Roma Lone

Battered into a fragile state by my endless duty to correct erratically placed prepositions, the hyper-realism of those who perpetually live in the present tense, and those who play the wondrous 'guess the subject of this sentence' game, I decided I needed a holiday. TEFLin' had worn down my patience and energy levels (How I dealt with this problem is the subject of an upcoming blog entry), so I chose a destination that guaranteed a slow pace, away from parties, and soaked deep in cultural exploration. The Eternal City seemed the ideal choice, but I was determined to evade the crowded tourist traps with their hurried absence of authenticity. In my quest to find the real Italy, I put a detailed plan in motion. Through the subtle and detailed employment of tanning beds, lotions, hair dye, and semi-permanent hair transplants, I succeeded in attaining a more Latin look. Matched with a silky-suave apparel I was able to penetrate the true Italian people and witness them in their natural habitat. They never suspected they were being contaminated by the presence of a tourist, and when the occasion called for it, I was able to convincingly utter some multi-purpose phrases. Careful use of hand gestures sold the lines if there was any doubt. To further support the illusion, and prevent the poisoning experience of awareness of a tourist in their midst, I solicited a young, and very beautiful, Italian woman to cuddle/dry-hump me on a park bench, often for hours at a time. The raw, chaffed condition of my crotch after hours of such activity perfectly complimented the calloused leather that had grown on my well-trodden feet. 

It took but a few touches to create my Italian disguise.

Every morning, I would wake up in my rented apartment and, like a true Italian, proclaim, "Non posso credere che Silvio Berlusconi è ancora in politica." This tradition began about two millennia ago, when Romans grumpily decried the usurpation of the Republic by the Caesars, and proclamations continued during the Middle Ages and Renaissance, as Romans gasped with incredulity at the power the Christian Church had amassed and retained. Morning realisations of the governance of megalomanic dictators were particularly common in the early to mid twentieth century, when Italians groaned at the supreme authority of Benito Mussolini. These traditions can be seen in a watered down form near tourist spots, where actors declare in poor English that they can't believe that they keep supporting shitty leaders. I detest such cheap gimmickry, and I was careful to learn about real Italian customs before setting off to the place where all roads lead. As the saying goes, when in Rome, don't you dare do anything the Romans wouldn't do. It is strictly prohibited to drink a cappuccino after noon or eat a thick-based pizza with a dense layer of toppings or chew pasta that wasn't cooked al dente. Heaven forbid you should ever do these things in your home country, let alone in Italy. Heaven forbid you should ever leave yourself vulnerable to accusations of being an uncouth, ignorant, provincial tourist who (Heaven bless us and save us!) does something he or she likes that causes no harm, but violates the sacred, immutable codes of local custom. If my pleas fail to persuade you, please think of your own well-being. Violating these prescriptions will almost certainly invite the unsolicited counsel of pretentious, 'well-travelled' people, who will inform you of your 'mistake'. You will then have to wince as they pronounce Parmesan and bruschetta 'correctly', in an affected Italian accent. In bad cases, the pretentiousness may ooze into French, where you may be asked to pronounce croissant several times, until you get it 'right'.

I never allowed any of the tourists I met in Italy know I was from an English-speaking culture. They assumed I was a native and saw me as a man who possessed an exotic culture, full of discerning and tradition-proven protocols. My apparel, my hand gestures, and my palette all oozed a formidable sophistication and class. Back home for over a week now, I long for the day I can further scaffold my precious cosmopolitan persona by travelling once again to the Italian peninsula. In the meantime, I have to survive on opportunities to regale people with long, nuanced travel stories, where I demonstrate my expertise of the distinctive and authentic hallmarks of European countries and regions, and implicitly laud myself with mocking stories of ignorant others. As my skin's golden hue fades, returning to it original marble pallor, I lay down a challenge to you fellow travellers: journey as authentically as I did. Will you demarcate yourself as a worldly sophisticate? Will you prove to be an international man, a Renaissance man, a man of taste? Or will you show yourself to be an ignorant, gormless potato man? I leave the choice with you.

Postscript: All this talk about sophisticated, Renaissance men has reminded me of Robert Bolt's A Man for All Seasons. In the  play, Thomas More expresses his disappointment with Richie Rich who had recently become chancellor of Wales:

"Don't you know it profits a man nothing to gain the whole world if he loses his soul in the process? But for Wales? You sold your soul for Wales?"

This is a particularly chilling and tragic line, when you consider how Wales isn't a real country.