I am engulfed in sound. It’s familiar in tone, but when I try to separate it into words, it becomes chaos. It hums — and sometimes, roars — around me, punctuated by the bright noise of wine glasses meeting. Tink!

Eating out is intimidating. Just ordering - no, asking for a table - makes my mouth sweat.

Tonight, I order wine and the scallop mezzalune with lobster ragout - by pointing. It feels so caveman, but I’ve learned my lesson. I made the mistake of speaking Italian at the first restaurant. A mistake, only because I did it correctly. And in reply, came a flurry of songwords — some vaguely familiar because of their closeness to Spanish, but mostly foreign and confounding. I simply shrugged in response.

Mi dispiace. No parlo Italiano.

And still, she looked at me as if certain I was telling a fib. As though she wanted to say, But you just did speak Italian. Finally she gave up, grabbed a menu and smiled.

“Okay, dee-ner for one. Yes?”

Sigh. Yes. Dinner for one.

The roar dies, just for a second, and I think I can hear one of my own thoughts. But then poof! it gets lost again as the table next to me erupts in cheers. Accustomed to restaurants where people make polite chit-chat over dinner, the Italian dining experience is an adventure in frenzy. Loud and indistinguishable - it makes me feel drunk. Or drugged. Or underwater.

But I don’t mind too much. Because the wine is so excellent - my nostrils get a taste before the glass in to my lips - and the food is equally hypnotizing. And before I know it, it’s gone. All the Porcini mushrooms and the roasted pork. Gone. And then another face is floating in front of me, singing words that don’t register. After a moment, the face darkens, then brightens.

“Ooh, eez Een-gleesh, yes? You want something else?”

Yes. Dessert.

(I recorded 30 seconds of ambient noise at the restaurant to share. It recorded at low volume, so you may have to turn it up. In fact, DO turn it up. You know, for that next-best-thing-to-being-there feeling.Download it here.)