Italy- We no speak Americano

I crossed the street with the image of the man who just chased me out of my building engraved in my mind. His round sweaty cheeks quivering as he gestured emphatically, his bare upper arm shaking as if the fat wished to free itself of his skin. On the asphalted building entrance path, his stereotypical white ribbed cotton undershirt and blue boxer shorts, no shoes, didn't help in my well-intended attempt to save him from being a book you can read by its cover. YOU LIVE IN ITALY! SPEAK ITALIAN! He yelled at me.

Now I don't live in Italy. Never have. Nor do I foresee that I ever will. But if I did, I assure you, I would indeed learn to speak Italian. I was staying at an Airbnb on the outskirts of central Bologna. The man, presumably a neighbor in the building, chased me out the front door and into the road yelling something unintelligible. I did a 180, so as to see what he was on about. I called out that I don't speak Italian. He was on his rant anyhow. In my few days here Italian seems to be a mishmosh of Spanish and French, my "non parlo Italiano!" rolled out of my mouth before I really considered if it was the right thing to say. Apparently he had a problem with the fact that I closed the front door, but I didn't have a chance to try to explain to him that the sign explicitly said to do so (in English). Non parlo Italiano?! Vivi in italia! parla Italiano!

I smiled, waved, and was on my merry way. But his words beckoned a very familiar feeling. Something I've heard thousands of times. "You're in America! Learn to speak English!"

I cringed, wondering if anything would ever change. If it would ever be okay to be somewhere- anywhere- and be different than the majority. Apart from the fact that, as a New Yorker, I knew just how often this sentence was used against Italians (then known as Latinos. Yes. Latinos).

It was my second encounter with the surprising level of conservatism found in Italy. I know what you're thinking: do you know nothing about Italy? This is the country of Catholic churches on every corner, not to mention The Vatican (technically it's own state - which I deeply resent for ruining my "countries visited" tally). I do know a thing or two about Italy, and it wasn't my first time. Nevertheless, I had kept my hopes high.

A man washes his laundry by a fountain in Milan

In the BlaBlaCar from Milan to Rome I sat with two gentlemen in their early to mid-30s. Antonio, the driver, had no problem putting the pedal to the metal. His wrists adorned with macrame bracelets and tanned skin complimented his laid back personality. He spoke a little English and Spanish, and between the two we managed to etch out a conversation. Federico sat in the back, the collar of his shirt still buttoned, he pulled himself up between our two chairs to converse. He spoke English well. Specifically for an Italian. I had found that Italians spoke even less English than the French. Which is about zero. He spoke well enough to ask me if I cook and clean. I subconsciously raised my right eyebrow, answered that I can cook if so inclined, and anybody can and should clean. Antonio smiled. I think he knew where this was going. Federico soon expressed that women these days are problematic. They don't want to cook and clean and do house chores anymore. They want to get their nails done and worse still, have ambitions. I asked him why he thinks women should basically serve as maids, and he simply stated that that is how it should be. Why don't you just hire a maid then. He laughed. No no no. That doesn't work that way. I want a woman.

A maid can be a woman, I said. I knew exactly what he was getting at, but I wanted to make him say it.

He made a number of uncomfortable and amused expressions.

You know, I can't have sex with my maid.

Sure you can. In fact, sadly, it's fairly common.

No no. I want her to be mine. And the maid is maybe on the side. He laughed. Every joke has some truth.

Ah ha.

This was developing even worse than I imagined. Federico was an ancient brand of misogynists which, in modern societies today, rarely ever rears its head. Federico, however, was absolutely shameless in his convictions. At some point I asked about Antonio's opinion. Is this how all Italian men are? He nodded his head from side to side. Concentrating on the road, he thought through my question more thoroughly than I expected.

Ehhhh, no. Not so much now. Maybe some. Because you know, we are a Catholic country. Very traditional. But it was this way. Not so many time ago.

Federico, perhaps sensing an upper hand -which he no doubt, believes he always has when it comes to women- antagonized me, inquiring as to my purpose in life as a woman if I'm not cooking and cleaning and procreating, and how I'm not worried that I won't find someone to cook, clean and procreate for and with.

I answered him as I always answer those types of questions. With just as much of a bad attitude as I can muster.

I somehow find it within myself to be interested in things other than boiling pasta. I don't know how I manage, but if I struggle really hard, I occasionally even feel my brain working. It's almost of as if I'm having real thoughts!

And what do you think about these women having babies for someone else? His brow furrowed. The conversation was quickly going from upbeat and inquisitive to hostile and condescending. Antonio was no longer smiling. I carried an amused expression. It's always nice to meet people who live in a completely different reality. The sign up ahead read Bologna. We were already half way to Rome. I sighed, a little relieved.

Enroute to Rome- Tuscany

You mean surrogate mothers? I asked.

Yes yes, this. This is disgusting no? These women having babies for these gay couples.

I don't see a problem with it. If you want a baby, you should be able to have one just like anyone else.

Yes but they're gay!

And? If they weren't gay, would it be ok?

Yes!...Eh. No!

Well which is it? I smiled. "If you can't beat 'em, confuse 'em" had always been my motto.

It's better than being gay because at least the child has a mother and father. In Italy it is illegal to adopt if you don't have a mother and father.

What seriously?

Yes you can't have a ...what you say? Surrogate, if you are alone.

Why not?

To make sure there is a normal family. Antonio chimed in.

I think we all know there's no such thing as a normal family. I answered.

They laughed. This is maybe true. But at least a mother and father.

So if it's a man and a woman and they want a surrogate mother to have the baby, that is ok? I asked. Now completely baffled myself.

No.

Why not? They're not gay. That's your problem with it, right?

Because god doesn't want them to have a baby.

You're religious? I asked. Not having considered it before.

Federico tilted his head left and right. MMMMMMMmmmm. eh, no, not really. But I believe in god.

Interesting. I muttered to myself, turning back to face the windshield once again. The modern world is not so modern, I thought.

You don't think it's sick? This surrogate business? No? You are ok with someone using your body for 9 months?

I barely stopped myself from laughing out loud. I'm not applying to be a surrogate mother. But. You just told me you want to use a woman as maid and sex slave for the rest of her life. What is 9 months in comparison?

Antonio laughed. Intelligent. He said shaking his index finger in my direction. Very smart. He chuckled. And then turned up the volume on the radio.

Federico took the hint, and fell backwards in his seat. I stared out the window.

I suddenly remembered an Italian friend I had met in South America. It was pretty rare to run into Italians in Latin America in general. I never questioned why.

What's your name, a Canadian traveler asked her.

Andrea. She said.

He looked confused. But Andrea is a boys' name in Italy. He said. The thought hadn't even occurred to me but now that he mentioned it, he was indeed right.

Yes. you're right, she said, with a British-tinted accent. But I was born outside of Italy, that's why my parents could name me Andrea.

What do you mean? I asked.

Well, in Italy, you can't name a girl by a boy's name. It's not legal.

I was puzzled. It sounded like something out of North Korea. How could the government dictate what you decide to name your kid. And here Kanye and Kim were naming their child by directions...All hail democracy.

Democracy is a funny and over-abused term. It's like kind of like time. We think we have it but we don't, because it never really exists in the first place (I personally like this article which explains how, amongst other topics, so long as there is there's a lack of equality there will be a lack of democracy).

But here I was in Modern Europe. The Western world. Being yelled at to learn to speak Italian and told I should go pop out some babies if I want a meaningful life, but I can't name those babies as I so choose. And it wasn't just Italy. The more I travel, the more I live in different places, the more I realize that it's in the countries and cities which so proudly claim to be modern and liberal that tthe "other" -whether they be "other" in colour, race, religion, ethnicity, gender, or merely in thought- is barely tolerated.

I felt a strange sensation that instead of progressing, we're regressing. Like a runner on a track so fixated on the horizon that he doesn't realize he's been running in circles. We think we're moving forward because we're moving, but the forward part isn't a given.

I felt suddenly inadequate and incapable of affecting change. Like I can argue with the Federico's and yelling neighbors of the world all day, but it would never amount to anything. I never considered myself a social justice warrior, but I had learned to make a point of not only holding onto my values and morals, but also vocalizing them.

When I was younger, I was quiet and shy. I wanted to be liked. I didn't want to cause confrontations. I learned the slow and painful way, that no matter what you do, there will always be someone who dislikes you. The question is, whether they dislike you and still respect you. You certainly don't earn respect by being a wet floor rag, soaking up whatever anyone tells you and allowing others to step all over what matters to you. So if I'm going to be disliked anyway, I might as well stand for something.

I wanted to figure out what was necessary in order for these people to entertain a different perspective. Was it education? No. Federico had just finished his MBA from one of Italy's best universities. It couldn't, by the same measure, be economic class either. Was it age? The neighbor who ran out to yell at me was passed middle age. That couldn't be it. As I tried to sort through the possibilities, I wondered if it was futile. Perhaps there was nothing specifically that might determine their perspective. Perhaps, not only can't you teach an old dog new tricks, you also can't ask it to watch a younger dog doing them.

Often times the answer is right under your nose.

Travel. The thought came to me just as we were having our third coffee break.

If these people traveled and were exposed to different cultures, different humans, different languages, different traditions, different beliefs, different ways of living- I can't imagine they're hold on to their convictions so strongly. If they would, they'd do so even knowing and understanding that their way of life is not the ONLY way of life, and more importantly that there IS no right way of life.

Piazza in Rome

We approached Rome at around 22:00.

Let me know if you come to New York or Israel, or anywhere else I might be. I told Federico, who accompanied me on the train after Antonio dropped us off at the station.

I don't think I'll ever go to Israel. That place seems crazy.

I shook my head, smiling, if I got a dollar for every time someone said that...No, I think you would like it. You would like them both. You'd experience some amazing things for sure. You have time now, you just finished your studies. You should go travel.

Yeah. Ok. Maybe.

Maybe you'll even find your dream girl out there. Smiling and waving goodbye, I thanked him for accompanying me. Putting my faith in the rest of the Italian nation being somewhat less stubborn, I walked the rest of the way to the hotel.

I couldn't tell whether I had planted a seed or destroyed a sapling.

#italy #travel #europe