This first section is a brief explanation of my Italy blog posts, which were inspired by my 2-week trip to Italy in May, 2025. Feel free to skip this section if you’ve read it before.
Dear Reader, If you read my Italy posts in the order in which they’ve come out, it may seem as though we hopped back and forth all over the country, but I have decided not to write these posts sequentially. I want to write about the things that interest me most, as the spirit moves me. For some topics, I may even combine cities. I hope that by doing so, you’ll find it a lot more interesting than if I just give you a tedious day by day description of our itinerary, as if I were your Aunt Mabel forcing you to sit down and watch all her Super 8 films of the family road trip to Niagara Falls from 1966.
If you have any questions, comments or suggestions about how I’m approaching this travelogue-within-a-blog, please let me know in the comments below!
Prior to my recent two-week trip to Italy, my experience with Italians has been all but non-existent. Of course I’ve been treated to the Hollywood stereotypes that we all have. Mobsters and/or Italian immigrants and their descendants struggling to survive in New York or Boston, and the line, “I’m walkin’ here!” from Midnight Cowboy. Also, the big bosomed Italian mamas that cook well and worry too much, usually for good reason. That sort of thing. So I was determined to keep an open mind and come to my own conclusions during this trip.
Granted, two weeks in a few cities where you’re running from tourist venue to tourist venue hardly constitutes an in-depth sociological study. That, and as an autistic person I tend to focus on patterns and extremes, so asking me for a generic impression of anything or any group is kind of an exercise in futility. And I am a poster child for the fact that no two people are alike, so shame on me for trying to pigeonhole any group. Having said all that, what follows are some of my random impressions of the people and places we saw while traveling in Italy.
Regarding the accommodations: None of the places we stayed provided a clock in the bedroom, which is the first thing I look for when I wake up in the middle of the night for a bathroom run. It may seem like a small thing, but I want the comfort of knowing whether or not I’ll be able to come back and get in at least one more round of REM sleep once I’ve done my business. I can’t remember ever having experienced the absence of a bedroom clock before.
It seems that no one in Italy possesses a clothes dryer. And really, their washers spin so well, and clothes racks work so well, especially if you have a balcony, that there’s no need for one. We Americans have developed a bad dryer habit.
What appliances the Italians do have, they seem to hide inside cabinets as if they are ashamed of them. And most showers are about as spacious as the pneumatic tubes we use at American bank drive-throughs. Honestly, I have no idea how Italian women manage to shave their legs. But then, you put your life at risk by showering anyway, because Italians don’t mark their hot vs. cold water.
One thing they can be proud of, though, country-wide, is the quality of their drinking water. Not only is their tap water safe and delicious, but many cities have running fountains where you can refill your water bottles for free. There’s no need to buy bottled water in Italy. They also make a point of reminding Americans of this, as well they should. I think we’re so used to visiting Mexico that we tend to view water in foreign countries with suspicion. But take my word for it. In Italy, there’s no need for that. Unless you have some other reason besides quenching your thirst, buying bottled water in Italy is a wasted expense.
Most Italians probably view the purchase of bottled water as an environmental violation as well. They seem to take recycling much more seriously than we do. The glaring exception would be the city of Florence. That was the only place where I didn’t see very many opportunities to dispose of recyclables in a responsible way.
In terms of general infrastructure, many large public venues had bathrooms with only 1 or 2 stalls, which is baffling. They do seem to have resisted the urge to allow gigantic box stores to move in and destroy all the small businesses that attempt to compete. (I hope they hold the line there. Somehow it makes the overall atmosphere a feel a lot less stressful.)
They don’t provide seating in places where they know darned well people will be waiting for long periods of time. Even the train station in Venice, which has been operating since 1860, provides no benches whatsoever for its customers. Given my back issues, I was forced to sit on the dirty floor.
Speaking of floors, if there is one country in which I’d never walk barefoot, it would be Italy. Cigarette butts and debris lie everywhere. You would think all that disgusting stuff would fly in the face of their environmentalism, but apparently, they don’t see it that way, and that’s a shame. This is a Jubilee year, so you’d think that Rome, at least, would be pristine, but if this was Rome’s idea of clean, I’d hate to see it’s condition in other years.
I know someone who thinks of Venice as a disgusting, dirty city. I disagree. I think it’s a gorgeous city. You just have to make a concerted effort to not look at the ground. Cast your eyes ever upward and you will be enchanted. (And frankly, compared to Florence and Rome, Venice is practically spotless.)
Italian women definitely seem to have a much better sense of style than most American women do, but they also use a lot more makeup. The men are shorter. They’re also, on the average, about 100 times better looking. (Sorry, guys. That’s just my personal opinion.)
My personal observation of their behavior is that they are crazy drivers who do not use turn signals or take lanes seriously on the rare occasion when actual lanes are indicated. Motorcycles pretty much do whatever they want whenever they want. I was continually gasping. And yet we did not see a single traffic accident the entire time we were there. Not one. I could never drive in Italy.
Young people make out so passionately in public that it would make a porn star blush, but I guess if you’re in your early 20’s and you’re both expecting to live with your parents until marriage, and you can’t afford an automobile or a hotel, you do what you have to do. And in a city of 4 million people like Rome, there aren’t very many private places. I’ve never considered myself particularly prudish, but… wow.
Italians seem to be constitutionally incapable of waiting their turn or standing in any type of line. If they see the least bit of hesitation on your part, they will move right in there with no remorse or apology. This is not a country for the meek. You’d never get anything done. Also, if you don’t command the space, you may just get ignored, even if you know that there’s no way that they can possibly be unaware of your presence. And if they overhear you say something they disapprove of, they can give you a withering stare the likes of which you’ve only gotten from your mother.
Beggars know exactly how to pull at your heart strings. And I’m sure that there’s quite a bit of need out there. But they will press and press and press, and if you persist in saying no, you may just see a flash of anger in their eyes that is not in keeping with the helpless image they displayed a second before. Suddenly, it makes you feel like they’ll be just fine, whether that’s true or not. And the unfortunate side effect of that, at least for me, was that it also made me not want to help the next person.
And my apologies for this sweeping generalization, but from my observation, most Italian men are not gentlemen. At first what I saw shocked me. I wasn’t expecting it. I thought maybe it was an anomaly. But the more I observed it, the more I became convinced. If it wasn’t the blatant manspreading on the metro that made a lot of women too uncomfortable to sit down, it was the young men who were seated on the crowded metro during rush hours, at the end of a long work day, that would allow women who were clearly exhausted to stand there while they sat pretending not to see them. The men also walk down crowded streets and expect everyone to step aside for them. Old people, women, children. Even if it meant making people step off the curb, these men walked as if they were Moses parting the Red Sea. They did not waver for anyone.
The worst example, though, by far, was during a particularly rough ferry passage we took along the Amalfi Coast. The boat was practically rocking sideways. People were throwing up all around us. It was raining so hard that no one could sit on the open upper deck, and so we were all crowded into the lower one. Many people were forced to stand, clinging desperately to poles and seat backs and window frames. Many of those were women, as men sat there, completely indifferent.
Quite often, women gave up seats for other women that they could see were struggling. (Two very kind young ladies did so for me, and I’ll be forever grateful.) But I did not see a single man make such a sacrifice. Not one. Not even men in their early 20’s. Not even the boat crew. Granted, many of these people were tourists, and many of us feared for our lives, so perhaps they weren’t behaving as they normally would have. But mixed among them were a lot of Italian speakers. In general, I was disgusted at the behavior of the men on that boat. (By the way, Dear Husband stood for the entire hour and a half. And he would have watched me kiss the ground when we finally docked if it hadn’t been covered in cigarette butts.)
And then, of course, we encountered the usual type of behavior that you get in places where the economy is entirely dependent upon tourists. I don’t think these things were necessarily Italian traits. It’s just a function of a love/hate relationship with a never-ending flow of travelers, and a desperate need for their money.
There were the charming helpful people who then firmly insisted on money. Scammers were everywhere, as were pickpockets. I actually enjoyed spotting the pickpockets. Since I see patterns, People being in places where they have no reason to be who are trying to appear as though they should be there have a tendency to stand out to me. A few times I liked startling them with my eye contact. They wanted to be invisible. Then they’d get irritated. I’d smile sweetly. They’d glare. Then they’d change locations. There’s nothing more fun than rattling a pickpocket.
I also had the opportunity to overhear guides talking to their groups. There must be a lot of pressure to fill the quiet spaces with “information” even if you have to make it up. I’m sure that many of them are quite knowledgeable, but I heard quite a few falsehoods from quite a few guides. In particular, they do so if you ask them questions. You’ve just taken them off script, you see. Now they have to look like they actually know their subject. If they don’t, they darned well better make you think they do or you’ll feel as though you’re not getting your money’s worth. There goes both their tip and their good review. They also have to pretend they appreciate your question, even though you just put them on the spot. Guides can get wildly creative. It’s quite the dance. Never assume that what a guide tells you is the truth. Again, I don’t think this is an exclusively Italian trait. It’s just a tourism thing.
To a certain extent, tourists are viewed as prey the world over. Nobody is trying to kill you. They’re just trying to separate you from your money and get you the heck out of their faces as quickly as possible so that they can move on to the next one. They assume that a lack of familiarity with a country or its language is the same as stupidity and weakness, and they often treat people accordingly. They have to pretend to like you, but you are one of a million people that have asked them the same questions that season, and they’re screaming inside, while trying to appear as if they’re thrilled to help you. Try not to take it personally.
Having said that, Italians have to deal with more tourists than the average person, and I kind of get the feeling that they are more confident by nature, and that confidence, when it is pushed into the realm of irritation, can be downright startling. In other words, I got shouted at more than once, in ways that made me think that if I didn’t do what these people said, it could get physical. And the women could be just as intimidating as the men.
At the Glass Museum on Murano Island, photographs are allowed, as long as you don’t use a flash. Videos are not allowed. There are signs everywhere, and more than one person tells you. I’m not sure why anyone would feel the need to video glass, or how a flash might damage glass, but whatever. It’s their museum, and I was willing to comply. But my phone was low on battery, so I had it attached to a battery pack. Perhaps that made it look like some sort of video to one of the attendants.
So there I was, in a really large room with extremely high ceilings, when I heard this very loud, echoing, forceful command not to video. It was shouted from across the room. I nearly dropped my phone. It felt like a spotlight was shining down on me, such was the force of her glare. Everyone was looking at me like I had stolen the Hope Diamond. I just continued to take pictures. But I kept waiting to be escorted out.
A few times I got shouted at in Italian, usually by a security guard, and I had no idea what I was supposed to do or where I was supposed to go. Apparently I finally did the right thing because this post is not a GoFundMe asking you to come up with my bail money. But I’ll never know for certain what I did wrong.
Sometimes I felt as though people were just being snotty because they were in a bad mood. We were in Vatican City, having seen the Sistine Chapel, and we were following signs to the Basilica, and suddenly there were no more signs, so we asked an employee, and he directed us out a door that put us outside the Vatican walls and did not permit us back in. By the time we walked the perimeter to the entrance to St. Peter’s Square, the Basilica was closed, so our non-refundable tickets to the Basilica were for nothing. (I’ll be giving the Vatican a bad Yelp review, believe you me.)
About halfway through the trip, when I was getting sick and tired of being barked at for relatively minor things that were easily rectified, I started saying, “Calm down!” to people. That startled them and shut them up immediately. It worked like a charm. I don’t think they were used to their intimidation tactic not producing instant cowering. I still cooperated, but I did so with dignity.
Don’t get me wrong. Amongst all this petty bs, we encountered some of the warmest, kindest people on earth. Our AirBnB hosts were all extremely helpful and accommodating. Many of the restaurant proprietors and wait staff were really charming and actually seemed interested in talking to us, and every one of them was genuinely gratified when we complimented the food. Occasionally one of us would misstep on the uneven pavement, and each time, multiple people would instantly reach out to steady us.
And at our lowest point, which I’ll blog about later, a total stranger came to our rescue. He went above and beyond to do so. We will never forget him. The kindness of strangers is one of the most precious gifts you can receive, and it never fails to restore my faith in humanity.
But there was one Italian experience that thrust me headlong into the true Hollywood stereotype. As we left Florence, we picked up a rental car, and we wanted to swing by one last place: The Piazzale Michelangelo. From there, you get an iconic view of Florence’s city skyline, including the iconic dome. Unfortunately, there’s only one little parking area, and it was packed with cars. The photo op was worth the wait, though.
What you do in these situations is wait near the parking lot entrance until someone leaves, and then scoot in and take their space. Well, someone left, but it was a handicapped space. The car behind us started honking. We didn’t move. Finally, the next person leaves. We are about to pull in, and had maneuvered just enough to the side so that the guy behind us shoots past us and pulls into a spot we hadn’t seen, gets out of his car, and walks up to us like he’s going to shoot us. The look on his face alone made me realize that things were about to go down.
He starts shouting. Something along the lines of what was our problem, why weren’t we paying attention, didn’t you see the guy pull out, get out of the way, what are you stupid? It sounds lame, writing it down, but he’s doing all this aggressively, and he’s escalating. In my head I’m thinking, “This seems like a movie.”
That’s when I knew exactly what to do. I played my part. I started aggressively shouting back. Along the lines of eff you, you idiot, that was a handicapped space. I was using my hands. I mean, if you didn’t know me, you’d think I was about to jump out of the car and throw down. His puffed up aggression seemed to pop like a soap bubble, and he walked away. Just like that.
It was like he had to discharge his annoyance in an Italian way, and I responded in an Italian way, so he didn’t have to act all macho anymore. It was done. And… cut!
Maybe Hollywood stereotypes come in handy after all. Whether it was an authentic Italian experience or not, it made me feel like I’d gotten something that most tourists don’t get. It was weirdly satisfying.
I’ve got to say, though, that I was a little pumped up after that, and while I was gazing at the iconic view and taking pictures, I realized that I had picked up enough Italian to know what an adolescent couple standing next to me was saying about me.
“What the hell does she have on her head?”
“It looks like a sombrero. It’s ugly.”
They’re darned lucky I was still feeling amused at the “authentic” Italian encounter I had just had in the parking lot, or I might not have been able to resist the temptation to get up in their faces and shout, “Hey! I’m walkin’ here!”
They’d probably be too young to get the reference. And even if they had seen the movie, they’d probably lack the maturity to understand what that particular scene is all about, to wit, even a strange little limping man in a cheap suit deserves respect. We all deserve respect.
But perhaps I missed a teaching moment. They might have walked away having learned that you should be careful what you say. You never know how people will react. And maybe they’d think twice before making fun of the next old lady in a sombrero. ¡Olé! you little brats!
Leave a Reply