Metaphorically speaking, that is. I suffer from this delusion that, having studied German for two years as a schoolgirl, I still have some command of the language. Actually, I have about ten phrases, of which the most useful is, 'I'm sorry, I don't understand.'
I'm going to Germany and I don't like to travel stripped of language, but there are only 600,000 hours in the average life time and one can't master everything. I'm 58 and I haven't even made a start on Polish.
People say, 'Of course, you must be fluent in Italian by now.'
Fluent, my eye! 'Fluent ' is when you use a language every waking minute, to the point where you no longer have to think, is a clothes-airer masculine or feminine? 'Fluent' is when you can begin to say something and with one little mid-sentence flick of your mother tongue leave no one in any doubt about the exact weight of your opinion.

But before Germany we have the Feast of Redentore, when sane Venetians scarper to Brussels or somewhere on a nice cheap Ryanair flight and the rest of us take to the water in anything remotely floatable and party until the midnight fireworks. This is followed by the 12.30 jockeying of boats for pole position and a fast getaway. Canal rage.
The traditional Redentore party foods are marinated sardines and stuffed roast duck. Mm-mm. Just what I want on a sultry July night. I'm thinking, make mine a big slice of water melon and a cold shower. And let's have the fireworks at 10.30.