Travel, 50+, Italy

Once upon a time, I was reading about the history of tourism. The work announced that the beginning of modern tourism happened around mid- to late 1800s. The first location was Italy (Kingdom of). The first tourists were posh English ladies. Apparently, the ladies had gotten bored with their husbands spending all day every day doing manly things with other men at the gentleman's clubs. Instead of sitting on their hands at home, the ladies opted to travel to Italy, motivated by sun and sex tourism. Ever since those times, the country has grown a fervent fan base and you cannot avoid hearing about how great Italy is and how you just have to go there. With gleam of zealotry in their eyes they say "You have to go!" Were you to ask why, they would say something akin to "Just go!" or "It's the best/greatest/acme..." At some point I just had to pack my bags and go.

Swiftly enough, I came to deduce I had been sold a lemon by a cult of, I don't know, limoncello? Italy delivered me the worst food I have ever tasted, the worst pizza I have ever tasted, the worst service I have ever received, the worst people on any place I have been to... And these were just the first two trips to Italy. There was no way to dodge the question: Is Italy all hype?

While I truly struggled to get on board with Italy, I had a bit of a masochistic streak. A bit like the self-flagellating blond guy in Da Vinci Code, I went back to it like I mean business. On third attempt, Italy started to pay off. It did do dirty on my shirty. I have never elsewhere had my shirt change color to blotty tie-dye brown-orange-yellow with a hint of white it used to be. Only in Rome and Naples the air was polluted enough. Despite this and the filth, the beggars, the pickpockets having a go and the polizia threatening to charge me for asking a question, there were moments that made it feel like there were indeed some pearls to find. However, I did have to add Venice on never again list. I had to add Rome, Naples and Milan to avoid list. Otherwise, things were looking up.

While Milan was the most boring city ever (unless you like shopping, I guess), it turns out Rome is shockingly boring as well. A few key sites and then it's more about you lying to yourself about the city. I will never understand the people who keep returning year after year for decades, foaming at the mouth as they explain they always find something new and unseen. Yet, the place does have a cavalcade of curious characters. I engaged a few of these and surprisingly they were willing to have a chat.

The first one to engage was some African chap from Kenya. He attacked me like I was a jewelry display stand. Tried to choke me with some Africa gear and while I was saving my neck, he slipped a bracelet of sorts on and pulled it so tight my hand was about to turn purple. He proceeded to shove random items towards my pockets and hands and as much as I fought back, some were now my property, apparently. Then came the outstretched arms and a beg. I agreed to give all the coin I had in my left pocket, but he owes me a story first. He went with the well rehearsed sob stories of my mother is sick and I have little daughters. I said: No. Not that one. Eventually, while awkwardly looking for assistance from his fellow forcible sales agents, he submitted to tell a tale of bad unemployment back home, criminals tying him in survival debt and smuggling him up north for "you will be sold in Libya or you go work in Europe". And now he owed them big bucks which kept accumulating. I fulfilled my promise and he ... started begging for more. He was flapping his lips for every sob story under the sun and I had to distract him with other tourists to get away.

The other guy, more eager to share his story, was one of the professional gigolos of Rome. Let's call him brother Mario. I spotted him doing his business earlier and, while his woman was distracted with browsing for items, we made a date for the next day. He had just dropped off the lady, who had promised to send money as soon as she gets home. He had a moment before the next one. So, we sat down and I provided him with something to drink, because I'm a sound c- hap.

I started with the obvious question: How do you do it? Brother Mario explained laughing that the women come there with dreams and fantasies already in their heads. It's easy pickin's. Just spot one who is fresh in town, chat her up and provide her with the fantasy. I asked about the coin and he explained that, yeah, he pays at first. He confidently introduces locations, a few of the famous ones at first so she trusts Mario. Then he just takes her here and there, making things up as long as she eats it up. Just take them to random alleys with good enough buildings, Mario laughed as he waved his arms around. Everything is your story. Then take them to eat in the cheapest possible side street eateries while confirming it's the hush-hush secret location only locals know. Then take her to a few other random streets and keep telling stories and it's all oohs and aahs. Smile a lot, act confident, maybe take her out a couple more times, have a bump at your friend's place. At some point they start giving something back. You spend cents, get a lot of euros. I asked more about the pay and he confessed sometimes they pay, sometimes it's just good time. I asked about the motivations and brother Mario winked with a smirk and then went more serious and said it's hard to find work and you have to make money. There was a little more chat and then Mario had to go get his next lady and sell that holiday romance. I still have more questions, but maybe I'll meet brother Mario again one day. I know where he works.

While it is easy to fly in to any of the key cities, it is better (in my opinion, anyway) to ride the rail or roll the rubber foot once in the country. The only downside with the trains are the beggars who pester some of the routes. It seems to usually be a quick in and out, though, so you can enjoy the ride between stations (which is where they attack you, often with a slip of paper which you can ignore). Driving a car is a whole other experience and the best way to really see something you did not expect to see. Including a young macho ass wipe who gets agitated as they see your French plates. They will try to show off their tuned Fiat whathaveyou with a spoiler and that rally stripe that makes the car go faster. Honking horns, accelerating and breaking to hike the tension, revving the engine like they are the Spanish inquisition on a case, five, ten, fifteen minutes until their ADHD or general boredom takes hold... After which they vanish into the horizon with their pedal to the metal. Or at least this is what happened to me.

Despite going to fun, weird little places as a possibility... Let's face it, you will probably end up in the famous cities, anyway. You can try to escape it, but it's Italy. Chances are you will end up visiting where you "have to" go. Like Verona, the home of Romeo and Juliet and other things. As I pointed out in the previous post, people seem to have a weird obsession of rubbing breasts in public places. The house of Juliet is no exception. Long lines of people blocking everything for everyone and the only thing you get to see is a massive rando rubbing it on, on a pedestal. Poor Juliet. The good news is, however, there is another place related to the story. The tomb of Juliet. Over there, it's all dead and quiet like it's a graveyard. Which it kind of is. It is also an opportunity to learn that by no means the story of R n J is original, per se. A story of the same spirit is announced with a statue of Butterfly Lovers. Right there on the way to Giulietta's tomba. What a tragedy.

Once you're done with Verona, you can go to Ravenna to get enraged at probably the most greedily overpriced UNESCO site. The city is nice though. You may enjoy a public showing of a movie in the middle of the night in Bologna. You may enjoy a riot in front of a post office in some other cities. I had one of these cross my path. On my account, I just wanted a stamp. I checked when the post office near my accommodation opens and arrived there a little after that. Only to find it is closed and I'm not the only one who noticed. Customers keep arriving and situation gets increasingly heated. Finally, some staff arrives and the locals start ripping them a new one. Tails between their legs, the staff slips in. The locals respond with furious banging and items thrown at the door. The post office staff tries to calm them down, which, logically, made them more enraged. Shortly after, the polizia arrives. The staff had called them for protection. With police escort, the staff run off and I got naught but a palm stamp on my forehead.

Sicily is not quite Italy, but it's not quite not Italy either. As you arrive, you know right away you are in for something else. It may be the Godfather Waltz you start hearing while no orchestra appears. It may be the palm trees or perhaps the insane bus drivers who navigate narrow serpentine roads over the hills, three wheels hovering mid air half the time. Maybe it's the Capuchin corpse gallery where no tourist can read the signs saying "Please, respect the dead / do not take photos" or so. It could also be the local kids who come to your (self rolled) smoking travel buddy asking: "Cigarette." When, as an act of good will, offered the tobacco and the rolling papers, they go: "No, no... cigarette." With the emphasis everyone knows means jazz tobacco. Or maybe it's the criminally overcharging market people trying to sell a buffoni stranieri a used hat for its weight in gold. I don't know. It's just different over there. Unfortunately I have to censor the most juicy stories.

The Judgment:
Italy can be divided in three. The Italians themselves may divide it, perhaps, to (and I'm using the clean names here) North, South and Third Italy. The tourists can divide it into "love it eternally", "hate it till I die" or "I will tolerate it". It's noisy, it's chaotic and it's the only place where a waiter has started to cry on me as I refuse to sit on a boiling hot seat in the sun (while all the other seats are in the shade). While the nature varies, eras are well presented, the best gift is it's people. Their stories are presented like they just came out of drama school and many of them have quirky vocabulary, sudden twists and turns that defy sanity and every single story is absolutely, definitely true. Unfortunately, these people also find it very hard to not yell or to overall shut up, so you need an escape plan. Just in case. If they don't quite speak your language and you don't speak theirs, worry not. You can always wave hands around and people will understand. A popular greeting, especially in traffic, seems to be flipping your fingers (back of the palm up) along your neck and then hastily up in the air after the tip of the jaw. A popular greeting sounds something like "What fun coo, lo?" The T is silent. Colorful funny people, full of life. You are likely to get a warm, close experience when you are eating. Especially when you're eating "wrong". Because the tourists always eat wrong in Italy, somehow. And drink the wrong coffee at the wrong time, apparently. That's what I kept hearing from many touristy mouths.

Despite Italy being South and that often oozing affordability, Italy is most definitely not a cheap holiday spot. You can pay yourself silly, if you think that. Or use mafia (which "doesn't exist" if you ask the locals) taxi as one of travel buddies did on his "nightly run". 400€ for a twenty minute ride, alone in the dark with the driver who insists. In Sicily, the place with the reputation. Thrills enough to spill a little, if you know what this refers to.

For me, Italy has settled in the "I will tolerate" sector. For all the bad, I have always gotten something good. The country is like the hot and cold manipulation technique and I'm dumb enough to go back for seconds.

Would I go again? Yes.