Italy is romantic, sure. But Italy is far too romanticized, too.

While the Italy virgin surely holds hopes of evening strolls along calm waterways, perhaps stealing a kiss or two in the shadows of the Colosseum, or luxury shopping down Via Montenapoleone, to enjoy these things, it is almost comical the number of inconveniences that Italians seem to intentionally bestow upon foreign visitors.

Maybe it’s Italian pride, I don’t know. But I don’t possibly understand how urban planners, politicians, and the like can even fathom some of the design elements of Italy’s infrastructure that just make it impossible to navigate.

I’m no inexperienced traveler, either, by any stretch. With 43 countries under my belt, including four previous visits to this very country, I tend to be pretty street smart. I often rely on public transportation, I have a good sense of the layout of a city from just a quick glance at a map, and I manage to find my way. And yet in my last visit, which consisted of just 16 hours, I encountered not one, not two, and not three, but four massive inconveniences.

First, there is an express bus from Roma’s Fiumicino International Airport to Vatican City and Termini Station. Apparently. Despite having no fewer than 50 massive advertisements plastered throughout the arrivals area, finding the stop for it is virtually impossible. While it says “Bus Station No. 1” on the advert, it does not specify any operating hours, and does not give any additional instructions as to where this supposed Station No. 1 is. And when you follow the signs within the airport, the one that says “Shuttle” refers to a within-the-airport shuttle (despite the Express bus to Termini being called “Shuttle” as well). So upon that failure, I walked down to the “Local Bus Station,” only to find distance buses most of which do not go to Roma. The ones that did specify Roma on the departure screen were for the next day, and it was only about 23:00 at the time.

Upon making it on Trenitalia from Fiumicino to Roma Tiburtina Station, the timetable for the Metro specified that the last train leaves just after midnight. I was there about 10 minutes prior to that, only to find a roped off entrance area. This made me depend on a taxi, who typed my address into his GPS. I saw the route pop up, which was just two stops and about five minutes on the Metro, and it was about 3km away. About 20 minutes and 15 turns later, I arrived at my destination—with a 17 euro charge. I screamed at the man in English which he didn’t understand for driving me in a circle, making wild gestures, so he knew I had been here before, and he agreed to 10 euro, which I paid and left. Just expect it—if you don’t speak Italian, you will get ripped off by a taxi driver. If you don’t, it’s your lucky day. In my case, it was just funny that he insulted my intelligence by typing the address into the GPS, and continuously ignoring the suggested route as I watched the machine recalculate, and recalculate, and recalculate. He probably should have made sure I couldn’t see that, anyway, and may have gotten a few more euros out of me.

Fast-forward to the next day. I went to enter the Metro for the two-stop ride over to Tiburtina to catch a 14:03 train back to Fiumicino. When I was near the station, I realized I forgot something important at my friend’s flat, and literally sprinted back, about 800m, to grab it. I got on the Metro, and arrived at Tiburtina station at about 13:57…a semi-comfortable 6 minutes to make the connection. Except that at Tiburtina, as you exit the Metro, the overground trains are one direction, and the only place in the entire station you can purchase Trenitalia tickets is the other direction. Without a sign informing you of that, of course. So in my instinct, I just left Metro and walked towards my track platform, passing about 200m of wide-open hallway. And not a single automated ticket machine. In Italy, you cannot purchase tickets on board, either….so my only option to avoid a 100 euro penalty was to run back past the Metro, to the other side of the station where the ticket booth was. I saw a bank of about 20 automated machines, and was just dumbfounded why they could not put a single one of those machines either at the Metro exit, or in the direction of the train platforms.

I honestly believe that Italians do things this way just to laugh at foreigners…but that’s just my two cents.

Everyone knows about Italy’s male chauvinist reputation. Whether it is justified or not, every girl who mentions a plan to visit Italy will hear the same advice from those around her: Be careful around the aggressive men.

Having spent enough time here, I know it is pretty much harmless–lots of hooting and hollering but very rarely physical action. So while you may not have to worry for your safety, you, attractive woman, will have to accept being looked at like a juicy, t-bone steak.

So goes the reputation, anyway–a reputation that Italy has been trying to shake off for some time now.

And re-electing Silvio Berlusconi as Prime Minister for a fourth time in this month’s election (24-25 February) will not be the way to do that. Could you imagine Berlusconi even having so much as a chance to be elected in a place like politically-correct America?

If I recall correctly, Bill Clinton was nearly impeached from office for having an affair with a legal adult, despite his excellent track record in doing his job.

Yet, Mr. Berlusconi has closed the gap with the current frontrunner, Pier Luigi Bersani, and still has a shot to win the election (see Reuters article on the latest news here).

Let’s recall a couple of Silvio’s greatest examples of chauvinist buffonery:

• In the run-up to the 2008 Italian general election, Berlusconi said that female politicians from the right were “more beautiful” and that “the left has no taste, even when it comes to women.” It should be noted that he won the election.
• Around the same time, he criticized the composition of Spain’s Council of Ministers as being too “pink” because it was composed of an equal number of men and women.
• He compounded those comments by saying that Spain’s composition would be impossible in Italy, given the “prevalence of men” in Italian politics.
• And finally, let’s not forget the fact that he paid a 17-year-old girl an alleged $65,000 in 2010 so that she “would not have to become a prostitute.” Berlusconi was 73 years old at the time. And it should also be noted that he had sex with the girl. (Does this somehow not fall into the category of “prostitution” in Italy?)

Old Silvio and the 17-year-old girl he paid (for sex) “so she would not have to become a prostitute” (photo credit: telegraph.co.uk)

It will be interesting to see if he is elected yet again, in which case, the movement for gender equality in Italy will be set back a decade or two yet again.

All around the world, this weekend is one of celebration. But while most of the world dances the weekend away for Carnival, the town of Ivrea, at the base of the Alps in northern Italy, has a different method: pelting each other with oranges.

The annual Battle of the Oranges is the largest food fight in Italy–an organized battle of nine groups “competing” with each other by throwing oranges. Joey Phoenix of MyPublicHoliday.com has an excellent writeup of the battle, which I am showcasing below for you to enjoy.

The Battle of the Oranges get serious ’round here!

The Battle of the Oranges, Ivrea, Italy

(by Joey Phoenix; MyPublicHoliday.com)

In February of each year in the small town of Ivrea, in the north of Italy, something extraordinary happens. Corresponding with the end of the beautiful Italian Carnival season, an event occurs that leaves many people cowering in fear and stringing up nets to protect themselves. What is this that makes people so frightened that they hide in their homes, or so overwhelmed by temporary madness that they don masks and head into the fray?

It is a festival known as the Battle of the Oranges.

For weeks before the festival you can see thousands of crates being brought into the town center to be used in the events. Store owners and local businesses begin stringing up nets in order to protect their windows from the wayward throws of participants. Other bystanders purchase red scarves to wear around their head. This head garment is a symbol universally recognized as a protective measure, as the wearer of the red scarf does not wish to be struck by fruit.

Participants organize into a number of groups that war against each other in the town center during the battle. There are nine neighborhoods in Ivrea, and thus the teams are comprised of regions. Each participant pays €120 to enter, and this entry fee goes into the cleanup that occurs each night after the battle, readying it for the onslaught the following day.

For three days everything that moves, except those that are wearing red scarves (but even they are not impervious to the accidentally misguided orange), becomes a target for the Aranceri, or orange throwers. Brave men stand on top of carts, the less intrepid few duck behind them. But for this short period of time, the town center is a sea of orange as flying spherical fruits become projectiles. The event falls on the three days preceding Fat Tuesday. Although it is a fun celebration, it has a reputation for being slightly violent. Many of the group members wear masks to protect their head and faces. Coming out of the battle with a black eye or a broken nose is not an unlikely event.

The Battle of the Oranges has its origins in legend. Supposedly, the daughter of a miller named Violetta was once threatened with rape by a duke who was exercising his, at the time, legal rights over her. It was on Violetta’s wedding night to another man, but instead of surrendering herself to the brutal law, she decapitated the duke. Afterwards, the people, taking her defiance as a revolutionary symbol, charged the castle and established their liberation from their cruel overlords.

Each year, a young woman is elected to play the part of Violetta, and the people commemorate their freedom from the tyrants by becoming the Aranceri. These “orange handlers” are separated into two groups. The first of which become the “tyrants”, and stand in carts. The other half remain on foot, symbolizing the “revolutionaries.” The oranges are the weapons thrown back and forth. No one is quite certain as to where the usage of the orange originated, because they are not even grown indigenously. Some sources declare that the orange is meant to represent the decapitated head of the duke, or his removed testicles. But no one is quite certain. The original plant life thrown at tyrants were beans, as the poor serfs would throw them back at the lords who had given them the paltry vegetables.

Although spectators are not allowed to take part in the festivities, anyone from anywhere in the world can participate in the Battle of the Oranges as long as they pay the entry fee and aren’t afraid to get nailed by a few oranges. So, if you’re interested in the commemoration of a people declaring freedom, and the rising up of citizens against their cruel governments, then enter the Battaglia delle Arance. It is one of the only places in the world where you will have a legal right to throw large spherical fruits with astounding speed at perfect strangers. It’s not only legal, it’s encouraged.

In Ivrea, during the Battle of the Oranges, people completely lose themselves. It is a festival  that’s both dangerous and exciting – and everybody in the town comes out to watch.

That Italy is a culture of proud machismo is well established. That Italian food is one of the most popular around the world is also fact. Put those together, and you have an extreme sense of nationalistic pride in the country’s culinary offerings—pride that can be so over the top as to create some opportunities for humor at the Italians’ expense.

Spend enough time with Italians, and it can be a great joy to watch their reaction to any creative alterations to Italy’s staple dishes; you will never see any kind of “Italian fusion” being embraced by Italians. You want to try to make lasagna with a cheese other than ricotta? Not here, you won’t. You want to add something fancy like turkey or mushrooms to spaghetti al pomodoro (simple spaghetti with fresh tomato sauce)? That’s just blasphemous. And don’t even think about using a cheese-based sauce with seafood.

Secondly, it can provide a laugh when you erroneously pair ingredients that you are genetically supposed to know don’t go together. For example, if you prefer a seafood-based sauce with your pasta, you use long noodles. If you want meat sauce, that’s when you need short noodles. Get it mixed up, and your Italian friends will have a (comical) fit. While you’re at it, try cutting your pasta with a  knife, or cooking your pasta too long so it’s soft and mushy as opposed to the preferred al dente. You may not have friends anymore.

Finally, because Italians are so proud of their cuisine—and indeed, it is the only suitable cuisine on earth—you are likely to get humorously defensive reactions when you suggest that while Italian food is good, you prefer Peruvian, or Thai, or Japanese, or Lebanese. Just rubbish. Have they actually tried those other cuisines? Doesn’t matter…you’re not only wrong, but silly for even suggesting such foolishness.

And when you do encounter this, it’s only fitting to laugh, given that over-the-top pride exemplified even from the country’s leadership—among his many other blunders, Silvio Berlusconi managed to offend an entire country (Finland) by knocking their cuisine while serving as Italy’s Prime Minister.

Make sure you treat your Italian food wisely…

Today’s post comes courtesy of Val, who runs a really funny blog I found called Faking Fabulous. It hasn’t been updated lately, but Val details some of her escapades living in Italy, and although today’s post was originally written in 2009, it holds oh so true today! I am just going to paste what she wrote on that day, as it makes a point far better than I could do so myself.

“The Thing about Italian Men”

(credit: Faking Fabulous: 16 December 2009)

WARNING, WARNING! This blog contains sexually related content. Do not read if you are one of my brothers, my nephew, or my Dad as it may embarrass you! The rest of you may proceed.

Before I came to Italy I was warned about Italian men. “Don’t look them in the eye and don’t smile at them,” I was told repeatedly. “In Italian culture eye contact and smiling is a signal you are interested and it’s okay for them to approach you. Italian men are quite forward. And all they think about is sex.”

“Well, that’s inconvenient!” I thought to myself. In business and in self defense women are taught to walk with confidence and purpose, to keep our heads held high and look people directly in the eye. And how am I supposed to not smile? It’s all I do! “Okay, okay,” I told myself. “No looking at men in the eye.”

I was also warned that Italian women are very jealous and if they catch you looking at “their man,” be prepared because they will have words with you about it. “It’s best just to keep your head down when walking and if you bump into someone don’t bother saying scuzi because no one does.” Great! I get to go to one of the most beautiful destinations in the world, never talk to anyone, and the only thing I’m going to see is the pavement!

For the first month and I half I followed this advice. I averted my eyes at all costs. I mostly kept my head down and walked the “city walk.” This is not easy to do by the way, when you have no idea where you are going and you have to look up to the side of a building to discover what street you are on! It’s definitely an acquired skill.

During the month of November, Rome experienced an indian summer. Winter coats were not necessary until the very end of the month. One night, when I was in a particularly good mood, I decided to head out to the City Center for dinner on my own. This required a 25 minute walk from my apartment. I was enjoying the warm Mediterranean air and had a bounce to my step. About 15 minutes into my walk I saw a gorgeous Italian man walking my way with a motorcycle helmet in his hand.

He was distinctively tall for an Italian (6 feet 2 inches) and had the quintessential thick, wavy brown hair and olive skin. He truly was the picture of male Italian beauty! I could not help myself. I did a double take when I passed him. That was when it happened. His eyes connected with mine and I held the gaze for only a second before remembering the rules of Italian mating.

“OH CRAP!” I thought to myself, and swiftly looked down and continued walking. But it was too late. The ritual had begun. He jumped on his motorcycle and followed me down the road. When I crossed the street he followed me. When I cut down to the next street he followed me. He parked his bike, took off his helmet, and signaled for me to come over. I did, and promptly said to him in Italian that I could not speak Italian. I asked him in Italian if he could speak English. He said he could… a little. He asked me for my number. “Why do you want my number if you cannot speak English?” I asked. “Language exchange,” He replied.

Language exchange is a pretty common thing in Italy. Many legitimate people are interested in meeting native English speakers to improve their English and learn the slang that is not taught in foreign language courses.

Naively, I gave him my number and we agreed to meet the next day at a public place and at an early hour to have a language exchange. Honestly, I knew it wasn’t all innocent, but I thought there may be some fun flirting and I’d get to hang around with a really good looking Italian guy for a while. To spare you all from the uncomfortable and (only after some time has passed) “funny” story of how I almost got date raped, let me just summarize it like this; apparently language exchange in Italian really means fluid exchange.

Even though I was warned about Italian men, I was really surprised about how aggressive this guy was. Did he really think I was going to sleep with him on the first night? I mean, you know, without him even buying me dinner! A girl’s got to have her standards you know! ;-) Anyway, this event was a good reminder that I was in a different country and didn’t know the rules here.

Since then, I have been approached on the street several times without me accidentally initiating it. Italian men are definitely not shy about going after what they want!  Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have the “don’t even try it” scowl on my face anymore like I did when I first got to Italy, but I am definitely not giving the, “Hey, come talk to me,” signal either. I’m just walking, head up, no smile. Just walking.

Now that I am finally meeting some English speaking friends in Florence, I’ve been asking about this trait in Italian men. “Why are these guys so horney?” I inquired. The new group of girls I met last week had many thoughts on this topic and they were happy to share, as most of them have Italian boyfriends.

One woman shared something with us that her Italian boyfriend told her when she asked him the same question. What he explained was this. Look around Florence. Look around most of Italy. We are surrounded by beauty 24 hours a day; beauty in architecture; beauty in landscape; beauty in food and beauty in the human form. We are surrounded by naked statues or paintings of physical perfection. At every corner there is a scantily clad statue of some man or woman posing suggestively with an exposed breast or a perfectly proportioned penis proudly displayed for all see. Sensuality and sex are in the air here. It permeates our thoughts without us even realizing it. It is not shameful; it’s beauty.

I thought about this explanation for a few days, and as I walked through the city and through the Uffizi Art Gallery, I realized this man was absolutely correct. Florence is the birthplace of the Renaissance; the time of reborn appreciation for beauty in all things. Sex and sensuality ARE everywhere in Italy. Without realizing it, being here heightens your sexual senses. It makes you see things in a different way. It helps you see beauty in all things; even in that which is not particularly beautiful.

It all makes perfect sense to me now!

Huh… Maybe this is why I keep having erotic dreams about a man named David.

My ID:  Train 4:32pm, Friday, 07 June 2002; Stazione Milano Centrale

Milano Centrale, home of MyID into Italy

My Initial Descent into Italy came via the rails, arriving into Milano Centrale after a night’s journey from Munich. Along the way, as the Alps bore down upon me like an intimidating older brother, I saw in the distance countless waterfalls so rugged that man dare not attempt approach. Cutting river valleys that housed rocky streams, and huge mountainside cliffs with trees above. Only water, strong enough to hold the ships of the sea and brave enough to tumble the likes of Niagara and Victoria, could experience these places up close. The Alp lakes were stunning, scattered with islands and vast waterways resting peacefully in the mountains’ pocket.

While I enjoyed my first day walking around Milano, the next few days heading further south in Italy left me with a few impressions, some of which I have subsequently discounted and others with I still hold true today:

• Rome has a lot of bad smells in it!
• I’ve even seen little kids smoking here; everyone smokes!
• Road rules don’t seem to apply to scooters—they are everywhere and do whatever they want!
• Every building has elaborate designs sculpted into it—outside and inside.
• Italian guys are so forward, aggressive and (if you’re a male) unfriendly. Could the stereotypes be true?
• Italian guys wear really, really tight jeans.
• The concept of air conditioning has no meaning in Italy.
• The shoes people wear here look like bowling shoes.
• Many people here have small, prissy dogs…..not the big dogs I’m used to!
• There is no hospitality here. Business owners are rude, and nothing is complimentary.

Over the next several weeks, my impression grew to be that of a stark difference between the North and South of Italy. The further north I got, the more comfortable I felt. This was shaped by a few experiences, such as seeing a brawl break out in a stairwell at Naples’ Central Station within minutes of my arrival there, and some of the shady characters I shared train compartments with in the south.

(Note: Please do not get upset, my Italian friends—this was all taken directly from a journal I kept the first time I was in Italy, and “MyID” is supposed to be an unfiltered, unedited account of first impressions! I know now these aren’t all true :).

Enveloped in a nostalgic moment of seemingly monumental surrealism, alone I stood.  My watch read 4:24am, a full two hours before the groggy love eyes of the local merchants would turn Hollywood and hawk lace camicie and vases and fresh fruits and mysterious masks, before the throngs of tourists would open their groggy lovestruck eyes in search of a croissant and cappuccino and fill up for another day of waiting in lines and dancing and tripping over local phrases and swooning over the breathtaking ambiance of what was once a working-class industrial village while reminiscing of an evening escapade never ventured on before and unlikely to be duplicated, before the infinite winged-and-feathered landlords would appear from the cracks and crevasses and head to work in search of photographers and food, purveying a sense of ownership over this enchanted place.

In that mere two hours, this hallowed ground my feet embrace would come alive, as if needing to soak in the sun’s sweet rays to arise and become a bustling and vibrant celebration of a centuries-old culture and seconds-old adventure.  The peaceful and quiet, humbling serenity that overcomes me in ways beyond my mind’s capacity to understand will be long gone, but another page in the lore of travelers past.  Of merchants, gawkers and hustlers past. Of lovers past, present and future.  But for this moment, gone in an instant of eternal magnitude, only myself and my thoughts, however few, preside.  Just ten fingers and ten toes adding to the weight of this epic structure, this symbol of work and industry, of travel and trade, of fantasy and romance.  Not yet dawn, and I’ve experienced a feeling that most never get to have tickle their senses, a tribute to my inclination for the inspirational, for the innocent, for the unique, for the pure.  For a moment, this avenue, this bridge, this landmark, this city—they’re all mine.  And only mine.  But not to keep.

Yes, for it was 4:24am, and I was alone atop the Rialto Bridge.  Not a soul in sight either way.  Not two socialites wandering home from a night on the town.  Not two downtrodden poor looking for a bite to eat.  Not two lovers on a quest to find the key to this glorious village.  Just me.  I saw Christopher Columbus sail below me, and heard traces of Vivaldi escaping out of the flower-basket masquerades of half-open canalside windows.  I saw dancing lights reflecting on the calm waters, lining up like disciplined soldiers, always on guard to defend this heavenly homeland.  I saw love, and it stared me in the face and called my name, like the sirens that tempted brave Odysseus, perhaps in this very spot.  It pleaded and called, tried casting its spell on me, but I could see through it, I could see that it was clouding my senses. And yet, I don’t know that I’ve ever thought more clearly.

A portal only open to my vivid imagination.  A choose-your-own-ending novel in which I held the pen.  Empowered with the freedom of unlimited frequent-flyer miles, without having to pack a single bag or walk through a single metal detector.  Not just an eye-opening experience, but a universe-opening experience.  I felt like I was the first child in a long family line to learn how to read.  It all seemed to click.

Life.  Life.  LIFE!  The feeling of being alive!  What a blessing.  Created in the likeness of God, equipped with so many tools, so many gifts, without having to pay rent for our beautiful existence.