Monday evening I broke every rule my mother taught me about talking to strangers. Normally, if a man were to stare at me incessantly and eventually approach for a connection, even though I purposefully tried to avoid his gaze, I would simply abandon the area and regard his behavior as a potential danger. However, this particular episode did not end there.
The initial stare by an elderly gentleman enjoying the community of other men along the wall of City hall led to a series of cultural misunderstandings, ranging from nothing less than uncomfortable and memorable, to scary and quite hilarious. This complete stranger approached and then embraced me, and probably did a great job of explaining to me in Italian what his thoughts and intentions were. Unfortunately the plan was completely lost on me, and my tendency to smile when I'm unsure how else to respond was likely an encouragement contrary to the message I might have otherwise conveyed.
He firmly grabbed my hand and led me around town, giving me the feeling that I didn’t have a choice in the matter. Although at home I would certainly have made the choice to leave even if it were not offered, here it somehow seemed simple and safe, albeit confusing.
As I failed completely to ask a sensible question in Italian, I finally caught a word from his steady stream of narration – “gelato” -- a word I know and love! “I love gelato” I tried to explain with broken Italian and hand gestures. We then proceeded to enter several storefronts with my hand firmly grasped in his, asking, I can only guess, if they had gelato. After none was found, I tried to express how truly content I was without gelato, but once again failed to communicate anything but, apparently, absolute commitment to the acquisition of a tasty, cold treat.
Next I knew I was half-pushed into a stone corridor and through a door leading to a large but plain staircase. This is where my sense of safety began to be seriously challenged. I tried to ask “where are we going?” I believe he answered, but I honestly don’t know. For all I know he could have said something quite alarming or crazy like “the morgue of course, my dear” or "the sky in Spain is pink," and I wouldn’t have known the difference!
Fortunately this was not the morgue, but a gentleman’s game club of sorts, where it seems his membership status must have guaranteed him access to a cooler of edible frozen novelties. After a few minutes of awkward silence passed while I used my ice cream bar as an excuse to cease making non-sensical noises, I felt the need to fill the space somehow. I managed to “say” a few things by using Google translator on my tablet and I fumbled with a map to show him that I am from the west coast of America. I explained that I was almost 30, he refused to believe it, and I followed up by trying to communicate that I am married – a fact particularly unsavory to him. Once he adjusted to this concept, I believe his next concern was to ensure that I would not delay any longer in having children.
At this point, I owe Google Translate a letter of gratitude for having provided me with the phrase “Devo andare a cena,” “I have to go to dinner,” a concept which the Italians respect and revere. After a multitude of kisses on my cheeks and hugs from all sides, I managed to sneak away with little more than a few more smiles and a “Ciao!”
Although this experience ended with minimal collateral damage, I might be a little more leery of meeting eyes with the men at the piazza for fear that I could send an unintentional message– or maybe I’ll just learn to speak Italian.
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