Why I'll Never Hook Up With An Italian Guy, Part 2

At the San Lorenzo street market, adjacent to the Medici Chapel, I was admiring the stalls of scarves and leather goods, Italian tchotchkes and hats as we took a shortcut to the Duomo.  I had just put my camera back in my coat pocket and as I passed one young, scruffy ragazzo, he smiled sheepishly and uttered, "Ciao, bella."  


I remember when I was a kid living in Naples that many southern Italians would forego the "buon" part of buongiorno (which means "good morning" or "good day"; on a side note, after lunch or pranza, you switch to buona sera, or "good evening," even though it's only about 2 pm...).  Another thing I like to do is stretch out any "r" sound I have, rolling the "r"s and then just sort of hanging out on that syllable like I own it. And because Naples has such a mafioso rep, this sort of utterance is like the equivalent of wearing a full-on gold grill over my front teeth.  Aw yeah. So I got all street on this dude and showed off my street cred, Napolitan style. 


" 'giorrrrrrrno," I said, not pausing as we passed his stall.


"You dropped something!" he called.


Whiplash-like, I turned to look on the ground, which was clear.  The guy smiled back.  "My heart," he said in English, nodding.


"Oldest trick in the book," Christine said, shaking her head at me.


Well-played, signore.

Why I'll Never Hook Up With An Italian Guy

I'm not saying they aren't hot in a primal, musky sort of way, but Italian dudes aren't for me.  Not straight-up guidos anyway, and not those gorillas from Jersey Shore.  A quarter Italian?  Maybe.  But no one from the home land, that's for sure.

Why?  Case in point: Alessio, the contractor who was here at the house yesterday morning, "overseeing" the work on the bathroom floor (meaning: he chatted Christine and I up, talked on his phone, looked at our Facebook photos with us).  He's kinda cute, reminded me of Jason Segal from I Love You, Man and Forgetting Sarah Marshall. 

Christine was emailing and he said, "Ahh, Facebook?" 

"You have Facebook?" she asked, quickly pulling up the FB website.  "What's your name?"

He spelled and she typed, and up popped his profile, resplendent with a Euro-chic pic of Alessio in super-short hair, tanned face and aviator glasses.  I pointed to his marital status and Christine clicked on the name of his wife.  When her profile popped up, Alessio made his best puppy dog face and shook his head.  "Oh, she -- she's kind of my ex-wife."

Christine and I howled.  I said, "Yeah, as soon as you're out the door, it's -- " and I pantomimed licking my ring finger and forcing my wedding band over my knuckle and into my pocket.  

Alessio said, "Tu?"

"Married," I said.

"Perhaps," and here he did a great Italian male shrug, "you need a... ah, new, husband...?"

"But I like mine," I said, and pulled up my FB page.  The other workers crowded behind Alessio and watched as I scrolled through pix from our visit to Versailles.  Sensing the virility of Raf, even in photos of him bicycling with small girls through the French countryside, Alessio and Mirko faded back to their work, leaving Christine and me to wade through more photos of my family. 

I'm not saying they're not attractive, y'all.  But it ain't gonna happen.  Not up in he-ah!