Ironically, the Tuscans are often credited with inventing the modern Italian language. History books and encyclopedias alike record that the standard literary form of Italian is based on a Florentine dialect called “volgare”, which means “of the Volgo” or “of the people”. The credit goes to Dante Alighieri, who wrote Divina Commedia in said dialect. This was groundbreaking because texts up until that point were written in Latin–a “proper” language–and the “vulgar” dialect was spoken among the masses. Although the dialect is technically Italian’s predecessor, a modern Florentine (or even linguistic student, like myself) would have some trouble recognizing words in Dante’s poems.

My degree in literature cost me several years of my life, a good portion of my sanity, and a lot of money, but the most challenging linguistic endeavor I ever faced was dating my Florentine boyfriend. We met in Cuba; we were both studying filmmaking in the middle of the jungle for three months. There were only six out of 300 students I could actually converse with there, and he was one of them–or so I thought. Looking back, I should’ve recognized our language barrier from the start: I had never even heard of his name before, although it’s apparently a classic Florentine one. As months turned into years of dating and the tropics of Cuba were replaced by the cobbled streets of Italy, he seemed to only grow stranger. Bizarre words came out of his mouth, and simple conversations often grew into arguments. Like when I would ask him to wash the dishes in the lavandino, which to me (and every other Italian) means sink, but to him meant bathroom sink. (He calls a kitchen sink an acquai, which I’ve never again heard or seen except in a Renaissance cookbook.) If I wanted to sweep, I had to ask him to pass me the granata–which, to him, means broom, but to me means grenade. How did he get the word romaiolo from cucchiaio di legno (wooden spoon)? Why did he call a matching sweatsuit a tony, not a tuta, like he had anthropomorphised them? I couldn’t understand how one city just decided to rename common household objects, especially when no media or stores supported the words.

Don’t come at me: I know that every dialetto has its own words that are difficult to get right. It’s the nature of a dialect, after all. What differentiates the Tuscans is their unshakable belief that everybody not only understands them, but actually uses their words. I’ve heard Sicilians, Pugliese, and Napoletans make self-effacing jokes about their accents and the words they use, but Florentines are shocked that, for example, the exclamation borda–which can mean something is good, bad, or fun–is not known across Italy. They assume we all use bandone as the word for shutter, when every other Italian, including myself, says serranda. And many have argued with me that Bòna Ugo, something along the lines of “we will never get there”, is a common phrase. (When it comes to trying to make Tuscans understand all of this, Bòna Ugo.) 

Language is indeed an intriguing thing, affected by where we live and where we were raised, by our gender and our personal experiences, and even by pop culture (try to talk to a member of Gen Z and you will find yourself gasping for air). No one, from your siblings to your parents to your colleagues, is ever speaking the same language as anybody else. Sometimes I feel as though my relationship would have gone the same had I dated one of the Cuban guys from my program rather than a man born a two-hour train ride from me. Despite all of our miscommunication, my fidanzato fiorentino and I are still together, and even moved in together a few months ago–we might not have all the right words, but at some point love transcends even language.

While my observations are all in good fun, I can promise you that no one has it worse than the Tuscans, for they will be as linguistically lost as some study abroad students as soon as they leave the confines of their precious region. A word of advice, dear reader: be careful if you visit Tuscany, and think twice before falling in love with a Florentine man. A simple Italian dictionary is absolutely not going to be enough!