Let’s Talk about Stereotypes! – Italian, French, German

Every time I am interested in a guy from a different country, I make sure to read some of the ‘truths’ of dating this specific culture. I type in something like ‘dating a Spanish guy’ and get a variety of articles about how the Spanish are romantic, passionate and should call you often. I must admit, it’s very entertaining, and there is definitely some sense to them.  I live for stereotypes, as I’ve been told countless times… but how true are they? Or is it just easier to make an assumption?

After all, how many ‘do you drink vodka and do gymnastics’ do I get just because I’m a Russian. The best is ‘But you are not BLONDE!?’

So let me break down what I believe are facts and myths of popular stereotypes.

The Italians

Stereotype 1: Italians are whores.

Fact: Obviously there are great guys that are looking for a serious relationship, but to be frank with you, many of them are just not that good looking or confident.  The majority of the good looking guys will never be faithful to you. Even when they’re fifty. Even when they can’t get it up any more. The important part of their southern culture is passion, which is a great thing. The bad part about it is this passion will need to be fueled up every so often, preferably by different women. If you notice a man holding his girlfriend’s hand and eyeing you, he is doing that mostly to feed his own ego and to feel he still ‘has it’ in him. And we wonder why Italian girls are so high maintenance! What would you do if your boyfriend couldn’t be faithful to you for one minute? In the words of Ariana who scored a beautiful ‘Dolce and Gabbana’ lookalike Alessandro “Once a bitch was looking at him. I say ‘Ey,you. Who you looking at, Puta?’ I have to be like that or someone else get him, you know?”

Stereotype 2: Italian men are in love with themselves

Fact: If you’ve ever been to an Italian beach and seen a man spray-tanning himself and then staring at his chest with a mix of awe and love, you will get what I’m talking about. What about the crazy bright colors that the men so enjoy? Pink polos? Green capris? A variety of scarves?Tiny white shorts? Styled hair (that literally waves in the breeze) and plucked eyebrows? In North America, all of the above mean only one thing: you are gay, my friend. (But just for the record, I love it)

Stereotype 3: Italian men are beautiful at seduction

Fact: One thing that I find Italians are wonderful at is getting you into bed effortlessly. How do they manage it? Well, for one, they understand that we girls are starved for attention, passion and spontaneity… especially if residing in countries where men are too scared to make a move and even if they do, it is more robotic than sexy .  On the contrary, Italian men ooze sex appeal, they know how to make you feel like you are the center of the universe, how to create romance and how to convince you that if you don’t have sex with them it will be your loss, not theirs. After all, you will miss out on the night you will never forget. Probably a week of tears as well, especially if you were convinced he really liked you.

The French

Stereotype 1: The French are the best dressers

Myth/Fact: This one really depends. I have dated two French guys who had very little sense of style, but Parisians are a whole different matter. I recently went out with a Parisian who was dressed to the t: stylish jacket, collared shirt, impeccably smelling. As in any culture, it depends on the person, but when they have it, they really have it. Not only that, most French guys will appreciate a woman to be well put together. By that, I don’t mean short dresses that show off your crotch. They appreciate a woman who has an elegant style, good hygiene and classy perfume. Bonus to you if the perfume is French as well!

Stereotype 2: French look down their noses at everyone

Myth/Fact: I was sitting at my friend’s house when his Parisian roomate I just met, decided to share his opinion on people from Montreal. It went along the lines of “Zos people sink zey are French, but zey are NOT! Zey speek sheet language! It is not French! It is like saying Americaines are from England. It is simplee not true!” And this went on for a good half an hour. But again, Parisians are special. We all know that.

Stereotype 3: French men are worldly and well-rounded

Fact: So so so true! One guy I was seeing could start the conversation with politics and end with history. He had an  opinion about everything and always thought hard about any question I asked him, then would come up with a well-detailed and thought out response. But beware ladies.. while it is all very charming and deep at first, it will soon turn into over analyzing and annoying. Such as: Isn’t this skirt a bit too short? Why are you wearing a bikini in your Facebook profile? You seem bored.. You do not like spending your Sunday watching a French theater about restorative justice? (All of the above from a real experience.. within the same day) So while at first this philosophizing is wonderful and is such a great contrast from North American guys, many of whom will quote “the Anchorman” as their source of information… this nagging, obsessing, and overly critical approach to life and to you will soon have you running up the walls or rushing at him with a knife.

 French are great lovers

Double Fact: YES!!!!!!!!!!! Not that I’ve been with the whole of the French population. But two of the best lovers I have ever been with were French so that has to say something. They put so much emphasis on your satisfaction and they will do anything to live up to their reputation. And yes, they are very sexual. Being naked is natural to them. Sex is natural and there is nothing that’s off limits. In the opinion of my past boyfriend – making love or faire l’amour is passion, craziness, wildness, softness, dominating.. while having sex is just ‘useless’. Also, having sex on the first or second date doesn’t label you a ‘slut’ or put a dead end to a relationship like we tend to believe in North America (and in fact, most of the world)

The Germans

Stereotype 1: They are pragmatic

Fact: Instead of providing you with my opinion, I will tell you a true story told to me by my German girlfriend. “On my first date, I was with my then boyfriend cutting up potatoes for the soup. Don’t even ask me why I was cutting up potatoes on the first date. Anyways, I was cutting them perpendicularly, when he stopped me and suggested I cut them the other way. After all that would save time and make them boil quicker, as a result, saving energy. So there you go, Mia, those are Germans for you in a nut-shell. First date: potatoes and saving energy.”

Stereotype 2: They are horrible in bed

Myth: Ok, not a lot of experience. But they are apparently rated number 1 worst in bed because they are ‘too smelly’. From what I’ve seen (or rather smelled), no, they are not. Not bad either. Probably a bit robotic and aggressive. Also they make some strange/interesting sounds…

Stereotype 3: They lack a sense of humor

Myth: No, they’re very funny. Just in a very dry, sarcastic and dark kind of way.  So when they make a joke, sometimes it’s not clear if it actually IS one. It’s like “ha..ha… Is he joking or should I be scared?” But, really, I love their sense of humor because it is so unexpected and because it is that dry. But that’s just me.

In conclusion, I definitely believe in stereotypes. I enjoy them. I laugh about them. I write about them, but I do think that while stereotypes are there for a reason they cannot ever be applied to the whole country. Also, this is a new generation of people which has been raised with internet, Facebook and Hollywood movies, so the whole world has become a bit Americanized.

Still, many men are aware of their cultural stereotypes and try to use it them to their full potential. After all, how many girls go to Paris just to be swept off their feet? And we are still asking why European men love tourists. Because they CAN easily sweep them off their feet using the cliched phrases (amour, bella.. lieben?), postcard locations (Eiffel tower, Colosseum.. the Berlin Wall?) and their ‘sexy’ accent (German? ya?) to finalize the deal.

PS. All these observations are generalizations. I am aware that there are faithful Italians, stupid French people and passionate Germans.. so do not take this too literally.

Real Life Stereotypes

1. How you going, mate?

It’s one thing to call your guy friends mate. That means man, amigo, dude, tio in Aussie-speak. But calling a girl mate, especially when you are trying to hit it off with her is just weird.  This summer I met an Aussie guy who kept on calling me mate. Like “how you goin’ mate? Whatcha doin’ mate?” Do I look like your rugby playing friend? I kept on emphasizing. “I have boobs!”  but he didn’t seem to get the point. When he made a move on me, I figured OK, he should be smart enough to stop with the whole mate nonsense. Guess what? Even after we shared a  romantic kiss on the beach, he would still refer to me as mate. “You taste like saltwater, mate” he would quirp in that annoying Aussie voice of his. And the funniest thing? He thought that his obnoxiousness was somehow attractive to me. To his surprise, we never ‘hooked up’ and I ended up meeting a French guy who never in his right mind would call me something as asexual as mate.

2.   Going Dutch

I am assuming the term “going dutch” came from Holland. For those who don’t know, it is paying for your own share of food or drinks and personally the idea is repulsive to me. I would rather offer to pay for the guy than split my own side of the bill. In reality though, I am old-fashioned and truly believe the man needs to pay, at least for the first year or so. And after, just emotionally.

Last summer I met a Dutch guy who was great –  smart, funny and cute. I had a thing for him and he seemed to really like me. At least he was so nervous around me, I assumed he did.  He wanted to prove he was somewhat of a gentleman so he could ‘score’ so he asked me if I wanted a drink. I don’t think he thought I would say yes, but I did.   I could practically see the wheels turning in his head as he debated whether or not it would be worth it to get me a drink.  Would we have to pay two point five euros each? How would we make it work? It took him about forty minutes as we went from bar to bar, to finally find a cheaper place and scrape enough cash to treat me. When he did, he felt as proud as if he presented me with a bottle of Dom Perignon. He never did score, so maybe I should mail him a check for my part.

3.  I am from Roma!

Seriously, Italian men just love the fact that they are from Italy. So much so that they call all their cities by their Italian names. “I am from Firenze! I am from Milano! I am from Roma!” Possibly it’s because they cannot speak any English, but most probably it is because they have to play their role of the Italian stallion, the passionate seducer. Think about it – have you ever heard a French guy say he is from Pari? Or a Russian one that he is from Moskva? Italian men are so full of it, I can write a novel on it. The best is when they pause significantly before saying they are from… (insert drum) ITALY! The land of love and seduction. One guy actually presented me with this line after kissing me. “I am leaving for Roma (!!) in one hour. But if we go to the beach right now, I can be your man for this whole hour!” To which I replied “I cannot believe my luck! What did I do to deserve this?” to which he of course replied “What?”

4.  French – the greatest lovers?

Ok, so the first time I kissed a French guy was actually this New Years, so I wouldn’t say I have years of expertise here. However, he was one of the most amazing kisses I have ever experienced. Slow, sensual, made me feel crazy tingles. So, after this I thought “Wow, are all French men like this?” No, they are definitely not. But I gotta say, they are damn sensual and pay a lot of attention to you. The last French guy I was with was a terrible kisser. He was more like a pecker. I felt like I was kissing a relative. However, he was one of the best “lovers” I have ever had (though I’m surprised I even got there with all that pecking). Once again, sensuous and slow and made me feel like I was the center of the world. After which I never heard from him again.

5.  Begging Brazilians

Whoever said that the Brazilians are the best ‘in the sack’? I wouldn’t know, because I never got there. Reason why? They are so damn horny and so bad at hiding it that it can get pretty repulsive. A few years back I went out with a Brazilian guy I kind of liked. I loved our kiss on the first date. He seemed classy. By the second date, his hand was almost in my underwear. I told him no. But why? He asked. It is nice weather. I like you. This is nice. When that beautifully expressed proposal didn’t get the response he desired, he still tried over and over. Maybe I should have  been more firm, which I am bad at, but at one point he started saying ‘please!’ ‘come on!’ ‘ the sky is beautiful. You are.. pretty!’ And then he almost took his pants off. In the end, I never found out how amazing he was in the sack, but he would make a hell of a beggar.

6.  Lying Latinos

Oh the things that Latin guys will say to you to get you in bed! But a lot of us have a soft spot for Latin guys. They are supposed to be the romantics, the lovers, the passionate seducers. Great husbands though? A few weeks ago I went to a Latin Festival, where I ran into a Colombian guy who asked me for my number about a month prior to that, before I left for vacation. He recognized me and asked why I didn’t answer his calls. Distracted,  I kept on looking at the little girl on his arm. His sister, maybe? Then, a short Latin woman joined him with another little kid. My daughters, he mumbled before I smiled to the family and politely excused myself. But clearly I haven’t had my share of Latinos yet, as I met another guy at the same festival. He was cute, tall, Chilean and we had a great spark. He eagerly asked for my number, told me he wanted to see me that week and I was convinced he was very interested. Next day, I found him on Facebook. Not just him, but a woman who was kissing him on his profile picture. Wearing WHITE. And he had a separate album for his DAUGHTER. Yep, two lying Latinos in one day. How is that for a Monday?

 7.  Simple Brit Lads

I love generalizing, really, because obviously there are British guys that are definitely full of it, cocky, arrogant pricks. However, what I have noticed is that British boys have one great quality – they are simple and straight to the point. Many women are simply not attracted to the Brits because they lack that passion and fire that more Southern men tend to play on. However, though dry and seemingly less romantic, they are honest. At least the guys that I’ve met. They will not try to use cheesy lines or lame, overused names like ‘bella’ or ‘hermosa’ that are as a rule tried on every single girl. Or even man (bello). They will say it as it is, but in the end, when they tell you they love you, they will mean it more than the men who use a lot of flowery language to get you into bed.

I have had a little fling with one English lad and up until this day, he still writes to me and asks how I am doing. Meanwhile I have not received even one message from the passionate Latin and Italian men who threw a lot of words around. So, don’t underestimate the power of the Brits. They did make the history!

8.  Oh Canada!

Oh, Canadian boys. I will be very mean and say that I have not once met a Canadian boy I really wanted to date. Many are cute, many are smart and even funny, but for me personally, something is missing. While there are exceptions to any rule, most have no depth, no charm, no culture. I cannot begin to describe how many times I have cringed at their responses. “Cool”, “awesome”, “nice, nice”.. How can everything be cool or awesome? Seriously?

Please prove me otherwise. I have lived in Canada all of my adult life and have yet to find someone who isn’t arrogant, doesn’t have ADD (because he cannot make conversation), doesn’t say the most typical things in the world and has some class or charm. You know where to find me.

9.  A Wife for an Eastern European

Eastern European men are spoiled. At least the ones that reside in Eastern Europe. Russia, Croatia, Serbia, Ukraine are full, and I mean full of gorgeous, model-like, skinny, perfectly dressed and feminine women. And since there are more women than men, guess what? Men can expect anything and get it. The man looks for a woman who can cook, clean, and manage to stay beautiful.

This I experienced first-hand with my first serious Russian boyfriend, who used to complain I didn’t help him clean his floors. I would see him maybe twice a week and he would ask me why I never helped him clean. “Because this is your house?” I would reply. Had I been in Russia, I probably would have gone into the bathroom to start soaking the sheets in detergent.

I guess this is why so many men prefer Eastern European and Asian women. They turn around and BOOM, their socks are clean.

10.     Are Germans Cheap?

Yes. And yes. I have many, many stories about the generosity of Germans, but one of them is really quick and special! It isn’t about me, but a friend of mine who was going out with a German guy for four years. After they broke up, she received an envelope with a letter inside. “Hmm” she thought “Maybe he wrote me a romantic letter about his feelings or a note to say bye.” Instead what she found was a bill for every single thing he has ever bought for her. She would have to pay it all back. How is that for romantic?

* Just as a side note, these are all generalizations or notes from my own experience. If you believe that Canadians are super charming and classy or the Dutch are the most generous men in the World, feel free to share!

A player or a romantic? – Part 1: Rome (2011)

I fell for this guy because I thought he was bad. A player. Instead, what I found out is that looks can truly be deceiving.

He was beautiful. I noticed him our first night in the restaurant while my American friend Pamela and I were eating dinner. I was travelling through Europe for two months and Italy was our third country. After Rome, we would take an overnight ferry that would bring us to Croatia.

Though the main reason for my trip was of course my love for travelling and adventure, I also wanted to take this time to figure out if I really wanted to stay with Dominick. Yes, the guy I already cheated on at the beginning of our relationship (see Non Parle Americano). It has been eight months since we’ve been together and even though he looked perfect on paper, not to mention, loved by my whole family, I didn’t love him. The first time he told me he loved me, I remember I said something along the lines of ‘wow. How incredible’ and the next time I randomly blurted out me too. Not ‘I love you too’. No, me too. I said it out of nowhere. I just couldn’t bring myself to say the word love to him, because these words were a blatant lie.

At the bottom of my heart, leaving for Europe signified the end of us. I selfishly made him wait for me as I went to explore what I really wanted. And I knew that what I wanted was someone else.

However, all I really met were a lot of players, shallow guys and men that were really not worth it. Should I stay with Dominick by default? Just because I couldn’t find any better?

We arrived at the campsite late at night. Looking around the beautiful grounds I felt uplifted: there was a giant pool, beautiful flowers, palm trees and an open air restaurant with live music. It was an incredibly romantic place, however, it seemed that the only people vacationing there were families. Now, eating dinner, I turned my head to the right only to see the most beautiful profile of a guy. He was tanned, with gorgeous almond shaped chocolate eyes and full sensual lips. He was sitting at the table with two dark guys and a blonde girl, serious and oblivious to my stares.

The most remembered meal from the trip. The beef carpaccio was amazing

He disappeared after dinner and I figured I wouldn’t see him again. Pamela, who was very outgoing and a little bit intimidating for some guys because she was quite masculine and dominating, somehow managed to meet a cute Colombian called Jose. While Jose and her were hitting it off, I sat near his unibrowed friend Antony and sulked.

“Can we maybe look for something in the city tomorrow?” I asked selfishly. She was in seventh heaven after meeting Jose, but I only cared about myself. I knew I would have to spend my evenings watching their romance, while nothing would happen for me unless I wanted to give it a go with his unibrow friend.

The next day we spent exploring the extremely hot and tiring city of Rome, which is made especially annoying in August as it is swamped by tourists. I swear you cannot even see the Trevi Fountain behind all the Asians with their huge, expensive cameras. As soon as we got back we headed to the pool to wash off the sticky sweat from the city. I was sitting on the lounge chair when I saw him enter. He looked just as beautiful as I remembered: tall, bronze, his face now unshaven. I watched him swim laps in the pool all the while sighing like a fifteen year old.

Our pool

“He’s so my type! What do I do?”

Pame shrugged. “Just wait until the evening, when everyone starts drinking. It will be easier than in the daylight.”

She was right. I had to talk to him. I just didn’t know if I had enough guts to make the first move.

He got out of the water and sat on the chair, smoking with a vacant look in his liquid brown eyes. He didn’t even notice me as I stuck out my butt and strutted in front of him.

I saw him again in the evening. He was standing near the piano, listening to one of the musicians play and singing along in Portuguese. He looked like a Brazilian model: broad-shouldered, gorgeous and tanned in his white shirt and faded jeans. I breathed a sigh of nervousness. Oh my God. He is the man of my dreams. 

Colombian Jose and Unibrow Antony suggested getting some drinks at the Beer Garden where the Brazillian band was playing. I happily agreed. Can we sit on the benches here? Near him?

I stared at his broad back, until I must have shot holes through him with my deadly stare, because he turned around and gave me a glance. The glance, however, was completely neutral. That didn’t mean I was giving up. Any time I want to draw a guy’s attention, I always go to my Plan B: dancing. Practically forcing Jose and Pame on the dance floor, I danced nervously right in front of his eyes. When I got enough courage, I finally looked at his expression. Once again, he looked blank and serious. Seriously, what is up with this guy? I thought. Cursing everything under my breath and feeling completely invisible, I left the dance floor and went to go check the internet. Clearly, he’s seen his share of beautiful women. Why would he go for some girl in a yellow dress?

the Beer Garden

When I came back I noticed that the boy and one of his friends stayed alone and have now moved to a table far across from us. In the middle there was another table with a few people playing cards. I threw awkward gazes at him, until Jose looked  at me.

“You like the guy in the white?” He asked with a wide grin.

“No. Yes.” I mumbled.

“Then you should do something.” He offered.

“I am not doing anything. I don’t know if he’s interested. I mean, he is kind of looking at me. Oh my God.” I breathed, seeing him get up from his table. “Is he coming over?”

The beautiful boy and his friend took their beers and walked towards us. This is it, I thought. However, my heart literally dropped when he moved to the table in between. Namely, right near a blonde girl.

Yep, it wasn’t me he was checking out.

“So are you going to talk to him?” asked Jose.

“Just stop. Please. He’s not interested.” I muttered. He was starting to piss me off and in all honesty I just felt pathetic. I spent half my night staring at a guy who wasn’t interested in me after all. Could I be any more of a loser?

Suddenly, another thought came into my mind. I was on vacation. What did I have to lose? Sure, he looked like a player. Sure, he was beautiful. But how could I be positive about anything unless I talked to him? Otherwise, I would spend the rest of my night staring at Pamela sticking her tongue down Jose’s mouth and thinking What if.

“Give me some wine, please” I ordered Pamela. Taking the plastic cup with my shaking hands, I stood up. “I am going to talk to him.”

Thank you, wine in a paper cup

“Wow” grinned Pamela. “I am really proud of you. Do it.”

Nervous as hell, I walked up to their table. “Can I join the game?” I asked to no one in particular. His dark friend looked up.

“Yes, of course” He said in his bad English. I awkwardly seated myself on his right. The beautiful boy was in front of me, but I couldn’t bring myself to look at him. I did get a glance at the girl. She was not pretty. Not only that, she had a really hippy looking bearded man for a boyfriend. Wow, how deceiving it can be when you judge a situation from a distance. Namely, from someone’s back!

I continued talking to his friend(who turned out to be his cousin)for some time. Then I finally found the guts to turn my head and look at my boy. He smiled at me. I smiled back and talked very fast as I always do when I am nervous.

His name was Luiz and he was from Portugal, though as I assumed correctly, he was part Brazilian. And the strangest thing? Luiz was nice. He looked like a very successful and gorgeous player, but he wasn’t. Or at least he didn’t seem like one. His English wasn’t great, but at this point, what did I care? I was actually talking to him. And he wasn’t someone I thought he was. In a good way.

And he was twenty-three. I was officially becoming a cradle robber.

Behind him, Jose and Pamela held thumbs up. That is before, they stuck their tongues down each other’s mouths for about an hour and disappeared.

I spent some time talking to Luiz, until I figured I should try to get him away from the crowd. Subtly!

“ I should go back to bed.” I said. Luiz, not getting the hint, grew visibly disappointed.

“Would you like to walk me back?” I offered not so subtly.

He nodded happily. We started walking to the cabin, when he asked me if I wanted to take a walk around the park.

The walking turned into sitting and sitting turned into lying as he spread out his sleeping bag on the ground. It was a freezing night, so he gave me his sweatshirt and kept on covering me up every second to make sure I was warm. We kissed and talked. Kissed and talked again. This went on for hours. He would sweep the hair from my eyes and run his hands over my face.

“I really like kissing you.” He told me. Was he just saying that to get me into bed? Looking at him and his sexy eyes, it was hard to imagine him as anything other than a player, but the gentle way he was with me proved otherwise. Granted, he did press me down and try to take it further. Even though I wanted him, I stopped it at kissing. Luiz seemed both innocent and impish at the same time. I didn’t know which side was true. But he was definitely one – a romantic.

He walked me back to the cabin, a sleeping bag on his shoulders and I kissed him goodnight, standing on my tiptoes.

“Goodnight Mia” he smiled softly. I ran into the cabin like a little girl.  I fell asleep exhilarated  No thought about Dominick even crossed my mind.

The next day was our final one in Rome and coincidentally, his final one  as well. Distracted, in the ruins of the Coliseum, all I could think about was seeing Luiz again. After all, this was it.

When we came back, I was extremely nervous.

“Don’t build yourself up” told me Pamela as we sat in the restaurant, waiting for our order. She has recounted her amazing sex with Jose, how it went on for the longest time and what a big dingaling he had. However, what threw her was that he never even asked her for her contact information. She didn’t understand it.

“I mean, he could meet another girl or maybe you won’t like him. Who knows?” she shrugged. “Just relax and see what happens.”

Thanks, I wanted to say, that is a really uplifting speech. However, I felt like I knew Luiz. He wouldn’t do this to me. He was a genuinely sweet guy.

When he entered the restaurant, my heart began palpitating again. He was just so incredibly gorgeous. I was unsure if he saw me, because he looked so serious. He didn’t smile or wave at me. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him as I ate the pasta. He was wearing a hoodie and jeans, his beautiful dark eyes concentrated on something.

Later on, when I was almost close to freaking out, we finally saw each other in the lobby. He smiled to me and kissed me on the cheek.

“Do you girls want to join us for drink?” He asked.

We sat with his cousins as Pamela told one story after another. To me, it felt like I was in English for Beginner’s Class. Pamela, who is a teacher like me, knew how to tell a story not only well but clearly. The Portuguese found everything hilarious and laughed in unison.

Pamela fell in love with Luiz. “If you don’t sleep with him, I swear I will” she told me in the bathroom. “He’s just adorable.”

“Ok, Pame.. Just so you don’t get him first!” I laughed.

Luiz held my hand under the table as everyone talked in their broken English and shared stories about America and Portugal. I felt like I was in high school. Soon, everyone left and so did Pame. She looked upset because Jose was gone and she would have to spend the night by herself. It didn’t help that I was with Luiz now.

Our first sex wasn’t incredible. To tell the truth, it wasn’t even good. He was nervous. We were both awkward. It was in an empty room in the cabin, but instead of regular beds, there were bunk beds.. so at one point I hit my head on the bottom of the other bed. And he came too early. As he lay near me I could feel his dissapointment.

“You hated that, yes?” he finally said, his voice like a little boy’s.

“I didn’t hate that!” I said, half lying. I didn’t hate it, because it was with him. I liked him. The sex? I wasn’t so certain.

“You are lying” he concluded and crossed his arms like a stubborn child. I found this ridiculously endearing and kissed him.

“You know” He added.  “I would like to take you out. We could listen to some piano or go to a restaurant. I wish we don’t go tomorrow.”

“I wish we didn’t go tomorrow as well” I sighed.

“I really like you, you know?” He turned to me. “I am not saying it because I had sex. It’s more for me. I do not want us to forget each, Mia”

“We won’t forget each other. I like you too” I said.

“Good. Because I really like spending, time with you. I never pay attention to girls, unless they have something special. When you started to talk I didn’t.. could not stop listening to you.”

“You mean when I babbled on and on?”

“When you what?” he turned to me, his big eyes confused.

“Nevermind. When I talked a lot, I mean”

“Yes, you talked a lot. But I liked” he smiled. “Can I ask you one question?”

I nodded.

“Can I spend night with you? It’s cold in tent and I like having you near.”

Not us, but how it felt

“Of course!” I exclaimed. The bed was narrow and I was stuck to the wall. We would have to sleep in an embrace the whole night, but I wanted to sleep close to him. He felt so dear to me in such a quick time. A boy who was beautiful and who looked like a player, but who had such a great and pure heart. I didn’t want to leave him. I breathed in his scent and felt his warm breath against me as I dozed off.

I dreamed of him that night. I would wake up and look at his perfect face and feel both happy and sad. Happy because he was just so damn beautiful and I had him near me. Sad because, well, I wouldn’t have him near me for much longer. He lay there, dark against the white of the pillow. I wanted to take a picture of him. Not to be creepy, or anything. I felt pretty proud of myself as well, I must say. Inwardly, I gave myself a round of applause.

The next morning was difficult and awkward. We kissed each other goodbye and he left. He came in again when I was talking to Pamela. I felt his scent even before seeing him.

“I wanted to say bye to both of you again” he awkwardly shuffled in the doorway.

I was awkward also, mostly because I looked ghastly without any makeup, my hair all disheveled and I didn’t want him to remember me like that. I kissed him goodbye and that was that.

Pame and I took a ferry to Croatia, where we stayed on the coast. It was an incredible place only made miserable by the fact that I missed him so much. I added him to Facebook, but he never wrote me an email. Instead I would skim through Dominick’s letters, annoyed that it was him and not Luiz who emailed me. There was an island we went to, called Hvar, full of beautiful tanned people. I kissed a Spanish guy, rather got licked by him, to better describe it. Apart from that, I once again missed my Luiz. He wasn’t just beautiful, he had a good heart. Most of these guys were arrogant, shallow assholes. And they weren’t anywhere as gorgeous as him.

Hvar Island

Finally, Luiz began writing to me and we established contact. I laughed and made annoying ‘aww’  noises as I read his hilarious emails. He was just so adorable! I was probably the most irritating person to be around made only tolerable by the fact that Pamela really liked Luiz.

When I was in Budapest, I was on the computer one day and started to talk to him. Our conversation centered on how much we wanted to see each other until I suggested he visit me at my last stop – Berlin. He invited me to Portugal first, however, as much as I wanted to I coudn’t risk being exposed and hurting Dominick.

Please, please come to Berlin! I really want to see you! I begged, thinking he was going to say no. He had to start work after all.

He got back to me that night. Yes, he would come.

But I love you (2012)

A hilarious story of being chased down by an Italian guy in the middle of the night as he professed his love for me. Ah, Italian men.  It is a must try speciality on your next trip to Italy, followed by an aperitivo and tartuffo gelato.

Having heard amazing things about Sorrento, located in the Amalfi Coast of Italy, from my friend who met a beautiful Italian and had sex with him on a beach (followed by no more romance, clearly) I was interested to see what this place would be like. It is swamped by men, narrated my friend, her eyes lit up. You have to go there!

beautiful Amalfi coast

She was right about one thing, it was filled with beautiful men. Bronzed, toned and practically smelling of scooters and sex, they were everywhere. I even made it a game for myself to see how many guys I could consider sleeping with. The list made it pretty far before I gave up counting and considered myself a slut.

That night though, I didn’t meet anyone and was tired of sitting in touristy bars, scoping out guys, so I followed the girls from my hostel home.

Suddenly, I heard someone speaking in Italian behind me. I turned around. There was this pretty blond boy with light blue eyes and sculpted lips, a helmet in his hands, following me.

“Baciami!” He pointed at his cheek, clearly wanting me to kiss him.

“Vaffanculo!”  I gestured, happy I got a chance to use one of my favorite and perfected Italian phrases. Learning Italian has finally paid off.

The boy seemed to get the hint somewhat and disappeared. Minutes later, however, he reappeared right behind me.

“Catso!” I exclaimed with my swear number two, though a part of me was strangely flattered. He was quite beautiful. Tall, tanned, sporting a light pink polo shirt and jeans. I knew there was only one reason he must have followed me this far and it wasn’t because he wanted to get to know me.

“What is your name?” he asked, coming up.

“What is yours?” I asked.

“I am Gabrielle”

“Mia”

“I can walk with you, Mia?” It wasn’t really a question. Rather a matter of fact.

“You look like you are too young for me” I told him, looking him over. He looked to be about twenty-three.

“I am not too young” he said.

“Just how young are you?” I pressed, not really wanting to know anyways. It was clear he was too young.

“I am twenty-one” he said. “Actually, I joke. I am twenty-four. Does it matter?”

“Yes, I am twenty-seven. You are too young either way.” I said and continued walking.

He ran up to me and grabbed my hand. “Come with me.” The girls continued walking in front of us.

“I am not going anywhere with you.” I said, trying to break my hand free. At the same time, a little intrigued and curious as usual, I thought why not? I might have a chance to write about him later in my blog.

Suddenly, he took my face and turned it to his. He kissed me so quickly, I didn’t even have a chance to react. But once he did kiss me, I pushed him away. “What are you doing?”

“ I like you” He said. “You are very beautiful.”

“You do not even know me!” I exclaimed with a half laugh. “What is my name?”

“Uh.. Maria?”

“There you go. You don’t even know my name. How can you ‘like me’?”

“Mia. Your name Mia. I remember names.” He smiled impishly.

I sighed. “Ok, nice to meet you. Now I’m going to go.”

“Where you go? I go with you.”

“You are not going to my hotel. My friends are waiting for me.” I pointed at the bored Australian girls who were standing a few meters away, talking and looking back every so often.

“It’s ok” he said. “Come!” he led me to a side street. I tried fighting him off, but it was quite useless. Probably because I didn’t really fight him off, rather pretended to.

Un baccio per favore!

There, in that side street, he took my face in his hands and began kissing me again, eagerly.

“Why you are not relaxed?” he asked. “Try to relax when I kiss you.”

“I am not relaxed, because I don’t want to kiss you!” I said. This was incredible – now I wasn’t relaxed when kissing him. The guy that literally forced himself on me.

“I help you find your hotel” He said.

“No”

“Si, we go together.” He stated as if I had no other choice. “I know everything in Sorrento.”

“You are not helping me find my hotel. I don’t even know you.”

“You do. I am Gabrielle. You are Mia”

I sighed loudly, exasperated. “My friends are waiting for me!”

“Is ok. They know where the hotel is, yes?”

Giving up and also finding this quite hilarious, I followed his lead. We walked around the dark streets speaking a mixture of bad English on his part and bad Italian on my part. Every so often, he would stop and say “Uf, I need a break.” Then he would press me to him and begin kissing me. At first I kept on pushing him away, but as the kissing continued, I finally gave in and began to enjoy myself a bit. He was a kid but a very beautiful and Italian kid and what better way to enjoy Italy then through a genuine Italian experience?

Just like that

Finally, through all the walking and getting lost, my relationship with Gabrielle escalated so much and so rapidly that he looked into my eyes after kissing me and said the three words every girl wants to hear.

“Ti amo”

I burst out laughing. “You do not love me! What is it with you Italian men?”

“But I do. I love you.”

“You don’t know me!I just met you twenty minutes ago. You don’t even know what I do!”

“What do you do, Mia?”

“I am a teacher. And you?”

“I am studying to be chiropractor.” He answered. Having gotten that out of the way he pulled me into him again. “Kiss me”

There it was. Our first real relationship talk. Now we knew each other inside and out.

The next time we got lost, I figured he must be doing this on purpose.

“You better help me find the hotel.”

“Why are you in hurry?” He asked.

“I am tired, that’s why.”

“Why you are tired. Is early.”

“It is 4 am.”

“Early! Kiss me!” he pressed his eager lips into mine.

I sighed. There was no way out of this. He pressed me towards the fence and kissed me. He also pressed his erection towards my pelvis and I figured this time he wanted more than kissing. I guessed I was right when I heard unzipping.

This is when I squirmed out of his passionate embrace and practically ran down the hill. He ran after me.

“Mia, I am sorry.  Mia, wait!”

“I am not having sex with you.”

“No sex, just kissing. I love you.”

“Stop saying you love me already!” I exclaimed. He was being ridiculous. “All you Italian men are the same.”

“I am good boy. What are you saying?” He smiled impishly.

We walked around for a few more  minutes, until finally I located the road my hotel was on and skipped towards it happily with him following behind grouchily.

Entrance to the hotel

Knowing this was it, the end of our quick romance, he pressed me towards yet another fence and once again, I felt his hardness on me.

“Gabrielle” I said, once I finally had a chance to breathe. “ I am not having sex with you.”

“But you are twenty-seven. You are virgin?” he cocked his head to the side, genuinely confused.

“That’s not your business. But either way, I don’t go to Italy to have sex with all Italian boys” I exclaimed.

“But I love you.” He continued.

Exasperated I broke out of his embrace and walked towards the hotel. “Goodnight Gabrielle!”

Standing there, dejected he looked towards me as I walked through the door. “Ciao”

And the strange thing is, he must have loved me so much, his heart probably broke from sadness, because I never saw him again.

Men in Rome (2012)

I’m going to Italy in two weeks and have decided to try CouchSurfing in Rome. For those of you who don’t know what CS is: basically you stay for free at someone’s house and they even take the time to show you around. The idea seems very strange to some people, but no, you do not have to host that person afterwards, and yes, it is safe. However, if a girl decides to stay over at a guy’s place, well, she should know what she might possibly be getting into. Even though, unless she wants to, technically sex is out of the question.

I’ve only done CS once, where I stayed with a guy but there is no way I would stay at a guy’s place in Rome. Really, that’s just asking for it! The thing is that while Italian men eagerly participate in CouchSurfing community, I think they have a pretty different notion of what it is supposed to be. “Oh, I heard. Is free dating website? Yes? But is better, because she is foreigner (meaning easy!), she stay at your house and then you never see her. I like very much. I sign up.”  Though he might try to make it romantic and show you Piazza Navona or the Coliseum before he gets down to ‘seducing you’.

Anyways, I posted my request to the only girl I could find in the whole city. She never replied. Instead, what I received were countless (over seventy! I’m not kidding) messages from men aged 18-50 providing me with multiple services and tours, all of which, I assume revolve around the bedroom/bathroom area.

Here are my chosen favorites:

Ciao Mia,

I saw your profile in CS and i’ve been fascinated by you, your body and your head.

If you are not able to find out something good for sleeping, don’t be shy and call me. If otherwise you succeed in finding out a good place to stay, call me to have a drink. I can show you some part of Rome out-of-commercial.

CiaO! Antonio

I didn’t know I had a fascinating head!

Ciao Mia, I Read your couch request, and you’re an interesting girl! as long as you like partying, talking and share experiences you’re more than welcome 🙂 about me, I have a clothes shop in the center of rome, so i know my city quite well so, i think I have a couch for you, i just have to check if my family is going to be in Rome, if not my house is your house!

Ciao, Marco

Ok, the clothing shop was a little difficult to pass up I must admit.

Hello I would like to  host you in my little house, after the fishing and cooking, the theater and ‘my favorite hobby ..

Which is…? Seriously, what is it?

Ciao Mia!

Welcome to ROME….welcome to eternal city…ROMA….!!!In any case if you need you need advice or a guide for visit the City (magic place), or to eat an ice cream special, or make a good aperitif-dinner, or eat the original Neapolitan pizza, or a night out for dancing(salsa, bachata, tango argentino, samba, lindy hop, disco music) or a drink, i’m available to accompany you and show you the city (Special places no tourist)….or anything else you should need not hesitate to call me …!! 🙂 Christiano

Only Italians can suggest such a grand tour. An American would probably go with   ‘and then we’ll hang out or grab some beer’

One Italian guy’s interest was actually sex. But at least he’s honest about it.

The point is, Italian men really know how to seduce a woman with wine, sightseeing, scooters and clothing.. too bad this only lasts until the first night!

Mistake # 3: Non Parle Americano (2011)

How are Italian men so good at getting you into bed and making you regret you got into it?

Being almost single, I joined my brother Alex and his twenty year old Sicilian/Canadian girlfriend Sandra on their romantic trip to the Dominican Republic, made less romantic by me tagging along everywhere and whining about my lack of love life.  Even though my brother and I were super close and shared all our ideas and even dating stories, I still couldn’t help but feel a little bit like a loner third-wheel on their ‘honeymoon’.

I was to be twenty-six within a couple of weeks and my life was in severe need of adventure and passion. Spending all my days teaching in a private school and coming home when it was already dark just added to my misery. To top it off, I started seeing this guy I met on a dating website. Dominick was a New Zealander who spent most of his life in Australia and has only just recently moved to Canada, where he was more miserable than me as he had never experienced any temperature below zero.

“Ahe these trees pehmanently dead?” he would ask me in a hybrid of Kiwi/Aussie accent and I would laugh. He pronounced dead like deed. And bear like beer.

He was a wonderful guy. Not bad on the eyes either. He was generous and kind, smart and successful. And I, for the life of me couldn’t understand why I felt absolutely nothing towards him. He seemed perfect. I could keep on listing his attributes forever. However, the prospect of dating him did nothing to lift my spirits up. If anything, it made me more depressed. Was I dating him because he looked perfect on paper? Because I was scared I would never fall in love? Or because I was lonely?

New Years

This trip was meant to be a little getaway, before the rest of my cold and monotone life would envelop me once more. I planned to spend it in total relaxation. However, I became very antsy when the first few days were fully uneventful. There was nothing to do, not too many interesting people to meet and most unfortunately, no cute guys besides the typical douchey baseball hat wearing and peacock strutting Canadians. They all looked the same and sounded the same. No matter how bored or desperate I was for some passion, I could not for the life of me lower myself to have a fling with one of these typical macho men. So I would keep up my boring routine of going to the beach, waiting in anticipation until it was time to eat, drink some more Mojitos and eat again. All the while I felt restless. Had I paid all this money just to lie around like a beached whale?

You see what I mean?

The next day after New Year’s has passed and by the time I gave up looking and actually started enjoying my vacation, I finally saw a guy. I was waiting near the reception with Alex, dripping water on the marble floor after my swim. The guy was standing in front of us, angrily cursing the wait up in another language. He was dirty blond with light blue eyes and a sporty build. I gazed at his passport – red. He must be German, I figured.

After we left the reception, I was set on seeing the cute guy again. Sure we had only two days left, but there was finally something for me to look forwards to, besides the seafood buffet, and I would go after it. That evening, I saw him enter the restaurant by himself and observed him from afar like a spy. I reasoned he was by himself and who goes alone unless they are single and looking?

That night I was on a prowl. I generally prefer to be the one who gets prowled really, but I didn’t have a lot of time to spare for any sort of courting rituals. I had less than two days.

There was a show happening on stage and I positioned myself at the entrance, so I could see him if he would come in. There was nowhere else to be that night. And I already checked the bar.

Suddenly I spotted him sitting outside on the bench. He held a drink in his hand and seemed as bored as I was. Except probably less desperate, which wasn’t difficult. I slowly walked up to where he was sitting and pretended to watch the concert, my heart thumping against my chest as it always does when I try to make the first move.

“Horrible concert, right?” I said, not able to come up with anything more clever to say.

He looked up at me in some confusion. “Sorry?”

“I said this concert is bad” I smiled. He probably thought I was a complete moron.

“It is? Maybe is not so bad” he answered. “Sorry, my English is little rough.”

“That’s ok” I smiled. His English was pretty terrible, but somehow I always found a way to find a common ground. And sometimes my knowledge of Spanish helped.

We got to talking, if that is the proper word for it. Mostly, it was him looking uncomfortable and me guessing his words for him. He introduced himself as Rafael and as I realized the second he opened his mouth, he was not German, he was so very-a-Italian! Definitely what I never went for. However, this eased up my situation as I could now use my knowledge of Spanish to bridge the gap between Italian and English. Thankfully, Rafael also spoke some Spanish, which was of course mixed up with a lot of Italian words, but it somehow worked.

Rafael arrived to the Dominican Republic only a few hours ago. It took him fifteen hours to fly from the North of Italy and now he was staying for two weeks. Little did he know, he would be greeted by such a wonderful welcoming committee as myself.

He really looked Northern, as I have never seen an Italian with such clear blue eyes and light hair as him. And what set him apart from the others was the calm way he spoke to me. There was none of that Bella spiel that Italian men are so proud of. Really. Who wants to hear Bella yet again. Barf.

The bar

He suggested we walk to the seaside bar and we did, talking about God knows what but actually able to understand each other. The more we drank, the easier our conversation got. We spoke a mix of English, Spanish and Italian and somehow managed to get a full discussion going. Now, if only I could remember what the discussion was…

It was me who suggested ‘checking out’ the beach. And I suppose I was once again responsible for my own mistakes, if I should continue calling them that way. I did want to kiss him. Rather, I wanted something beautiful and romantic before my passion would come to a  screeching halt. I wanted to rebel against the safety of my job and the safety that Dominick seemed to embody. Dominick and I haven’t had sex yet, we haven’t even kissed and the lack of desire for either actually confused me. It’s been a while since I’ve had sex and I still didn’t want to have it with him. He was predictable, he was safe, he was boring. I wanted passion and excitement. And the Italian was sexy. He was unbelievably sexy, but that did not mean I wanted to have sex with a total stranger. At that moment, a kiss would suffice.

So we walked to the water, where I awkwardly positioned myself on a hammock as we talked.

“You are comfortable?” He asked me, a small smile on his face.

I waited a beat. “No”

He laughed and stood up. “OK, give me your hand.”

I reached for his hand and as I stood up, he kissed me. He was a wonderful kisser and we kissed for some time.

Then the Italian in him woke up.

“Come” he said.

“What? Come where?” I asked, confused.

“Come to my room” he smiled.

“I’m not going to any room, Rafael!” I said. Really? Did a kiss now mean I was ready to go to his place? Are all foreign girls considered easy? Me being Russian didn’t help matters.

They ruined it for all of us

“OK, how about your room?”

“Are you serious? We’re not going to my room”

“We will not have sex, Mia. I will not pressure you” he said and kissed me again.

“You think I’m stupid?” I asked.

“OK, so let’s just walk.” He offered and kissed me once more. We walked and kissed sporadically. The last stop happened to be near my building.

“So, Mia” he said. “Your hotel room is right here.”

“Thank you. I know.” The subtlety was too much to handle.

“Can I come in?”

So you would think that a girl who doesn’t want to have sex and is so explicitly encouraged, rather pushed by an Italian would have enough brains in her head to know that should she engage in this wonderful activity, she will then count to five to see how fast this Italian stallion will run out the door. And run out the door he will. Unless he wants to run back in for a quickie.

I don’t know what it was that came into my mind when I let him in my room. Number one reason was the crazy sum I spent for this one room, only to sleep in it by myself. Number two reason was that I was very attracted to Rafael and did not want to say goodnight to him just yet. And in reality, I was more than confident I would have enough brains and willpower to stop him before we got down to anything serious.

I was wrong.

As we came into the room, I began picking up the clothes that lay scattered on my floor.  He came up to me and pressed me to the wall, causing the clothes to fall back down. He pushed my hands to the sides and began kissing me, slowly,  then led me to the bed, where the passionate kissing continued.

“I’m not having sex” I kept on saying to remind not only him, but also myself I would not go through with it.

“Ok, ok” he kept on agreeing with me, knowing that actions speak louder than words. Especially when you don’t speak the language.

In my head there were two people arguing against each other. One kept on reminding me that I was as dry as an old lady and it made no difference to anyone if I had sex with this gorgeous man. It might even be good for me. The other one was prudishly screaming at me to stop. After all, I didn’t even know him. Tomorrow he would not remember my name.

And then he took off his shirt.

I am no longer sixteen to be screaming in glee at an image of a six-pack, but I have never before seen such a perfectly defined male body in my life. Rafael should have been sculpted, he was that perfect.

I work out

I kept on saying no, no.. and then I let it happen. He never turned the lights off which made a bit uncomfortable, nor could I fully enjoy what I felt was a mistake. Though others might call it a one-night stand.

He was masculine, he was dominant, he had an incredible stamina. The bed moved around, the bottle of water fell to the ground, I was exhausted. For a guy who spent fifteen hours on a plane, he sure did have some stamina. During sex, Rafael seemed to lose all ability to speak English or even Spanish for that matter. I think I actually learned a few Italian words, though not many that I can use on Italian men without similar consequences.

After it was over, he didn’t stay. He excitedly talked about heading to the gym first thing tomorrow morning. “I will go to gym tomorrow!” he exclaimed happily in his horrible English. I nodded and let him out the door, where he kissed me one last time. That is after I congratulated him on a wonderful start to a year. Ha.Ha.

I then lowered myself to the floor and took my face in my hands. I was a complete and total moron to let this guy convince me into having sex. But it felt good to let my guard down and actually do something so unlike me. Although, with the past two mistakes, it was strangely beginning to be like me.

The next morning, I ignored him as much as I could. After all, what would I now have to say to him? Besides ciao? I guess my face gave what happened away, because my brother and his girlfriend guessed it.

“Have you no self control?” Alex looked incredulous.

“Oh leave her alone! Let her do what she wants” Sandra came to my defense.

“Exactly” I said. “It’s not like it’s going to hurt me. I don’t even care for the guy”

Wrong again. As soon as I saw Rafael, I realized I wasn’t the only one avoiding him. He was definitely ignoring me. He, now having made some Italian friends, was completely oblivious to my existence. I didn’t want to speak to him first so we actually avoided looking at each other.

That evening, I dressed up and put on more makeup than usual. I was in a weird, anxious mood and no amount of makeup could erase that feeling.  Sure, one-night stands could be fun, considering you chose to sleep with the guy, but I felt used. Like I was yesterday’s news and today he would look for someone else. I urged Sandra to sit with me in the restaurant and waited anxiously until I would see him enter.

Soon, he came in with his friends and noticing me, came up to say hi. He kissed me European style and said hi to both me and Sandra. He asked if we were going to the bar afterwards. I told him we were. We will see each other there, he said. His English was far worse than I remembered.

Pretty much my expression

“Mia, he’s very hot” said Sandra as we drank cocktails by the bar. “But I really think he’s a player. The way he looked me over, I don’t know, to be honest”

“I know” I lowered my head in my hands. “I’m so stupid. I told myself it wouldn’t matter, but it does. This really hurts.”

He came by the bar later on with another two friends. Two sat by my side, while he so conveniently seated himself by Sandra. I introduced him to her and my brother last night, but it seemed that he didn’t remember she had a boyfriend, as he talked to her with interest and paid almost no attention to me.

I tried to keep a happy face, but all I could do was glance his way to see if he was looking back at me. He wasn’t. Fully engaged in a conversation with Sandra, he not so much gave me as a second glance. His friends, interested in me, kept on asking me questions, but I was too upset to put on a happy face.

Soon, Sandra lowered her face to mine and whispered. “Leave him. Let’s go.”

I stared at her. I knew she was right. He was a jerk. A player. I needed to leave to preserve any self-respect I still had. Believe it or not, a huge part of me did not want to go. Had he offered to have sex with me again, I was not sure if I would have the guts to say no. So I had to leave.

“We’ll be back” I told them, looking straight at Rafael. He looked at me in surprise and confusion, probably wondering if he would have sex with me that night. Sandra and I walked around the hotel and talked. Most of this talk consisted of me crying in the bathroom.

“I am so stupid!” I kept on repeating over and over again.

“Stop blaming yourself” told me Sandra, caressing my hair. “There are many jerks like that. You just have to see them for what they are.”

There it was: a twenty year old giving a twenty-five year old advice.

When we came back, they were gone. Apparently, they sat there for an hour waiting, then figuring we weren’t coming back, left.

I hoped he would knock on my door that night, but he didn’t. Not knowing why it hurt so much, since I barely knew the guy, didn’t erase the fact that it actually hurt like hell.

I ignored him the next day, even when he tried to smile to me. However, right before we had to leave for the airport I couldn’t help glancing at him. He lay there, with his white Gucci shorts, and even Sandra gasped at how well-defined his body was. He looked like some sort of Italian God. However, he was definitely more like an Italian Douche.

At the end, I gave up trying to ignore him and wished him goodbye. Ciao, was all he said to me from his lounge chair. He didn’t even get up.

Ah Italian men. They are romantic, they are passionate, they know what women like and they like women. They are hunters and they know that no many times a woman says no, she will ultimately say yes. The point, I know now, is to look at them with a bit of humor and to know that they will do everything to please you, but don’t expect them to be gentlemen after they have achieved what they came for.

And no matter what, don’t ever be the one who chases an Italian man!