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BY MAUREEN JENKINS
FLORENCE,
Italy -- Since I arrived here
six months ago, my family, friends and acquaintances have been curious about
life in my adopted country: Don't you get tired of eating pasta every day?
Is the weather as cold as Chicago's? Do you really dry your laundry on a
clothesline that hangs outside your window?
 But
hands down, the No. 1 question from women, regardless of age, race or
marital status, has got to be, "But what about those Italian MEN??!!" If I
had a dollar for every friend who told me to bring them one home as a
souvenir, I'd be a wealthy girl.
I guess it makes sense, seeing as the raven-haired, stylishly dressed
descendants of Roman gods are legendary the world over. What heterosexual
woman, whatever her ethnicity or cultural background, isn't at least a
little bit intrigued by the myth of the Italian man, one who can sweep a
normally rational female off her feet with the lyrical-sounding salute of
"Ciao, bella!"? Women the world over may claim to visit Italy for its
leather goods and Renaissance art, but I'll bet an equal number make
pilgrimages here secretly hoping to meet a gorgeous Giancarlo,
Paolo or Andrea, whether for lifelong love or just a few days of romantic
adventure. I must admit I'd fallen under the spell, having met an Italian
ragazzo -- one eight years younger than me, no less -- while on a solo
vacation in San Francisco's North Beach back in 2001.
Years before I decided to move to this country, I remember my
well-traveled aunt advising me, "If you ever need a self-esteem boost, take
yourself to Italy!" And once my girlfriends and I got here for a visit, we
understood clearly what she meant. Italian men seem so romantic, so sexy, so
mysterious to foreign females because they clearly appreciate women. And
it's an equal-opportunity thing. Their taste isn't limited to Barbie-doll
shaped blond ones, but to women with robust figures. With skin shades that
range from vanilla to deep-dark chocolate. Those with flowing long hair, and
those with hardly any. So to American women who are used to constantly
berating themselves for their abundant curves, for failing to meet the
fickle beauty standards set by the arbiters of such things in our own
country, a trip to Italy is like a much-needed balm.
 Besides,
travel has an artful way of exposing us to encounters and experiences we'd
likely shy away from at home -- and that's especially true when possible
romance slides into the picture. And when you're on the road, there's always
the temptation to step outside yourself and into some fantasy, with you in
the starring role.
Popular films like 2003's "Under the Tuscan Sun" -- based very loosely on
the best-selling memoir from Frances Mayes -- have only helped fuel the
mystique of the Latin lover. This "chick flick" featured Diane Lane as a
recently dumped-and-divorced thirtysomething San Francisco writer who
impulsively buys an aging villa during a spontaneous trip to bella Italia.
Through the heroine's eyes, the film showed the pure joy of self-discovery
that comes from recreating one's own life -- but what would such a flick be
without the eventual appearance of the tall, dark and handsome Marcello
(Raoul Bova)? As usually is the case in real life, the romance didn't last,
but oh, during the couple's sensual romance scenes in postcard-perfect
Positano, I'll bet each woman in every "Tuscan Sun"-showing theater wished
she could have sampled that slice of la dolce vita.
Of course, it's often true that familiarity breeds contempt, that we're
attracted to those who seem so different from those we know at home. And we
magnify those differences in our minds and memories. Three years after our
trip to Rome, one of my girlfriends says she can still recall the heady
cologne worn by the friendly taxi driver who transported us from the
airport. Even today, we laugh about the flirtatious guards at the Vatican
museums (they're not monks, after all), and how one particularly attractive
one called this same friend "carina," or "pretty," throwing her so off
balance that she tumbled down the stairs leading from Michelangelo's famed
Sistine Chapel. Guess she got swept away by an artistic vision of the
Italian male kind.
It's one thing to meet a beautiful Antonio or Massimo while on vacation
and imagine happily-ever-after, but real life may present culture shock. The
whole notion of "mammoni," or Italian men whose lives revolve around their
mothers to a much larger extent than is true of American men, is no joke.
CNN.com recently reported that according to Italy's National Research
Center, 36.5 percent of Italian men in their early 30s still live at home --
and as I've found from personal experience, that includes college-educated
ones with good jobs. I remember going on a first date with a studly
30-year-old Italian ragazzo I'll call Fabrizio -- and being invited after
the date to his room for a glass of wine. A room in his parents' house,
complete with bunk beds. Not exactly a sexy invitation for us independent
American women used to living on our own since college.
As author Alan Epstein notes in his memoir As the Romans Do: An American
Family's Italian Odyssey, "Some say that the consensus of the world's
collective imagination that Italian men are the greatest lovers comes from
their attachment to their mothers -- Italian men are so used to being
solicitous of women because they are solicitous to their mothers that it is
nothing for them to talk, to flatter, to compliment, to touch lightly in a
friendly/interested way, to flirt, to comport themselves with irresistible
ease and grace in the company of women."
And those of us foreign women who travel here -- or who, like me, have
decided to park ourselves here for a while -- benefit daily from their
largess.
That doesn't mean that all this over-the-top gushing is legit. Just last
weekend, I visited one of my favorite Florentine ristoranti, one where the
gorgeous owner (who I'll call Massimo) flits from table to table, flirting
with different girls throughout the night. Less than an hour after insisting
I go out with him, I saw him making out with some American blond at the bar,
in clear view of half the restaurant. But that didn't stop Massimo from
whispering to me on my way out the door, "I will be looking to hear from
you." He actually seemed hurt when I looked him in the eye and said clearly,
"Likely story." Perhaps he figures it's all in a day's work, that as a
good-looking, unmarried Italian man, it's his duty to serve as much of
womankind as he can.
Experiences like these make you realize that for better and worse, men
everywhere are pretty much the same. Sure, Italian guys may flirt more
obviously and dress more stylishly than those in the Midwest, but no group
of men in any culture has the market cornered on honesty. Decency. Or good
old-fashioned trust. Rather than being charming plastic stereotypes, Italian
men are merely human. My Mercedes convertible-driving Fabrizio disappeared
like a puff of smoke weeks into our relationship, but I'm sure that had less
to do with him being Italian than him being a jerk. And likewise, this
country is full of thoughtful, kind-hearted men who truly respect women and
view us not as objects but as intelligent and fascinating people.
So ladies, visit Italy with open minds, admire the scenery and flirt
proudly with its men if you so desire. Just remember that common sense is
one thing that shouldn't get lost in translation.
Chicago native and free-lance writer Maureen Jenkins writes monthly about
her expatriate experiences in Europe for the Chicago Sun-Times Travel
section. |
