In Paris on sabbatical from my job as an English professor, I decide to spend Christmas at a health spa in Abano, Italy. In Europe, taking the waters is a serious affair, as thermal cures are prescribed for rheumatism and arthritis. Spas are thus far less glamorous than they sound, as there is always about them a certain hospital-like quality. But I’m fond of the idea of pampering myself with massage and fango (thermal mud) treatments. The travel agent warns me, however, that this particular spa "tends to draw an older crowd." When I tell him I’m worried about not being able to speak Italian, he assures me that this won’t be a problem.

Prior to my trip, I buy an Italian phrase book, as the little Italian I know comes from opera. I assume that Abano will be like Paris—when the listener hears my accent, he or she will respond in English. I think it’s important, however, to try and speak some Italian, as I’m convinced that the locals are more welcoming when you make the effort. When I check in to the hotel, I discover that the staff speaks a variety of languages, including Italian, German, French, and English. But while most of the staff speaks more than one of these, unfortunately, not everyone possesses the two I know. As for the ages of the other guests, most of them seem to be between sixty and eighty. As far as I can tell, I’m the only single man under fifty.

At dinner that first evening, Christmas Eve, the menu is printed in French, Italian, and German. I sit down next to a stylish looking Italian couple, but the proprietress of the spa, a fiftyish blonde woman in an elegantly tailored suit who, like many Italians at the spa, wears lots of gold—gold chains, a gold pin shaped like a stalk of wheat, large, gold-rimmed glasses, hammered gold earrings—comes to the table. "It is Christmas. You must sit with other people who speak English," she says. "Come."

I dutifully follow her to the new table, where I am introduced to the only other three guests who are fluent in English-- none of whom is a native speaker. Tina and Diana are sisters who live in California. Two of the only people at the spa near to me in age, they emigrated from Iran twenty years ago. On their right is seated Frau Bär.

Herta is Austrian. After the Second World War, she learned English as an Au Pair on the Isle of Jersey. She is seventy-two years old, but she looks at least ten years younger. Hettie has been coming to the spa for forty years. Dressed in a black-beaded dress, she is elegant and cultured, far more understated in her dress than many of the other women at the spa. She has a girlish way of tossing her hair back when she talks, and when she laughs, she blushes and covers her mouth. At first, she seems uninterested in me, as if I’ve spoiled her rapport with the sisters, but by the end of the evening, she has become my new friend.

That night, we make small talk by sharing some of the less intimate details of our lives. I tell them that I am spending the year in Paris and that this is my first time in Italy. Orphaned at fifteen at the very end of the war, Hettie went to live in Feldkirch, a tiny town close to the Swiss border, with one of her married sisters who owned a shoe store. This past year, Hettie has lost five of her closest friends, including her sister and an Italian man from Bologna twenty-years her senior. The two of them used to come to the spa together.

As the night wears on, we all get a little drunk, and our conversation becomes more intimate. I want to know all the details of life under the Third Reich, but first I have to convince Herta that I am not an ignorant American, and so we talk about Austria. She reminds me that the Austro-Hungarian Empire was one of the West’s greatest powers. I try to remember famous Austrians—Freud, Mozart, Schubert—and I’m able to recite for her the first line of Tamino’s first aria in Mozart’s The Magic Flute. Though she never actually uses the word "lover," Hettie suggests that she and the man from Bologna had an intimate relationship. But the difference in their ages kept her from marrying him, she tells us.

When I tell her my last name, she repeats, "Monsieur Champagne," and extends her hand. I kiss it and immediately see that I’ve transgressed some kind of boundary. "You know," Herta says, "the proper way in Austria is to do it only in the house, and not to really touch the hand to the mouth." But despite my faux pas, Herta seems to be enjoying herself.

"You know, when I was young," Hettie says, "we always went to midnight mass. And from across the church, the schoolgirls made signals to one another. We would point to our new hat or gloves to show what the Kinder Kris had brought us. Ah, I wish I would have had boys in my school. Then, I would have been a better student." When I laugh, she insists, "Jah; I would have been ashamed for the boys to see me do poorly."

Near the end of the dinner, a group of Italians dressed in folk costumes—one of them carrying a live sheep-- enters the dining hall. They sing Christmas carols, including "Jingle Bells" and "White Christmas." When the carolers sing "Silent Night," they sing in German. Hettie looks at me as she sings along, and then I join in, too.

"Ah, you know the German words!" she exclaims.

"Yes. There are many Germans in Milwaukee, the city where I was born. We learned the words in music class."

"You know, Austrian German is nicer than what they speak in Germany. It is not so hard; much softer."

By the end of the evening, the four English speakers have made a silent pact to stick together the rest of the week. We meet in the hotel lobby prior to every meal, and in the evening, when the hotel offers entertainment—a magic act, a fashion show, dancing—we sit together.

Every time she sees me, Herta greets me with "Bonjour, Monsieur Champagne." I say either "Bonjour, Madame Bär," or "Buon giorno, Signora Bär." As I explain to Herta later, I cannot stand the sound of "frau," as it reminds me too much of "haus frau."

"Jah, haus frau," Hettie says, making a face. Having never been married, she has never had to cook or clean for a man.

As luck would have it, Hettie is my companion at every meal: in an attempt to provide us with opportunities to meet one another, the spa seats all the single people together. Our individual tables are arranged in rows facing one another, and Herta’s is to my left. While she occasionally turns to speak, in German, to the man on her left, the majority of the time, Hettie speaks to me. After saying something to the man one day, she turns back to me and says, "You are probably happier if I leave you in peace."

In fact, were it not for her, I would be having a far less interesting time. She tells me stories about growing up during the war, about a woman who disappeared from the town after telling a political joke, about boys of fifteen who jumped off mountains or shot themselves rather than continue to fight for the Reich. "The Germans were very tough on their soldiers," she tells me. "When my brother-in-law was taken prisoner, he could not believe the way the Americans spoke to their officers. So casual!" She tells me many other stories: how she had to tie string into nets for shopping bags, for example.

"It was very hard on the fingers at first, but then, you know, they get rough."

"Calluses," I say.

"Jah. The neighbor, she asked me once to make one for her. I thought I get a little money—you know, it was the war, and we were hungry—but she didn’t give me anything," she laughs. "My father, I used to say to him, ‘But papa, I’m so hungry!’ And he would say, ‘Well lick some salt, and then you will be thirsty.’ But before the war, he spoiled me. I missed my papa very much."

"And what are you a professor of?" she asks.

"English."

"English! Ah, and you have to listen to my terrible mistakes! It must hurt your ears!"

In fact, I am amazed that her English is so good, given how rarely she must speak it nowadays. While she has a cousin in California, she hasn’t visited the States in forty years. Having to speak so many languages at the spa, she sometimes confuses them; if she is speaking to me in English and a waiter interrupts to ask what she would like, she answers in English, catches herself, and then laughingly orders again in German. But I’m amazed that a seventy-one year old woman is so fluent in German, English, Italian, and French. Unlike most of the rest of us, there is almost no one at the spa with whom Hettie cannot speak.

As I sit in the lobby one night before dinner, a well-dressed, middle-aged woman approaches me. "The signora who owns the spa tells me you are from the United States. My English is not so good, but I would like to practice. It is okay? I speak with you until you have had enough, and then I go."

Knowing from my own experience with French how difficult it is to practice a new language, I’m truly moved by this woman’s bravery.

The woman tells me her name is Flora. "I live in Italy. I take English classes, but I am out of practice. My husband thinks I cannot really speak."

I struggle to come up with a question that will allow her to make small talk with me, and so I ask, "Do you have children?" Later I realize how sexist a question it is.

"No," she tells me, "but I have many people in my life. My sister, she is with me on this trip. I give to many people. I don’t mean to put myself above, but because I have no children, it is easier for me to give to many others."

The doors of the dining room open, indicating dinner is served. "Thank you so much for speaking to me," Flora says. "You are very kind."

"I enjoyed it very much," I say. "If you want to speak again, please don’t hesitate to come and talk to me. Buona sera, signora."

Every lunch and dinner, Hettie and I gossip and flirt with one another. I tell her I’m amazed that she’s going to be seventy-two in January. She shows me a photograph of herself and two of her three sisters. In the photo are three beautiful women, all with the same haunting eyes. Their hair is pulled back from their faces and flows down their backs, and they’re dressed in simple white blouses and skirts.

"You are all so thin!" I exclaim.

"Jah; it was the war. We were hungry. Every time I see this picture, I think of how sad we look. Our papa just died. My sister Eta, she was the prettiest."

"No," I say, "It’s you who are the prettiest." And it’s true. In the photo, she reminds me of Ingrid Bergman. "Look at how sensual your mouth is; your lips are so full."

"Ah, no.; Eta was the prettiest." She pauses. "You know, you have a good figure. I see it when you swim. I am an old lady, so I can say these things."

The next day at lunch, I walk over to Flora’s table, where she, her husband, and sister are seated.

"Buon Giorno. Did you dance last night?" I ask.

"Yes, a little."

"Will you again tonight?"

"I don’t think so; it is difficult for me. But I will like to see the fashion show tomorrow night."

"Are you enjoying yourself here?"

"Yes, very much."

I smile conspiratorily. "I want your husband to hear how well you speak English."

She laughs and tells her husband, who says something to her in Italian, which she then repeats to me in English.

"In January, I have to go to Paris for a medical visit. I am okay; I just need to be checked. I come with my sister and my doctor’s secretary. We would like to take you to dinner so that I can practice my English. You will be our guest. We go near the Louvre or the Eiffel Tour."

"I would like that very much."

"Three women with one man," Flora’s husband says, in English. I know he is making a joke, but I can’t tell if he’s suggesting that I will be lucky or unlucky.

"Buon Giorno, signore," I say.

"Ciao, Gianni," says Flora’s husband.

I spend my days at the spa relaxing and reading. I begin every day with a mud treatment followed by a massage, then I shower and shave for lunch. After lunch, if I’m not too sleepy from the food, I go window-shopping in Abano or write. My time at the spa makes me confront being an American in a way I rarely must in France. In this enclosed environment, I am "l’americano," the single American by birth. To everyone I see, I say "buon giorno, signore" or "buona sera, signora," trying to dispel the myth that Americans are rude. But I am put to shame by Hettie’s knowledge of history. She tells me stories about the Empress Marie-Teresa and explains to me that the Austrians still haven’t forgiven the French for Napoleon’s conquest. Together we try to remember the relations between the Bourbons, Hanovers, Hapsburgs, and Romanovs.

That afternoon, I borrow a pen and paper from the front desk so that I can give both Flora and Hettie my address in Paris. I joke with Herta later that I have to be careful, as "Avete una penna?" (Do you have a pen?) and "Avete un pene?" (Do you have a penis?) sound perilously similar to one another.

The last night of my visit, the spa has arranged to present a concert of "lyric" music. The singer is a mezzo-soprano whom I describe to Hettie as "zaftig," primarily because I want to make a joke and show her I know more German. "Do you mean on the balcony?" Hettie says, referring to the woman’s bosom. Dressed in red sequins and feathers, the singer has pitch problems, and her German and English diction are both atrocious. Nonetheless, the old people love her. They interrupt her prepared program to ask for requests, which she honors, and she sometimes grabs one of the men and waltzes with him while the pianist plays.

The mezzo sings a Neapolitan song I recognize; my brother used to sing it for my Sicilian relatives. I ask Hettie what the Italian phrases mean: "Non ti scordar’ di me; La vita mia legata é a te." She tells me, "’Don’t forget me; My life is tied to yours.’

"But don’t take it, how do you say in English, wörtlich?"

"Literally," I laugh.

After the mezzo sings the Habanera from Bizet’s Carmen, I ask her, "Do you know what the words mean? ‘Si tu ne m’aimes pas, je t’aime, et si je t’aime, prends guard à toi?’ ‘If you don’t love me, I love you, and if I love you, be careful!’ But don’t take it literally," I smile.

"Gianni!" someone says to my left. I turn to see Flora’s husband. He wants to buy me a drink, and so I order a beer. "Signora?" he asks.

"He wants to buy you something to drink," I say to Hettie.

"Oh, no thank you." She seems confused.

"He’s Flora’s husband; the woman from Tuscany I told you about."

"Ah, jah. I didn’t recognize him, and I wondered, why does this stranger want to buy me a drink?"

On my left, I hear Flora’s husband singing along with the Neapolitan songs. Feeling relaxed from the beer he has bought me, I, too, sing along to the songs, in English: "New York, New York," "Moon River," and "White Christmas." Eventually, Flora joins us. The pianist plays "On the Street Where you Live." Hettie and I laugh, because earlier in the week, she referred to me as Professor Higgins to her Eliza Dolittle.

"Ah, you know how to sing!" Flora says.

"A little. But your husband, he has a beautiful voice."

She repeats what I said to her husband, who says something to me about the mezzo’s version of "New York, New York." The gist of what he says appears to be that no one sings as well as Liza.

I tell Flora that I want to go to Marrakech before I return home to the States from France. When I ask her if she has ever been to Africa, she tells me no, "But we lived with a girl from Somalia. She was very smart, very hard worker. Because I was sick, I needed somebody. Now she lives in Atlanta, Georgia. She wants to go to computer school, but it is very expensive. She told us the state would pay for part, but she must come up with the other. My husband told her he would pay. She was very good to us. She helped us, now we help her."

Smiling, Flora adds, "If my husband knew what I was telling you, he would kill me."

"Well," I joke, "that is why it is good that you learn English and he doesn’t."

"In the past, in Italy, we speak only Italian. Now, we learn English, French, and German." She gestures with her hands, shapes them like a ball. "The world, she is becoming very small, very close together."

They get up to leave for the evening. "We will see you tomorrow to say good-bye, si?"

Her husband says something in Italian; Flora translates: "If you ever come to Tuscany, you stay with us. We have a nice, big house, plenty of room."

"That’s very kind of you to offer, thank you. Buona Notte."

"Buona Notte," Flora responds.

"Ciao, Gianni," says her husband.

I turn back to Hettie, who teases me. "So now you want to talk to me again?"

"Flora is very nice."

"Jah, she seems nice. She has problems walking."

Hettie and I listen to the pianist, who plays "One Hand, One Heart," from West Side Story until she suddenly turns to me.

"What means this word, ‘bugger’?" she asks.

"What?" I don’t think I have heard her correctly.

"Bugger. I heard this word in England, and it reminds me of German. I like it."

I cover my face with my hands as I laugh. "That is a bad word," I tell her. "I can’t even tell you what it means."

"What? Tell me!"

I struggle to come up with a way to explain. "It is a verb. It is like sexual intercourse, only not the regular way." Eventually, I remember the word "sodomy."

She giggles.

The mezzo ends her concert with a song I recognize from Lehar’s The Merry Widow. "Your countryman," I tell Hettie. We get up from the sofa and head toward the elevator as an elderly Italian man picks out on the piano another tune from the same operetta.

The next day, during our last lunch at the spa together, Herta gives me a present. She makes me wait to open it until the tail end of the lunch hour, when most of the other guests are gone. "I don’t want them to see this old lady giving a younger man a present," she says. It is a crystal votive cup tied with gold threads and containing a maroon colored candle. "Thank you so much," I tell her. "I better carry it with me rather than in my suitcase, so that it doesn’t break."

"Jah, I myself don’t carry any bottles unless I put them in my beauty-case, as it is hard on the outside. Funny, now I still have the case, but no beauty," she laughs.

"You know," I tell her, "I very much enjoy your company. I wouldn’t have had half as much fun here without you."

I want to be careful not to say anything that will make her uncomfortable. She surprises me by saying, "You must come and visit me in Feldkirch. Stay as long as you like; I will give you a key. I have a big house with two floors. We can even go to Innsbruck for the day."

I am extremely moved by these Europeans who open their homes to me. I don’t know many Americans who would be as generous. I promise Hettie I will come to visit in the spring.

When I get back to Paris, an email from a friend and colleague—my school’s French teacher, and the person from whom I’m renting my apartment-- is waiting for me. Apparently, my school is thinking about discontinuing its course offerings in German. Already the faculty position has been changed from a tenured to a non-tenured line, and the current instructor has been offered and accepted a job at another, more prestigious institution. Next year, we will hire our fourth German teacher in as many years. The administration’s argument is that, despite the foreign language requirement, there isn’t enough "student demand" for German. But languages are taught in sequence, and so every new instructor faces the frustration of having to try and pick up where someone else left off. If we lose German, that will leave us with only rudimentary courses in Spanish and French. As for Italian—in the eight years I have been in my position, we’ve never offered a single course.