The Italian (Nut) Job

Oh Italy. Every time I go back to you, you surprise me further. To begin with, how do you manage to keep a population of more than sixty million people, who presently have no government, so calm? How do you even function, I wonder? I think, like the majority of these people, I'd rather not know the answer to that question, and ta-da, it's magic. The country keeps functioning: as long as we have our good food and our good wine, the rest will solve itself.

But (bringing it down a notch or two...) what is up with Italian eyebrows lately? First, the ongoing fashion of male eyebrow waxing. I am all in favour of alternative masculinities, but those eyebrows look seriously sketchy. Unless you have a caterpillar crawling on your forehead, leave those eyebrows alone! And now, women are following suit: shaving eyebrows off and painting them on. I think this fashion is even dying out in Mexico, come on ragazze, have we really run out of ideas already? Maybe this is a sign that we've done enough to our faces already...

On that note, I've discovered what Italian women seem to fear the most (not Silvio Berlusconi, you might be surprised to know). Cellulite. Italy will sell you anything to fight it: gels, creams, pills, raw vegetables, mud masks, massage tools... When did cellulite become such a big deal? Seriously, when (and if) we get rid of it, do we become happier, more intelligent, generally better people? Thighs and butts are two parts of our bodies that aren't that exposed: get a grip! Do you realise how much time and money one can end up spending on this problem? I'd rather have cellulite than waste my life rubbing some smelly unguent on myself for hours, locked in my bathroom.

I guess that's what makes me, and most Italians, crazy: the constant need to fare bella figura, to be impeccable and have a perfect image. Sure, we are descendants of beautiful figures like Michelangelo's David, but alas we are not made of marble. Let's take a chill pill and realise that if we are to get through the country's crisis we need to fight against more than just cellulite and hairy eyebrows. Perhaps it's this obsession that got us into the mess to begin with...

Bed Bugs

Working at a B&B has had somewhat of an impact on me. For instance, I now know that pillows are not that white underneath the pillow cases and that not all towels get replaced after a guest leaves if they look unused. Call me a clean freak, but I found this a little worrying at first. 

This changed after a conversation with a couple of my friends. One of them assured me beds are probably the dirtiest furniture in our homes. After enjoying a never-ending scene of me freaking out about all the hair that is probably hidden between my sheets and mattress cover, my friend added an extra element of horror: bed bugs.

Apparently bed bugs are a common phenomenon of all beds. Suddenly, yellow stains on duvets seemed like a joke compared to a host of crawling creatures within my mattress. My Swedish counterpart felt the need to add, "Well, I'm sure the hostel we slept in in Paris had them." Why?? How many different types of bed bugs have I slept on? And, most importantly, where on me have they crawled?!

In an optimistic end to our conversation, however, my friend brought to my attention that bed bugs are not that bad. At least I can now legitimately claim that I am never alone in bed.

The Legend

You know how it is in St Andrews: more often than not, if you describe someone to someone else, they will know who that person is, even if they only know them by sight. That's how it usually goes in my conversations, but some weeks ago, as I described someone to a person I had just met, they had a, "Oh, that's you?!" moment...which had never happened to me before.

The person I was talking to was the new president of the Italian Society. I had spoken to him a few other times but, it being Sangria Night and all, we spoke for a longer time on this occasion. At one point I told him I was glad he was the new president of the Society, for I found his predecessor and entourage slightly creepy (creepy Italian leaders? Where have I heard of this before...?). When he asked me why I thought so, I said it was because every time the previous president saw me, he managed to forget I spoke Italian, and proceeded to loudly comment on my ass. Now, it is no news that I suffer from 'big butt syndrome' (I always have) but sincerely I like to think there's more to me that just an ass, and if it were really that memorable, these individuals would at least remember they've seen and commented on it before. But no, no. So my reaction to those comments usually was to start speaking in Italian to them, and watch their faces as realisation turned into mortification (oh, the joy!). 

As I kept going on with my convoluted anecdote, doubtlessly fuelled and made more complicated by the cheap Sangria, he opens his eyes with surprise and says, "That's you?! You're a legend! You really traumatised those guys, you know?"

A sense of victory came upon me. Who knows what sort of reputation I've gained with this, but hopefully these men will think twice before screaming, "Look at that ass!", from one end of a table to the other.