I was sixteen on a family vacation with my parents. We were in Villefranche-Sur-Mer, a small town on the Mediterranean between Nice and the French/Italian border. At this time in my life, I was fluent in French and English. My grandfather, who had been a priest, spoke Latin and Italian. He made what looked to me like gibberish sound intentional and poignant – sometimes even musical. I dreamed of learning these languages, branching from the same family tree as my beloved French.

Out to dinner one night in this cobble-stoned hill that had resisted commercialization to an impressive extent, we wandered the steep steps under laundry hung between buildings, searching for our next meal. In my family, dinner was not about fueling the body, but rather spending time chatting, learning, laughing, and discussing the delicious food we were enjoying. Unless we set a timer to shake us from our bubble, our dinners easily lasted two or three hours. While on vacation, there were no projects to get back to, no work to be completed, and so no timers set.

Passing by the more crowded restaurants, we found a small building with a few tables set up outside. A singular gentleman sat by himself at one of them. Inside was empty. My father wandered in to see if they were open. We were sat outside, a few tables from the gentleman.

When the waitress came out with the menus, my father greeted her politely in French, which he also spoke fluently. My mother, the typical American monolingual, smiled. Unresponsive, the waitress disappeared. We three exchanged a look of confusion.

Moments later, the cook and owner emerged, apologizing in French. He explained that the waitress, his wife, only spoke English and Russian. Understanding, we revealed our nationality. Surprised by Americans who spoke French, he happily switched to English. We were then able to converse easily with both of them in our native language.

As one of two of his customers that evening, we had the opportunity to chat with the owner at length about each others’ lives: why we spoke French, why he chose to open his own Italian restaurant, why we all love Villefranche-Sur-Mer. When he wasn’t cooking, we noticed him sit down with the other customer, speaking rapidly in yet another language: Italian.

My father and I, enjoying the similarities between the sister languages, lent an ear their way out of curiosity. We couldn’t pick up much, but we figured out that one of them was named Louie. With the chef repeating the name fairly frequently, we deduced it was the name of the other customer. Eventually, the gentleman called the chef “George” and our hypothesis was supported.

Around the time we ordered our appetizers, Louie received his. When we ordered our entrees, one came out for Louie. It seemed he had not arrived long before we had.

We were drooling over the dessert menu, already stuffed, when a slice of something like cheesecake was placed in front of our fellow diner. We all peeked at it out of the corner of our eyes, not-so-reluctantly conceding to ordering even more food. After Louie took a few bites of it, my father finally leaned over and asked him in French what it was and if he was enjoying it.

Louie was large: tall, broad, and pudgy. He reminded me of an old European man from the movies: swollen, grumpy, and quiet. Like a bear in the middle of a meal, I was motivated to not disturb him.

My father was both more courageous and outgoing, and I’m sure the glass of wine helped as well. The bear turned towards us, attempting to apologize in Italian – with some French-ish words mixed in – for not speaking French. Making use of hand gestures and Latin roots, Dad tried again. Pointing at the man’s dessert, he said, “Bueno?”

Louie’s frowned turned upwards as he nodded enthusiastically. George’s wife emerged to all four of us smiling and my father said, “I’ll have what he’s having!”

Apparently pleased to be included in even a small part of our experience, Louie leaned over to chat a little more. Seeing that the bear was more Teddy than grizzly, I chimed in, explaining as best as I could – in French with some Italian-ish words – the languages in our family. He slowed down his Fr-Italian and I was able to pick up a little more of it. The three of us worked through this collage of languages while Dad and I took turns translating into English for Mom. By the time our desserts arrived, Louie had scooted over to the table right next to us and become a full part of our dining experience.

Shortly after, George came outside to check on us. Louie switched to his rapid Italian and pretty obviously explained what a wonderful time we were having. George laughed, agreeing to join us, as he was the only one who spoke all three languages.

First, he offered us an after-dinner drink, or digestif. With gratitude, we agreed upon grappa for Dad, limoncello for Mom, and – with my parents’ permission – blackberry liqueur for me. His wife emerged with three shot glasses and the bottles to fill them up – and then left the bottles on the table. George sat down at the table with Louie and as our drinks got low, he would fill each one back up with the respective liquor: we were no longer his patrons, but his friends.

With George’s handy translation, we discussed Louie’s family, the most recent cruise he’d enjoyed, and World War II. In true Italian style, Louie’s stories were endless and never boring.

Then, when we felt we were finally making headway despite the language barriers, Louie began to say his own name to George. We didn’t understand the context in which it was being used, but it sounded like he was calling George, Louie. Doubting our previous conclusions about their names, Dad and I glanced at each other, confused. Too embarrassed to ask for clarification, we continued to listen.

The conversation went on. Sometimes George (if that was in fact his name) got up to take care of something inside. No other customers arrived. The restaurants down the street slowly emptied and closed up. The three of us, and sometimes George, struggled through the fascinating muck of Fr-ital-glish, learning about the differences in our cultures and telling stories of our lives.

There was one gesture that was new to us. At first we thought it expressed the concept of fighting because Louie (as we will continue to call him, despite our doubt in his name) used it when discussing war and his divorce. He had both fists out in front of him, side-by-side, knuckles up, both index fingers straight out, and his hands would come together, then separate, a few times in a row, as if to illustrate two forces butting up against each other.

We were slightly confused when, merely moments later, he used the same gesture in the context of friends making up. This time, it seemed to illustrate the union of two entities.

Eventually, though we didn’t want the night to end, we all had to part ways. George and his wife closed the restaurant. Louie shook our hands and hugged George, promising to visit on his next trip to France (which wouldn’t be long since he was a truck driver who often crossed the border). My parents and I made our way back across the cobble stones, which were much more uneven after a few refills from George, along the path to the apartment we’d rented for a few weeks. The town was quiet, the Mediterranean was lapping at the shore, and my parents and I were churning over the conversation, laughing at the new gesture we’d learned and still trying to figure out the names of our new friends.

As we talked it over, somewhere in the deep of my brain, between my knowledge of the French language and the few conversations with my grandpa about Italian, it clicked. I stopped mid-step and began to crack up, disrupting the quiet night. “Louie!” I exclaimed. My parents were not following. So I said it in French, “Lui!” Dad understood and began to laugh, too.

As soon as we caught our breath, we explained it to Mom. “Lui”, pronounced l-y-wee (where the “y” is pronounced as it is in “you”) all in one syllable, is the French word for “him”. I was willing to bet that it was the same word in Italian, but pronounced l-oo-ee. Laughing the rest of the way back, we gritted our teeth through the slow internet to find out that we were correct. They had not been calling each other Louie. They had been referencing “him”.

It was our last night in Villefranche-Sur-Mer. We didn’t have the opportunity to return to the little Italian restaurant. Still, we continue to use the gesture of the nameless, Italian Teddy bear from the South of France. I have since seen it used in small Italian towns and I even noticed it in the background of “The Godfather”. It shows itself rarely, reminding me to try to talk to people, even if you’re certain they won’t understand you. There’s a good chance they’ll find a way to understand or that you’ll find your way to a really good story.