Here’s what they don’t tell you. Those happily-ever-Italy anecdotes of €1 houses bought on a whim and a handshake. Those enviable expats living the Italian dream, welcomed into a grateful embrace by a crumbling village’s last-living descendants: one day, picking olives in the neighbor’s fourth-generation family orchard; the next, oohing and ahhing over a plate of nonna’s pasta al pomodoro, topped with garden-fresh basil plucked seconds before taking a seat.
Or how about those “we-came-to-Italy-on-vacation-and-oops-purchased-a-hillside” couples that you drool over on Instagram? The ones who somehow have the cash, time, (visas… hello?) and DIY savvy to transform a dilapidated castle tower into a second home-slash-AirBnB, where—surprise!—overgrown acres of weeds reveal long-forgotten rows of century-old vines.
Allow me to burst your bubble. What they all fail to tell you is that falling head-over-heels for the Bel Paese is wildly exhilarating if you’re young and carefree; romantically rejuvenating if you’re rich and retired; but anything in between, well, it’s just a ghastly mess.
Not that I don’t love her. Italy conquered my heart and soul long ago and has never let go. But oh, can she be a bitch. One minute, she’s seducing you with her dazzling vistas and heartfelt serenades. The next, she’s slapping you in the face with her glaring imperfections and a litany of expletives.
Italy will seat you at a table with meticulously ironed white linen and woo you with a parade of mouthwatering dishes. Then, she’ll feast on your sanity while guzzling what’s left of your too-paltry paycheck. I’m pretty sure I’ve even heard her belch, which isn’t very couth, but that’s the thing about Italy: she has a hard time minding her manners.
Yet… even that has its charm. Her off-the-cuff attitude, the way she lives life out loud, not giving a damn what anyone thinks. Non ha peli sulla lingua. She doesn’t mince her words. And somehow, that’s both shocking and totally irresistible.
Except when she shouts. In your face. Loudly. At which point you contemplate leaving her forever. In a huff, you tell her you’re going back to whence you came, where politeness and order were the rules of the day. Where things were more predictable, and practical, and straightforward, and you didn’t feel a hundred emotions per day.
“Won’t you be bored?” she teases, caressing your cheek with a salty sea breeze. “Wouldn’t you miss me?” she pouts, luring you down a cypress-studded lane into a meadow of sunflowers
And deep inside (well, not even that deep), you know she is right. You try to stick to your guns and insist on your breakup over a plate of tagliatelle con tartufo and a glass of excellent table wine (at €10 a bottle), but you succumb to her flirtations, letting the perfume inebriate your senses. Lovestruck, again.
Like I said, such storie d’amore are all fine and dandy if you’re twenty-something, footloose and fancy-free, or comfortably pensioned with a well-endowed bank account and time for indulgence. So long as you can jet off on a whim to frolic in Italy’s sparkling azure waters, white sand caressing your toes; or let her take you by the hand up her perfectly sculpted mountains, where picture-perfect panoramas rob you of breath. Then, she’s the perfect lover indeed.
But if you’re somewhere in between, trying to eke out a living and saddled with debt, life loaded with responsibility, endless to-do lists, and maybe even kids to raise. That’s when Italy is company you may not want to keep.
Irritated by your lack of attention, she’ll start throwing a fit. She’ll hit you with paperwork you’ll need an overpaid lawyer to decipher, sock you with taxes you’ll struggle to pay, and bang you against the head—over and over and over—with her incomprehensible politics and erratic ways. Your phone calls will (literally) go unanswered, your pleas unheeded, the line disconnected until further notice.
You’ll toil and scrimp, trying to assuage her foul temper, while she shakes her head and scoffs at your failures. And then, what does she do? She turns to someone else—the increasing flood of pubescent jet-setters and deep-pocketed pensioners—casting a smoldering glance over her shoulder in your direction.
Oh my, she’s capricious. And wily, or furba. Back still turned, she tosses you a pizza. The crust as airy and tangy as a first kiss. Cheese melting, just like your fool-in-love’s heart.
Once again, you’re hooked. With a sigh, you open the door and welcome her back in. Beaming, she crosses the threshold like a warm ray of sunshine, embraces you like you’re her one and only:
“Tuo posto è qui.”
“Your place is here.”
You sit down. Defeated. With a wink, she serves you a cone of la dolce vita.
Besotted, you take a lick. And pray for retirement.
