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Have you heard the rumors? You know what I'm talking about, the ones about those tall dark handsome Italian men. . . I was warned that for every block there's about five men that will swoon over the sight of a woman and woo them with romantic words and an accent that is to die for. Are they true? Or are the rumors about sleaze-ball Italian men with cheesy lines and an excessive adoration for their mothers more true?
Reading the below may burst your bubble or encourage your fantasy. . . you have been warned.
This story all starts with food, of course. All my "men" stories start with food. I think it's some sort of uncanny gift I've been given- when I'm around food they flock to me, the good and the bad.
It was sunny with a haze hanging in the air. It's the kind of weather that makes everyone more hungry and everything we eat taste better. I found looked for a semi deserted spot near the beach at Amalfi. I take a seat and prop my foot up under me and let the other dangle. Out the delicious gems come from their hiding in my purse. The mozzarella was moist, fresh and delicious. I struggled a little to get it out of the bag and up from the bath it was packed in. But after the first bit of smooth salty skin with a sponge-like inside saturated in the sweet and sour whey I was certain my effort was worth it. Yum. . . oh, but better still was the fruit. I can't even tell you how lovely that nectarine was. Crisp and sweet, the I swear that If I had not bitten that fruit, the juice would have burst right through the skin. The hot sugary elixir coated my lips and dripped down my hands and arms. The stickiness was no distraction to the loveliness I was experiencing.
Instead I found my distraction in front of me. I was sitting there in my classy black bathing suit covered with a pale blue tank top and my durable olive shorts. It's a wonderful day and yet, I am hesitant to swim. What will I do just swim alone? I'm not so good at swimming, and fish give me the willies. I wonder if there are fish in there? I'm wearing a one piece. No one here wears these- even the 70-year-olds go bikini. Sigh . . . Will I look ridiculous or just feel ridiculous being alone. I notice people playing, taking showers. They are children, parents, grandparents, teenagers, families, lovers, they are together.
I sigh as my eye catches a glimpse of a tan and wonderfully thin couple kisses in shore line. He has his hand behind her back and the other dug into the dark gravely sand. Her arm coils around his neck with her fingertips ending in a mass of brown curls. They are so young. Ha! What am I saying? I am so young too. . .Eh, but this is puppy love. It's likely to end soon, yet the thought of no worry about the future, no thinking about where each of you will go to college or work, just ocean and each other makes me wish. I mean I can't help the little bit of jealousy that I'm feeling.
Ahhh! I can't see them anymore. Some very tanned guy in a bright, turmeric-yellow cap is leaning against the black railing of the sidewalk just enough to block my view. Oh well, my stare was an invasion of privacy anyway right. Fine you crazy Italian man I'll look in another direction.
"Hello" I turn to see that this obstruction is no trying to talk to me. "Where are you from? England?"
I shake my head no.
"Germany?"
I shake no again and he pauses to think.
"Australia?" he says thinking he's figured it out.
I smile and nod again
"Italy?" he says with a strange squeak and tone of I-doubt-this-but. "Do you speak English?"
"yes." I say and laugh
"Then where-uh are-reh you-ah from?"
Wow this accent is getting stronger as I utter my usual response, "The USA."
Our conversation continues and he asks why I am sitting here alone on this bench and how long I am staying in this area. We exchange names, (for our purposes we will call my Italian acquaintance Emiliano- It's an italian name that means eager- quite fitting) argue about a few things regarding where I'm staying and my purse of all things. He does most of the talking. At this point, I am not sure if it was what he was saying or that he was saying it in a strong Italian accent that put an "uh" at the end of nearly every word, and a breathy lisp in the complicated phrases, but I found myself giggling at him.
"Oh Elizibet-uh. I-uh cannot-uh look at-uh you. Your eyes, they are-uh too beautiful. When-eh I-uh look at-uh them I cannot-uh think-eh." (remember he has a bad lips when it comes to the "th" and sometimes "s" sounds, so these "sonnets" come out as slobber and tangled attempts to seduce me.
"What-ah would eh-you think if we just-uh jumped into the ocean right now?"
"Right now? Uhhhhh, I don't know. . . I was just thinking of doing that."
"Do you have-uh your-eh bikini on?"
"No, but I have a one piece."
"Hahaha well I don't want-uh to-uh know-uh which piece that-eh is."
"What?"
The funniest thing "have a" and "have-uh" sound just alike. So, I thoroughly explain I have a swimming suit on that is called a "one piece" not one piece of a bikini. This gets even funnier as we walk to the beach and he decides to just take off his shirt and jump in. I take off my shirt and begin to take off my shorts when he screams "NO!" This guy still thinks I'm only wearing one piece. Hahahahaha it was lost in translation I guess.
We swim out and I am a little nervous- there are no ropes and this water is really deep. Thank God I'm not out here alone. Oy! Oaf!! I am plunged beneath the water from a thump on the head.
"Oh sorry. I better kiss it to make it better."
Oh yeah right buddy. This "oops!" game continues but with lighter thumps. I dodge him and eventually we make our way to the shore. As we sat on the edge of the shore I couldn't help but think about how I sort-of got what I had wanted. How strange it was to be just where I had thought of.
The worst part was that although Emiliano's rippled chest was coated in droplets of sea water and his dark wavy hair curled around his espresso-colored eyes, and well it even started to just barely rain- the only rain I saw in all my stay here in Amalfi- this all seemed like a comedy rather than a romance.
I felt as though I had met a cartoon character. I had swam with a shirtless Italian man in his late twenties and instead of swooning over him, I kinda just liked laughing at him and the hilarity of the whole situation. What will this guy do next I wonder?
This story will continue in later posts. To keep up with the Italian Men 101 look for new posts in the coming week.
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