Little street in Viterbo

Viterbo is surrounded by a wall built in the eleventh century.  A five kilometer loop, folks told me: a perfect route for a walk (or run, I initially thought, until I noticed, in the walking, the ongoing inclines and declines).  I found my way to one Porta (not sure which one, but I have now entered and exited, thanks to two colleagues, through two porta (portae in Latin; porte in Italian?), and I can find my way from the apartment to these two porta.

On my walk around the walled city (Approximately 20, 000 people live inside the walls of Viterbo; another 40,000 people live in Viterbo outside these walls.  I've never been one to know, remember, or care about population, but I am glad for this information.  People ask questions about population and region -- Lazio -- and nearby towns -- Rome is 80 miles south; Florence, 130 miles north.  I now have some basics down which make sense to me and even help me have a sense of where I am.) I found (cherco?) chances to practice my Italian.

Saldi everywhere in Viterbo these days, so one store drew me in with its sweatsuits.  Hannah will be the first in our family to celebrate her birthday here in Italy (August 30), and she loves sweatsuits, which only my aunt Margo can successfully find.  And even she couldn't find one this summer before we left.  But this store had the sweatsuits hanging in the window with the sign SALDI! beside them.  Sale!  I used the words regazza and filia and seite to describe Hannah as the woman who worked there laid sweatsuit after sweatsuit on the table.  They even had Hannah's favorite Adidas, albeit in black and in a material that did not feel flexible or comfortable.  (Like me, Hannah will not sacrifice comfort for fashion.)  I asked whether I could exchange the one I got (Nike, colorful, size 8-10) if it didn't fit, and she said, "Cambia? Si."

Back on my walk, the wall always to my left, I followed the American rule of walk against the traffic.  One hill was so long that an athletic guy coming up the other side was walking his bike.  I thought, Run this?  No way.

The cars sped by.  I passed a mechanic's shop, where 15 motorcycles sat out front, and a woman with the hood of her car up spoke fast Italian to the guy trying to start her car.

A man spoke to me in French, and I had to tell him, No parlo franchese.  Parla l'inglese?  He said, No.  But with our gestures and Italian (Dove sono magazini grande? I asked.), he pointed me in the direction of the grocery store.  Another man stopped me and asked me for directions.  All I could say was, No so.  Mi dispiace.  But I wasn't too sorry.  I thought (not for the first time in my life), I feel like Nick Carraway: I got asked directions!  I must belong here.  Or someone thinks that I (look like I) belong here.

In the grocery store I needed to find bags for trash and bags for compost.  I approached a woman shopping, saying, Scusi.  Dove....? 
She said, "Non lavoro qui."

"Io lo so," I said.  "Ma forse sa"...I gestured to the other bags in my hands.  I was not giving up just because she was not an employee.
She said, "Busti?"
"Si, busti!"
"Que cosa?" she said.
"Per...per...trash...recycling...food..."  I couldn't come up with the word for trash.
"Rifuti?" she asked.
"Si!  Rifuti!"  I'd never been so excited about trash.

No Pimsleur for me today, but that recycling paper that I read yesterday came in quite handy.