10 Reasons You Know You Live With An Italian

As you may have heard, I’m back from Italy but have not completely banished all things Italian from my life. Living with an Italian, I wanted to voice a few things that make me chuckle, that would just not happen if that person wasn’t from outta town.


1) He/she will make you do a double take when they ask:


“What is?”


     and lean in curiously to listen when you explain it’s one of the below:


a) toast and butter


b) poached egg


c) eating a mince pie


2) When he/she informs you that said poached egg in Italian is translated as


‘egg in a white shirt’


3) Making a cup of tea means for most of us, well, making a cup of tea. But for some people it means popping a tea bag into a pan of tepid water and just waiting what happens.


I know.


4) You will learn you can never eat enough Nutella. On, everything that will allow a knife near it.



5) You will learn delightful and moreover, useful new words in Italian, such as:


‘mullet’, (caschetto)


6) London is and will forever be a foreign land, which means that most visits near Camden result in picking up either


a) a laminated picture of a red bus


b) a laminated picture of a red telephone box


c) a laminated picture of the Beatles crossing Abbey Road, you know the one


7) Fish fingers from Iceland are a special treat


8) Having to explain what the word ‘treat’ means


9) Prefers to watch football with a bucket of popcorn rather than a beer


10) Instant coffee is unheard of, the most unheard of, and is cast away from the kitchen faster than you can say when is your Dolmio day?





The (Lack Of) Men In My Life

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.