Oct 03 2008
Italy
The ocean was calling me back so I went to the East Coast of Italy to a town called Rimini. This is where the Italians vacation. I checked into a hostel not far from the beach. The owner of the hostel, Paulo was a single father to an adorable eight-year-old girl named Mia. She thought I was some kind of celebrity because I told her I was from California. I was pretty taken by her because she reminded me of my niece, who I missed all the time. Mia was determined to teach me Italian. We went for walks. She would point to something and say it in Italian and I would repeat the word and she would laugh at my pronunciation. I challenged her to a game of Ping-Pong and whooped her butt. “Who’s laughing now?” I teased her.
Mia asked her dad if I could join them for dinner, “Of course,” he said.
At dinner I met a woman who taught high school Italian literature, she insisted we go Salsa dancing. We were the two old chicks that stood out on the dance floor off rhythm and looking pretty foolish amongst the young and restless. The trick to Salsa dancing, is all in the stomping, if you’re stomping you’re Salsa dancing. As the night got older, I kept asking, “Don’t you have to teach tomorrow?”
“No Problem!” She said. Italians love this phrase; everything is no problem.
I was really enjoying spending time with Paulo and Mia. Paulo and I went for a walk one night down to the beach. We sat on his catamaran and watched the sky for shooting stars. Having sex on a catamaran is similar to having sex on a trampoline, which I highly recommend maybe this is where the term “tramp” came from.
In the US, we have the dollar store, In Europe it’s the 1.80 Euro Store. Paulo took me to the 1.80 Store so I could replace some toiletries. I think it’s really funny to go into these stores and bother the clerk by asking how much everything costs. “Skoozee, how much?”
“1.80!” they would scream.
“Ahh, Gratzie, and how much for this?”
“Everything, 1.80!” they shouted.
For some reason I like it when they yell at me. Except at the Sistine Chapel, where I took a flash photograph of “The Creation of Life” An officer blew his whistle and shouted “NO PHOTO!” as he backed me out of the building. I thought they might cut off my hand or something.
I needed to buy a new backpack. Every corner has a man selling your choice of fake designer bags from Fendi to Louise.
The seller says, “Look, look” as he opens the bag “zipper inside.”
I want to say, “Whoa, a zipper! That’s a horse of a different color, why didn’t you mention a zipper.” As cheap as they were for what they were, I couldn’t bring myself to buy one without feeling fake.
I’ve found a new way to deal with aggressive Italian men. When they whistle or stare I lift my skirt and flash my penis boxers. At first glance, the penis looks real, the expressions on their face of shock and confusion…. Priceless.
