THE OLD MAN with the guitar wanted to know if I was married. We had nodded at each other across the courtyard of an outdoor tavern for the past few hours, as the waitress brought out first one jug and then another of housemade Malvasia wine. The strings of his guitar blended with the lowing of cows, the oinking of the odd pig, the neighs of pastured horses. The man and his friends had been singing folk songs—Italian, Slovene, those native to this hinterland in northeastern Italy—since long before sunset. In this hamlet, where my phone regularly picked up Slovenian cell service, language tended to be a mutable thing.

Source: Wall Street Journal June 20, 2019 16:41 UTC