'Jambone' and a quick stroll to Rome

I have returned! Veni, vidi, vici! (Or as some would have it, weeny, weedy weechy.) I should explain that a couple of weeks ago I walked from Siena to Rome, undertaking a journey that can only be described as epic in terms of length, beauty and of course quantity of pasta. I embarked with a mere 25 other peers all of whom were similarly school leavers with a good-nature, a very fine History teacher with an illustrious surname and good sense of humour, and our expert guide who was none other than my highly esteemed and adroit (if not only slightly eccentric) Italian teacher, who I shall refer to only as ‘our great leader’. We were led through miles of stunningly beautiful Tuscan countryside, the flora varying from acres of sunflowers to vast expanses of barely fields, to seemingly endless expanses of forest, whilst not forgetting the unforgiving canvas of thorns and undergrowth which made no hesitation to cause my shins to sting at every opportunity. We painfully climbed and gingerly descended mountains, crossed streams, stayed with monks and priests who have been carefully nurtured at the rich bosom of the Catholic church, drank from springs and once all that was done, we had the luxury of staying in some of the most quaint towns rural Tuscany and Viterbo had to offer.

It was in these charming places where to my joy (and my teacher's embarrassment) I at last had the opportunity to practice my rather scratchy Italian. I say this, not because I have great problems with getting my head around the grammar, or with picking up words and phrases, but instead because I have a knack for causing awkward embarrassments by insisting on using a word which simply does not exist. Most memorably when I was ordering a pecorino cheese 'panino' (yes, believe it or not it is a panino, not a panini. Make a note.) You see, each morning we would go out and buy ourselves a sandwich, the purpose of which was to serve as a modest lunch en route in the 46 degree sun. Unfortunately however near the beginning of the pilgrimage, as I shall refer to it, I could not quite remember what blasted ham was in Italian. I thought of the Spanish, jamon, the french, jambon, and decided that therefore the closest Italian equivalent would be 'jambone' (pronounced jam-bon-ay). It seemed like a perfectly plausible Italian word, and I thought that if I simultaneously pinched my fingers together and waved my arms about I would sound authentic enough. So, I sidled up to the counter and said smoothly and confidently:

"Vorrei un panino con jambone e pecorino per favore."

The woman at the counter, who I should add was of healthy, matronly proportions and a red physiognomy that had ripened in the summer sun did nothing but stare at me, with an expression that was between confusion and total horror. after the silence got too intense to bare, I decided to repeat myself, this time flapping my arms about more enthusiastically. Mid-sentence, however, she suddenly interrupted me and in a deep, rustic voice that seemed to resonate with a frequency as thick as the slices of cheese on display, bellowed:

"Ma ch'e jambone?!"

Putting emphasis on every syllable. Confronted by a voice that put my own fairly low range to shame, I quite weakly squeaked back:

"Jambone. Jambone! Ma vorrei jambone!!"

What ensued next all happenned in such a flurry; we began a verbal ping pong match of who could shout jambone louder, one in a tone of misunderstanding and frustration, the other in one of total confusion and cluelessness. I finally ended up thrusting my finger at the ham, at which she stopped yelling and instead laughed at me throatily and said:

"Ma questo e prosciutto!"

I let my arms fall to my sides pathetically. Of course. Bloody prosciutto. Trust the Italians to be different. Where the hell does that word come from?!

Other than my linguistic mishaps, other misfortunes befell. And I don't mean the uncanny number of hideous, raw blisters which everyone seemed to harbour. One evening, we were staying in some converted abbadia somewhere, and the girls in one room had unwittingly left the shower running in the bathroom. So as you can imagine, half way through dinner upon opening the doors we were forced to bear witness to a cascade of water flowing quite freely through the ceiling of one of the rooms. It was an accident and wasn't really anyones fault, and for once surprisingly not entirely mine, but I still wanted to drown myself in the mushroom soup from embarrassment. I suppose at least that death would have tasted good. 
...
What?
Anyway, and of course Rome was stunning; I need not elaborate. Except for the few minutes when my ears were forced to endure some Italian woman's terrible rendition of the Spice Girls' song 'Wannabe', my least favourite song of all time. Which naturally I knew all the lyrics to, and ended up singing to myself for the rest of the evening.

So many wonderful and funny things happened on this trip, and I would love to write them all for you, but I do not have enough time or space, and besides even if I tried, in the words of Dante: I could never give full account, for the telling would come short of fact.

PS. Hope everyone who did the walk has a great time at uni.
PPS. To all other readers, I would like to mention that I have since found out I got my Italian qualification. Yay.