scarf. Now contrary to popular belief, flamboyant does not instantly equate to gay. I use the term in the sense that the scarves were grand, dramatic, expensive, and colorful. No doubt they were procured on her many (and she regularly assured us...many) travels.

The best image I can give you of her is the ( I can't believe I'm using this example) the drama teacher from high school musical.

Everyday while we prattled away with our notebooks and worksheets, she would sit at her desk, one antique riding boot gently folded over the other and sip what I can only assume was coffee out of an interesting do – hickey. A beverage holder which she repeatedly explained was the traditional mug-type-thing for hot and warm beverages in Argentina.

And everyday, every single day, she would in some way, shape, or form, remind us (the lowly uncultured students) that she spoke four languages.

“Oh Pardoné moi” she would say. “I lapsed into french”

“I'm sorry” she would exclaim. “I gave you the conjugation in Portuguese.”

But most commonly, she would place a crooked finger to her pursed lips and “hmmm” loudly and stare down the bridge of her nose pensively as she desperately tried to figure out what was wrong with the sentence she had just written. Then, miraculously, it clicked. And as she underlined the offending word or phrase, she would state.

“No. Sorry. That's Italian.”

I was playing games with my cousins. They are six, four, and two. And then there is my aunt who is eight. (but that's a long story). We were all hanging out and when my cousins said something to me in Spanish and I attempted to say something back. What came out was a freaky friday cross between English and Spanish and what I can only assume was Elfin. A strange gibberish caused by momentary loss of synapses in my brain.

“What” my cousin looked up at me with a curious look on her face. I stood blankly trying to understand the word vomit that had just spewed from my lips to my cousins ears. Again... she asked, this time with a little head tilt to the side.

“No sorry” I explained. “That's Italian.”