“So, did you meet anyone in Italy?”
“What are the men like over there?”
“I’m sure you just had the time of your life with all those hot Italian men.”
And on, and on… and on (and on). The questions are never ending.
Last year, I moved to Italy from the U.S. for graduate school, and I’m staying because I found a job (not a man). I went home this summer for the first time in eight months, and quite literally five minutes after stepping off the plane, I was bombarded with the questions above. By my mom. Nonna. Aunts and uncles. Friends. Acquaintances. Past coworkers. Doctors. Pastor. Friends of friends. Nearly anyone I encountered who learned or overheard that I lived in Italy. I started to set a metaphorical timer on how long it would take for someone to spring one of these. Sometimes five seconds, sometimes 20 minutes. Always less than an hour.
Yes, I know this isn’t unique to me; it’s a pretty universal experience for all women my age. If it isn’t the “so, do you have a man?” It’s the “when’s the wedding set for?” Or “when are you having kids?” It never ends. But what I find to be different is that all of these people seem to be especially fixated on the notion of “Italian men.” They have some idea that I only went to Italy to find a man, or that I’m only staying because of one. Why are all American women so horny for riding away into a wine-filled, Mediterranean sunset to the sound of “ciao, bella”? Why are Italian men so fetishized abroad? Is it the cheesy portrayals we see in western movies? Is it the fact that they wear linen and not a collar-popped polo? That they drive vespas seemingly perfect for hopping on the back of? Is it the songs about “Love in Portofino” or the romantic tunes of Pavarotti and Bocelli? Is it their accents, that they know how to boil pasta al dente, or that they aren’t afraid to dance? Tell me, dear reader, for you must be reading the Amore all’Italiana column for a reason.
Yes, Italian men are often incredibly good looking. Yes, it’s great that I don’t have to babysit when one goes into the kitchen. And of course, many words and phrases just sound better in Italian (in and out of the bedroom). But, at the same time, many of these men (as with much of Italian politics) still haven’t seemed to grasp the whole women-aren’t-property idea. I’ve been catcalled and inappropriately touched at bars more in Italy than in the states (and I lived in New York City). And I know there’s a cultural context, but I still can’t get over the fact that so many live with their mothers: a 2018 Eurostat report revealed that 72.7% of adult Italian males between the ages of 18 to 34 still live with their mamme (the average age that they move out is 32). There’s even an Italian word specifically for these men, who are emotionally and physically dependent on their matriarchs: mammone. So hot.
Now, I’m not saying I’m against the idea of meeting a nice Italian boy–and trust me, I would do a lot to avoid endless hours at the poste and questura applying for permessi. I’m just saying it hasn’t happened yet. (Or even if it has, it might just be none of your business, person I’ve never met before.)
Instead, I did so many more exciting things this year: I got a master’s degree, a full-time job contract here, and a coveted work visa and permit of stay, as well as visited eight countries and innumerable Italian cities. (Plus, can’t we all stop thinking a woman needs a man to be complete?) I know everyone claims they just want to “live vicariously” through my life in Italy, but don’t put that pressure, those expectations, and these unrealistic and biased standards on me. If you want to come here and live out your wildest fantasies with an Italian man, be my guest. But maybe avoid questioning any young woman you know who is living abroad about the “men over there.” Rather, ask about where she visited and what she did, learned, saw, ate, and drank, and you’ll start to appreciate that what she really fell in love with was the place.
Get your fill of Italian love and lust stories from this column instead.
