This is a bonus, second post this week, because 1) next week’s “Best of Tuscany” and “What Happened?” lists will be posted very late due to three days of lavish wine drinking and sleeping ceremonies I’ve scheduled to mark the end of my one month of high-impact travel in Tuscany and 2) every time I lose another shade of dignity, I feel inexplicably compelled to make the event public for the benefit of those who are secretly working on biographies about me. So here goes…
First off, it doesn’t matter what I do while I’m in Italy, everyone can tell from miles away that I’m not from around here. I’m blond, I’ve got my stunning, Nordic good looks, my sunglasses cover less than 80% of my face, I don’t smoke and my hair gets less attention in a year than these guys give their hair each morning. I’m the antithesis of the average Italian male. Everyone knows it, so I don’t even try.
As such, I already rank pretty low on the social status scale. Up until recently, the ranking broke down like this:
• Dog with mange
• Junkie
• Me
• Old man with the farts
• Gas station attendant
• Guy wearing Benetton
• Domestic animal
• Guy wearing Armani
But all that changed a few days ago. I started wearing shorts. I had to. I just couldn’t take another day in my jeans, walking nine hours, up and down hilly, cobblestone streets with a 25% grade and the beautiful, perfect, but relentless sun beating down on me. I know… I’m a weak, pitiable excuse for a man.
I already knew full well that shorts were somewhat frowned upon for men in Italy, but I didn’t expect such a profound and sudden change in how I’d be regarded. I mean honestly, at first glance, Italian men’s fashion seems pretty adventurous. These guys wear some really wacky ca-ca that gives the casual observer the impression that Italian fashion trends are simply an ongoing series of mean-spirited practical jokes. Guys wear all kinds of funky pants decorated with tassels, chain mail, frescos, sequins, rhinestone designs in the likeness of the Pope (John Paul, not Benedict, obviously)…
But brother, you put on a pair of shorts and suddenly the joke’s over. You took it too far, jackhole. It could be 150 degrees (Fahrenheit or Centigrade, it doesn’t matter) and the men here will not cave in to the comfort afforded by shorts. The only time you’re socially allowed to wear shorts in Italy is when you’re on your way to play volleyball or when your pants were just set ablaze from the knees down, and even then you only have a matter of minutes of leniency before it gets uncomfortably weird and people stop returning your calls.
Put on shorts on any other occasion and your social ranking instantly drops about a dozen positions. Now my ranking is something like:
• Mad cow disease
• Dog shit
• Unwashed hobo
• Me
• Recently washed hobo (assuming he’s wearing pants, which he most certainly is, because no self-respecting Italian hobo would be caught dead in shorts)
• The French
• Anyone that orders a cappuccino after 10am
• Pigeon
• People that eat dinner alone in Florence while 20 people wait in the rain for a table
• The government
• Songwriters that write about anything other than ‘amore’
• People that pronounce it “eye¬-talian”
• Guys that bring laptops into cafes
• Dog with mange
• Junkie
And so on.
So, I’m scum. But the beauty is I’m scum with the power to direct/redirect several hundred thousand tourists to/away from hotels, restaurants and even whole towns, so people in tourism have to be nice to me or it’s curtains. It’s been kinda fun actually… Waltzing into a four-star hotel or a restaurant with a Michelin star and watching their looks of contempt and loathing contort into forced smiles and pained hospitality when I give them my card. Then, just for effect, I linger and sully the atmo of their foyers for 10 of the longest minutes of their professional lives. Better than sex.
You’ve been without sex too long, haven’t you?
I’m sure the knobby Nordic knees are giving someone a thrill.
I’m having trouble figuring out your status rankings. Is it safe to assume that dog with mange is on bottom, and Armani guy on the Hot Stuff end of the spectrum? When we get to the revised list, the dog with mange seems to have rocketed to the top.
Either way, I wonder whether you’ve considered those lightweight clamdigger or capri- type pants that Nadal looks so fetching in when playing tennis? Or something baggy in linen? These might come in handy sometime when you don’t have a powerful weapon like fancy shmancy assignment.
Alternately, what if you tried wearing knee socks and carrying a soccer ball everywhere?
“Better than sex” indeed… particularly after being abused by a manager for copying something off the menu…. although the pathetic whining (after mentioning LP) does take the edge off the multiple orgasms!
“The only time you’re socially allowed to wear shorts in Italy is when you’re on your way to play volleyball or when your pants were just set ablaze from the knees down”….. I love it!
By the way, Anne Marie’s “capri- style pants” suggestion is out of the question. My ankles were exposed one time in Italy. They proved to be so popular with the locals, their eyes cast downwards completely transfixed (think driving past a car accident), that I assumed it wouldn’t be long before they outranked Paris Hilton in Google.
By the way, I just did you a good deed and clicked on “belly basics maternity”. I assume you are targeting… umm… pregnant women.
Man not wearing shorts is wack. I couldn’t last a whole summer like that…my white ole Canadian legs would certainly set them off and I don’t even have a LP cards to pass out!
Great post!
Ian
Combining a few categories (shorts, laptop in cafe, eating alone, etc) would, I fear, create a whole new ranking for you….below 3-day road kill? Just for fun, how about tight, bike shorts with eye-talian team names to show you have the right spirit, if not attire. Should they not appreciate you in Italy, your fans would love the photo-posts. Thanks for the continued wonderful writing.
Did you find housing or as of today, are you homeless?
-Hey’a, vinny. Looka’ dis’a guy. He’a no where tha’ long’a pants.
-Whadamatterwithyou. He American. No looka’ at him an’ if he come here, treat him like tha’ poop from dog on our sidewalk. Want’a some more pasta an’ vino wit’ you cigarette?
Amanda – I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill myself.
Sheila – You betcha!
Anne Marie – It’s a sliding scale. And no amount of stylish shorts will change this situation. It’s like Victorian England, if you reveal anymore than the ankles, scandal.
Wendy – Ah! Someone to commiserate with! Isn’t that a poignant moment? The “What the hell are you doing?” transition to “Can I get you coffee? Cream? Sugar? My dignity?”
Ian – Yes, without the LP Card Dispenser to straighten out attitudes, it’s just a long series of contemptuous looks. Personally, I can live with that in the interest of comfort. I don’t see any of those perfectly groomed Italians walking for 10 hours a day, uphill, both ways…
Maureen – Ah ha! You’ve hit on another exception! Lycra bike short, indeed, full cycling regalia, is perfectly acceptable attire, even at lunch in fashionable restaurants in tourist trail towns like San Gimignano. Strangely, while looks are so vital, no one seems overly concerned about smell. I guess I’m just weird that way.
Lucas – That was some lovely ethnic profiling you did there. I hope for your sake you’re using a pseudonym in these comments… You may have trouble getting into Italy next time.
Leif
You could always try to go South-Pacific style and wear a sarong! They’re breezier, and they’re not shorts… :)
I’m pretty sure the french or the canadians will hunt me down before the italians do.
Dear Leif,
I guess you have a pair of those dreamy long thighed legs that you nordic people have. Of course we italians, with our short stumpy legs envy you. Why don’t you send us a photograph? I bet that there are many photos of you, taken with those tiny things that are used as computers, telephones, cameras and what not, in the rooms of italian men of the other persuasion.
Lucas
Only italians can make fun of other italians. I will not say more, but i have an uncle who knows somebody’s uncle who… you know what I mean. No witness protection programme can save you, now. Watch out for white Unos and armani dressed men
Gemma – I wish. When you’re alone and researching highspeed, last minute assignments, the thought of photographic evidence rarely gets a second thought. Perhaps some of my stalkers have low-res actions shots of my booty as I sprint up a hill to check hours at a monastery? Groupies? Hello?