In which Maladicta gets all her QOTW answers out of the way in one go.
While I was incarcerated in Pervland (otherwise known as the quaint medieval city of Siena, in Tuscany), I had the misfortune to experience the full brunt of the archetypal Italian stallion. Having only been taught by a guy from Turin before this, who was like the mad old uncle you only see once a year at Christmas (ciao Carmine), and who believed women were sacred (and so referred to us in the polite form "Lei" while being down with the boys and calling them "tu"), I was not prepared for the sheer level of perviness that can be inflicted on a girl for being young, of long hair (foolishly home-streaked with blonde) and generous proportions, and who has English skin and struggles to speak Italian in the correct accent.

This all began after a night on the couchette train from Lausanne to Florence (Che, as much as I'd like to be able to compete with your travels, I cannot), which was the most uncomfortable of my entire life, I arrived in Florence at about 6am, rudely awoken by my passport being thrown at me and a conductor yelling "Firenze! Firenze!" over and over (the train was continuing to Rome).

I grab all my stuff, haul it off the train and, badly in need of a shower and a decent night's sleep, book myself the first available ticket to Siena, about 45 minutes later.

Two hours later, I am on a slow train plodding through Tuscany, a huge wheely case at my feet and a lappy bag in my arms, struggling to remember any kind of Italian beyond the bits from that Python sketch, and trying to stay awake. I am also beginning to think Siena doesn't exist as I have been on this train forever. Very stupidly, I inquire of the man opposite me who is reading La Stampa and is about seventy, how much further it is to Siena. He tells me half an hour, and then engages me in conversation about who I am and where I'm from and where I'm going.

About halfway into this conversation, alarm bells start to ring in my sleepy brain, around the time he asks for my phone number. As luck would have it, he is also heading to Siena for the Saturday football match, and would I care to join him for an aperitivo on Piazza del Campo that evening? Truthfully I say I don't have an Italian phone number, and that my English phone doesn't work in Europe, but this doesn't daunt him. He plods off, and just as the train is slowing for what turns out to be Siena, he returns, clutching a scrap of paper in his wizened paw and telling me to call him that evening. Muttering "si si, grazie tanto," I use all my adrenaline-fuelled strength to pull my stuff off the train (no mean feat; when I flew home eventually I was 50kg over the limit and had to pay €100 for EasyJet to let me on the plane), down the stairs to the underpass all Italian stations have, and up the other side, before throwing his number into the first bin I came to and leaping in a taxi to take me to my halls of residence. I am beginning to hear banjos being plucked.

The story doesn't end there. For the next six months without fail, every Saturday I would be walking the narrow streets of my reluctant hometown (I don't mind admitting I hated the place, and not just because all the shoe shops were too expensive), and would walk past the same old man on his way to see AC Siena playing, and he would mutter something along the lines of "che bomba", before continuing, and every week he would get a look of puzzlement from me, until I realised - too late - who he was.

--

Second story: my halls in Pervland had in-room phones, which took incoming and international calls, and also we were able to dial internally. This was extremely useful to talk to my mum, and for my roommate to do the same, but it was also a pain in the arse. Not long after I moved in, the crank calls started. Some of them were the usual "you ordered a pizza? It's ready..." which appears to be transcendant of all nations, but the others were slightly more worrying.

*pling pling*
Me: (in English) Hello?
Other end: (in Italian) Hello, this is Marco, we met at the party the other night. Did I wake you?
Me: (quickly switching to Italian) No, it's 9.30 and I didn't go to a party the other night.
OE: Are you not Giulia then?
Me: No...
OE: So who are you then? What's your name?
Me: (sarcastic, and following my mum's advice to take the piss, which also applies to flashers) Dave.
OE: No no, what's your name, pretty girl?
Me: Oh, FUCK OFF! *slam*

(repeat x5)

When you don't know where these calls are coming from, and who's making them, it can make you feel like you're in a schlocky horror film about to be chopped to bits. My roommate got a few of them too, and as she used the phone more than I did to call the other girls she was friends with, occasionally she would get them too. As soon as Xenia started answering the phone more - just as I used to answer in English, she would in Greek - the calls got more and more frequent, and it wasn't till one night (at about 3am, not unusual) we realised that as soon as we hung up the phone next door would ring (the walls were that thin), we realised they were scoping the halls for victims. Further investigation with the rest of the Greek girls proved that they were trawling for Greeks to wind up, as they were in fact Albanians, for some political reason I don't quite understand (Frankspencer might know).
( Maladicta, Thu 31 Jan 2008, 21:36, 6 replies)

Oh, Italian Men
When I lived in France, some of our school went on a short trip. The coach to our destination was shared with an Italian school class; to this day I'm not really sure why.

Did I mention it was a boys' school? And the group from our school somehow ended up being all girls?

They spoke no French. I was the only one who could manage Italian. They all tried to get me to interpret their flirting for the girls and my god, how it was pathetic.
(louveciennes , Volvospotter, Thu 31 Jan 2008, 22:54, closed)

It's the persistence that irritates me.
You eventually get used to them being 5 years younger than you, up to 50 years older than you and each all as certain as the next one that they are God's gift to English women... but you never stop wanting to kick them in the nuts for being so infuriating and assuming just because you're English you'll put out!

Parli ancora l'italiano?
( Maladicta, Thu 31 Jan 2008, 22:59, closed)

Albanians...
and Greeks tend not to get along too well. Albanians do all the shit jobs over here and the Greeks blame them for everything from Crime to HIV.
(Boar is dreaming of get rich quick schemes..., Fri 1 Feb 2008, 1:46, closed)

Italian men
I had a similar experience in Catania in Sicily whilst I was there for my 6 months abroad. I was happily crossing the Piazza Duomo to go to my friends house, when a tall man (well tall for a Sicilian anyway) stopped me and asked me for directions.

Him (in English - that's the only problem with being blonde abroad, nobody expects you to speak their language so everyone instantly tries English on you): Could you tell me the way to the station please?
Me: Which station, the bus or train?
Him: Doesn't matter.
Me: ...erm, ok...
Him: You are very beautiful, let's go for a drink
Me: *already scuttling off, blushing furiously*

And then EVERYDAY whilst we were having our granite in the usual cafe at about 5 o clock, he would walk past. The main street in Catania is just one huge long road, Via Etnea, that leads right to the foot of the volcano. And he would walk up and down, up and down, and just look at me. EVERYDAY! I mean, didn't he have a job? Didn't he get bored? We saw him everywhere and he never spoke to me again, he just looked.

/Shudders.
(Lucy Van Pelt embracing ginlovers, Fri 1 Feb 2008, 9:54, closed)

Wow you went to Sicily?
I always wanted to go there while I was out there but I never had the time - a friend of mine had a Sicilian boyfriend and he was a lovely guy (the Sienese are in general very, very rude, especially the women). They don't seem to have much to do over there, though other than leave school at 13 and join the Mafia (or not). Still, it must have been amazing to see it :) although the further south you go, the pervier they get I hear.

I dyed over the blonde streaks within a WEEK of arriving in Siena, simply because I was going to nut the next man to walk past me yelling "che bella!"
( Maladicta, Sat 2 Feb 2008, 11:12, closed)

Sicily
Yeah it was amazing. The food and the weather were just incredible and I went up Mount Etna as well, it was such a good few months. Although, yes, the men are really pervy, and you kind of become public property if they see a blonde northern european woman walking around on her own. I never wore shorts or skirts, no matter how hot it was, I always wore long canvas trousers or maybe a dress in the evenings. The hassle just wasn't worth it!
I would love to go to mainland Italy though, hopefully I'll go there when I've graduate, before I forget all my Italian!
(Lucy Van Pelt embracing ginlovers, Sun 3 Feb 2008, 13:21, closed)