Before leaving the states all my friends and I joked about finding an Italian husband to bring home and maybe two or three more “Italian hotties” to pack home in my suit case for them. While this was amusing at the time, I quickly realized after arriving that our depiction of Italian men was very different from reality.
This weekend while I was exploring Florence I was starkly reminded of these cultural differences.
On Friday October 24th I departed Bassano del Grappa early in the morning for a day by myself exploring Florence. I planned to meet up with some friends later on in the weekend for a horseback riding excursion and shopping, but I had all day Friday to myself to just wonder the city on my own. I was excited to travel by myself. I saw it as an opportunity for personal growth and enrichment – looking back now I don’t really know what I was thinking by those general statements, but that was what I told myself I was looking to get out of traveling by myself.
While I did find out that I can travel by myself and that it is actually twenty times easier getting around a city without the limits of other people telling you where to go, what to see, and that they need to stop to eat or ask, dove la bagno? I also found out that you are much more vulnerable.
Around 4:00 p.m. on that Friday afternoon, I made my way up the winding steps that were dug into the hill side to La Plaza di Michelangelo. The highest point in Florence, the Plaza looked over the sprawling city of burnt red tile roofs, Catholic Church steeples, and the majestic green and white tile dome of Duomo where I had stood looking up in awe only hours earlier.
With some time to kill before dinner and most of the city already seen by foot, I decided to sit at the top of the steps with my book, Deception Point by Dan Brown, and watch the sun slowly set – draining golden hues through the gray clouds over the historic city.
A few other people also shared in my laziness at the top of the plaza, sitting with friends on the steps sharing a snack of Chianti wine or chips from the local vender.
As I read my book I noticed the ground beneath me was covered with reflective red, pale yellow, and glittery blue confetti. I imagined it was from a celebration earlier in the day – maybe a romantic, intimate wedding overlooking the city and all its colors.
After about half an hour, a young Italian man sat down near me. Wearing white shorts with embroidered floors, a gray t-shirt, and black back pack, he was looking down at a map of Florence trying to figure out where he was. Turning toward me he spurted out something in Italian, which I in return used my little knowledge of Italian to say non capisca that I didn’t understand.
He then asked if he was at La Plaza di Michelangelo in English, pointing to the map, obviously able to distinguish that I was American from my unclear Italian accent. I shook my head yes to confirm his location and then returned to my book.
Scooting closer, he asked me if I was on holiday in a mild attempt to strike up conversation – I humored him and we went back and forth between English, Italian, and even a little French over the basic introductions and conversation topics.
His name was Jamal, if my memory serves me right. Twenty-four years old, he was attending school in Rome for architecture yet he was raised in Sicily where his fathered owned a restaurant. He also supposedly owned a restaurant in Boston, Massachusetts of all places and a home in Palm Springs; however, I was skeptical on whether or not that was an exaggeration.
In the middle of our conversation, he all of a sudden ask me to watch his bag, then quickly disappeared around the corner walking in a hurry – returning a few minutes later with a bottle of Chianti wine and two plastic cups in his hand.
I tensed when I saw the bottle of wine. I was originally just being polite talking to him and I didn’t want to give him the wrong impression. When he offered me a cup I softly declined in Italian with non grazie, hoping he would not be persistent, yet he offered again. Looking crushed behind his brown eyes and his body language sinking, I politely accepted the small cup with the second offer.
“Cin-cin!” with a toast to new friendship, I slowly sip the Chianti wine. It was smooth, rich and full in flavor. You could almost even taste the flowery bouquet that Chianti wine is known for, even though this bottle was inexpensive (the price sticker still attached, reading 4,95 euro).
Obviously uncomfortable now from being forced into a situation that I was not prepared for – in the States I would never share a bottle of wine with a stranger – I sat in silence sipping the wine.
Noticing my discomfort, Jamal tried to pull me closer, putting his arm over my shoulder. I pulled away. He then tried again to sit closer, putting his arm over my shoulder and pulling me close, this time leaning in to try to kiss me. His cold hands were frighteningly tight on my arm and his breath smelt like the Chianti wine that he was quickly trying to finish, as I stood up wiggling out of his grasp, shaking my head and saying no over and over.
I couldn’t believe he had just tried to blatantly hit on me and right there in the middle of the public square.
Quickly I grabbed by book off of the dusty steps and stuffed it into my polka dot bag as I walked away down the stairs; yet Jamal followed trying to apologize smoothly, grabbing my arm to stop me. I pulled free and dashed out of sight, my heart pounding and mind rushing for ideas of what to do if he followed.
As fast as I could I ran down the same earth dug stairs and across the bridge that gapped the two banks of the Florence city center. Glancing over my shoulder while I was stopped at a traffic light, I saw out of the corner of my eye Jamal, in his white shorts, t-shirt, backpack, and now bottle of wine in hand making his way down the stairs.
Under my breath I cursed myself for wearing my neon pink Marmot rain coat as I turned into the towering cities streets of muted tan and gray to lose my Italian admirer, who was definitely not coming home with me to meet mom and dad.
Side note: After writing this story, I wanted to clarify that I do not assume that all Italian men act this way and that any generalization I use in my writing is being used to bring attention to the subject matter and not to say that the stereotype is true. I believe that cinema and stereotypes have heavily influenced both American and Italian’s images of each other making for circumstances that can be uncomfortable and easy misconstrued. In the U.S. most depictions of Italian men are as how I described earlier in my blog, giving women a skewed impression and expectation of the Italian population. Additionally I feel as if American women are also stereotyped in film for Italians. I feel as if many Italian men see American women as “loose” or “easy” as many popular movies portray – especially of collage age women. The cultural differences between Italians and Americans along with gender differences and the influence of film has created in some circumstances a difficult mixture of stereotypes to sort out.
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