Summer is here at last, and many are bored of the office and feeling the itch to get out of town. Maybe you’re looking for adventure or in search of something new – perhaps someone to love? If the latter is true, then buyers beware: you might actually get what you ask for.
During the spring semester of my junior year in college, I decided to study in Rome, Italy, a place I had never been but had always wanted to visit. My mother grew up in an Italian-American home, and my heritage was always important to me. I could hardly wait to get my feet wet in the culture of my ancestors.
My first few moments in Italy were dream-like – so exciting and yet somehow just what I expected. The streets were full of traffic that seemed to adhere to no regulations, the overly-eager taxi drivers were quick to rip me off, the women were fashionably dressed up with somewhere to go, and mopeds dotted the hilly scenery. As we neared the heart of Rome, the streets became narrow, cobblestoned and quaint, the buildings were colorful, close together and antiquated, and the Roman people were exuberant and not at all afraid of public displays of affection. Make-out sessions took place in the middle of the sidewalk! As I wandered my first few Roman streets and smelled the intoxicating aromas of an occasional Italian panetteria and Roman ristorante, I knew I was not in Kansas anymore. As it turns out, I was far, far away from what my part of the world considers normal.
The Italian men were the most unforeseen element to my Roman experience. I pictured Italian men to be tall, dark and handsome, like my Sicilian uncles, but most of the men I came into contact with (quite a few considering I lived in Rome for five months) were shorter than I would have expected. They had lovely chocolate brown eyes, but their jeans were too tight and they wore their collars turned up, something that might have turned American heads in the 1980s, but to me it looked kind of dorky. The most unexpected aspect to the male population of Rome were their starry-eyed attempts to charm and enchant American women, me being one of them. I was not prepared for this. Everywhere I went, men called me bella. Having every man I came into contact with label me a beauty was not a bad feeling at all. However, their pick up lines didn’t end there. At first, this clamoring for my attention was kind of cute; it soon became more than a little overbearing.
In Rome, I primarily visited two cafés on a regular basis. One across the street from Saint Peter’s Cathedral was close to my apartment, and I usually stopped by on my way to school for a quick cappuccino at the bar. One morning, the man who made my coffee whipped a foamy heart on top, and added chocolate shavings for decoration. I oohed and aahed, finding this creation very charming. The next morning, I received the same heart-topped drink, only this time it was accompanied with tricks: he began flipping glass cups and plates into the air and catching them with one hand while glancing at me regularly to see if I noticed. How could I not? I tried not to laugh when one of the dessert dishes shattered on the floor. I was embarrassed for young Aldo, but he seemed to feel no embarrassment at all. Each morning it was the same milky heart; the same plate-juggling gig. To make matters even more amusing, A large apron-clad barrister would always burst into song whenever I entered the café, belting out in his baritone Italian accent, “When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that’s amore!” I smiled and did my best to order in Italian. I enjoyed these moments, knowing such blatant acts of cheesiness are rarely to be seen back home in America.
Then there were those who were a little less subtle. How can I forget standing in St. Peter’s Square, studying one of Michelangelo’s masterpieces, when an Italian man I had not noticed sitting by a fountain nearby caught my eye and asked in broken English, “Ciao Bella! You want Italian lover?” I am sure I thought I could not have heard him right, asking him to repeat himself. “You want Italian lover?” he reiterated. I did my best to stutter my way out of that one. Did I mention that most Italian men do not take no for an answer?
Like the night I went to my first Italian club with a few new friends from school. An older Italian man with flowing dark hair managed to initiate a conversation with me – something that could only be accomplished with much effort as we both stumbled around each other’s languages. Soon, he offered to buy me a drink at the bar. Having been strictly counseled never to accept drinks from strange men in foreign countries, I declined. He must have thought I was playing hard-to-get. My excuse was that I had already consumed enough alcohol, though in reality I had only had time for one drink. “So no alcohol,” he shrugged. It was a small hurdle; one he could jump over easily enough. I buy you orange juice!” I continued to make excuses, and he continued to insist. Soon, he grabbed my hand and attempted to pull me toward the bar. I released myself from his grip and ran into the sweaty crowd of club-hoppers to retrieve my jacket and my roommate. As we scurried out the door, I saw him spot me through a crowd of college kids and run after me, holding out his business card and yelling, “I’m a professional!” Luckily, there were too many people for him to maneuver his way to me in time. I can’t say my heart wasn’t pounding a little harder as my roommate and I haled a taxi.
Then there was the time my friend and I were enjoying drinks at an Irish pub down the street from where I lived. I think that night we were the only two women, not to mention Americans, in the joint. We were soon surrounded by enthusiastic Italian men eager for our attention. Two police men who were especially handsome endeavored to engage us in a real conversation, apologizing for 9/11 and recommending certain sights to see during our stay in Rome. Then there were the other men; perhaps they were drunk. They seemed obsessed with the fact that we were American. When my naturally thin friend accidentally dropped her ticket on the floor and bent down to pick it up, one particularly animated man pointed out the small roll of stomach that showed under her shirt. “Americans are fat!” he bellowed, grinning from ear to ear. “Romans are strong!” he said, making his voice sound low and gruff and flexing his flabby muscles. Then he had an idea. “Come outside, see Rome with a Roman!” he propositioned. We said no thanks. “Fifteen minutes!” he bargained. “Come see the City of Lights with a Roman!” No way. “Five minutes!” he prodded. “Please, just five minutes! Come outside for…” He paused, seeing from the looks on our faces that his chances were slim. “…two minutes!” We smiled, shook our heads, and, not having had to pay for a single drink, gathered our things and headed for the door. Our peppy fan club followed. “Where do you live?” one asked us. Unfortunately, I lived a hop, skip and a jump down the street – they could see me enter my apartment building if they paid any attention at all. I was not comfortable with this. Luckily, before I could answer, the bartender distracted them by asking them to pay for their drinks. We took this opportunity to escape, running as fast as our heels could carry us until we were safe and sound behind our closed door. Italian men proved themselves to be quite the epitome of persistence.
My time in Italy was, in many ways, magical. I dabbled in a new language, found great enjoyment in the food and wine, studied Italy’s amazing art and brushed up on my world history. I made memories that will never be forgotten. Today, my experiences in Rome are still very much apart of me. Whenever I smell cigarette smoke or exhaust fumes, I am swept away to the Roman tunnel I trekked through on my way to school every day. When I stay at home to drink a glass of Chianti and cook eggplant parmesan, I am reminded of the wonderful aromas that wafted around our apartment on the nights we had people over for dinner parties. The smell of garlic sizzling in extra virgin olive oil has become a euphoric one that reminds me of the way the halls of my apartment building smelled at night when the people came home to cook. The sound of the romantic Italian language is music to my ears, because even though I never learned it to the extent I would have liked, it provided the soundtrack that constantly played during my stay in the ancient city. There is much I long for about Rome; Italy gave me so much to miss. And then there are the things I don’t miss; namely, the Italian men.
However, I am beginning to realize that Italian men would not be who they are today if it were not for American women. It is becoming increasingly clear that we did this to ourselves. How many women do journey to Italy for the express purpose of finding an Italian lover? Aren’t Italian men consistently portrayed as the most handsome, most charming, most romantic men in the world? Numerous movies and books portray wistful American women finding themselves in Italy, only to be swept off of their feet by an Italian-speaking knight in shining armor (or, to be true to form, tight Levis). I’m beginning to wonder how many women eagerly answered “Yes!” to the brutally invasive question, “You want Italian lover?” Maybe it’s not that Italian men are haughty as much as it is they think they are hotties, believing what we American women tell them: that they are God’s gift to women.
This is perfectly illustrated in the movie Under the Tuscan Sun, as Francesca, a newly divorced American woman, swoons in the exhilarating presence of Marcello, a tall, dark and handsome Italian man. One of their conversations goes like this:
HE: You have beautiful eyes, Francesca. I wish that
I could swim inside them.
SHE (laughs out loud): Wow – that’s exactly the
kind of thing we American women think Italian men
say. (She sees he is hurt by her response…)
Forgive me, Marcello. I’m nervous. I was married for
a long time. Since then there hasn’t been anybody.
And I think… Would you like to help
me change that?
HE: You are asking me to sleep with you?
SHE: Yes.
HE (smiling): That’s exactly the kind of thing we
Italian men think American women say.
Apparently, the “sappy Italian man” is not the only stereotype that contributes to this awkward situation. We American women suffer from a stereotype as well. So, to all of the Italian men out there eager to please the American women, please remember that not all of us are in Italy to land a lover. Some of us really are there to sight-see, shop and study. And to all of the American women who have nothing better to do than travel to Italy to find a boyfriend, I have one thing to say: thanks for ruining it for the rest of us.
