A big reason I went to Italy in the first place was my dad. He fought in North Africa with Montgomery, entered Italy from the south, and then - because my father never did anything halfway - learned the language. When I was a child, we spoke as much Italian as I could manage. When I came back, we spoke it more.
We even went to night school together later: him in his eighties, me in my twenties. It is a singular experience watching your own father correct the Italian teacher on grammar and tense in front of the entire class.
We were not invited back the following week.
I like to think the teacher was impressed. His facial expression suggested something closer to threat assessment.
So the language I’d learned from “Giovanni” (that’s what we called it - Dad’s wartime Italian) did help me in Italy. It helped me make friends, understand arguments, and navigate the strange sensation of being young, alone, and just slightly out of my depth.