A pleasant sign greeting you at Fiumicino Airport…

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.

Who will we become in the New Year?!?

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 :).

Welcome to Rome!

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.