One thing that struck me fairly early on in my life in Italy is the lack of men. Now calm down, not in that way.
Well, maybe a little.
Anyway, what I mean is the lack of brothers, smiley, cheery father and fun friends of the opposite sex. Also intelligent guys to talk to that weren’t always checking on whether I was Eeenglish and not Italiana?
Like most things when you get off your rump in search of adventure and whatnot, you’ve got to make things happen. Well in these early days of November I fear the only men in my world are as follows:
- Twelve year old italian laaaaad that loves to hate me but loves me really
- Old, old pizza man who asks me out for a “little beer and maybe conversation?”
- Street starers
- Nosy, prying waiters of all shapes and sizes and varying levels of personal questions
Then when I started looking in unexpected places:
- Bernini sculptures of men: Rippling, smooth, marble muscles and (silly) curly hair, big smooth hands and…noses
- Wonderfully handsome student who saved my life (more later)
Well there it is for now.
Every cloud (or wispy suggestion of one in Rome) has a silver, perfectly polished lining. You will find you are too busy for anything more remarkable than that at the beginning.