The Philosophy of Affection

Palermo is an electric city—gritty, raw, and frenzied. As with Naples, it was love at first sight for me because it evokes everything that there is to love about New York. It stands in stark contrast to Syracuse, the sleepy seaside town, recently reconstructed and thusly pristine; a town that so profoundly appealed to my peace-seeking, introspective side. In Palermo, on the other hand, I knew the party girl in me would have no shortage of entertainment.

Unfortunately, constantly moving to a new city every few days, sporting bruised shoulders caused by a heavy backpack, and having no time for the important things (like writing) or the mundane (like doing laundry), wears on you eventually. And it was here, in the city with the most exciting “to do” list that I hit that wall.

The night I arrived, it was already dark and raining, and I succeeded only in having my worst meal yet (see "Beef Feet" post) before bedtime. The following day, the allure of free wi-fi in the privacy of my room kept me in doors until lunchtime, when I was forced to go do laundry by the prospect of not wearing any underwear for the next few days. Which, as a point of fact, is all the motivation I need. I was annoyed to discover that my tiny pile of clothing would cost 10 euro to wash and dry and that the restaurant next door that proclaimed “Pizzeria” on the sign, was out of pizza, which was all I was in the mood for. Add to that the fact that I was being especially timid with my Italian today, so everyone was looking at me as if I was speaking Martian. By the time lunch and laundry were completed, it was siesta and all the tourist sights that I particularly wanted to see were closed. Having reached my aggravation threshold, I resolved that the only thing that would make me feel better was a giant bottle of beer and an even larger bag of homemade Sicilian pastries. Armed with these items, I went back to bed.

Come evening, however, I knew that a cabin-fever induced leap off my third story balcony was impending. I cheered myself up with the idea to go on a citywide search of a few specific Sicilian delicacies I especially wanted to try. I would set out for a certain restaurant which I happened to know served one of the items and read every menu along the way, in search of the others. The restaurant with the greatest number of offerings on my list would be the winner. The location of my final destination, however, was not well researched and was therefore about a minute and a half away from my hotel. And after having traversed a very dark backalley in a city not well known for its safety, I decided I had better stay put.

Outside, there were only two diners who, within moments of my arrival, insisted I sit with them. Giovanni spoke maybe 100 words of English. Giuseppe spoke none. They had already ordered their starter and there was a mountain of mussels on their table. Mussels were not on my list, and I’ve never been terribly fond of them anyway. It wasn’t ideal. But to be truthful, I wasn’t in the mood to be alone.

Sometimes when you are forced out of your comfort zone, you make amazing discoveries. The mussels were spectacular. And when there’s absolutely no alternative, I speak pretty decent Italian. I’d say we had about 40% comprehension. Not bad considering I have never not been within shouting distance of someone who could translate. As it turned out, the guys were friends of the owners, so at any given moment we had one of them, or for that matter, any number of passing locals at our table, helping to make a dent in our prosecco. We were also joined by Marcello, the middle son of Andrea, the proprietor and namesake of the establishment. At 13, it was easy to see that Marcello will grow up to be a heartbreaker. He kept telling me how beautiful I was. In fact everyone kept talking about how beautiful everyone was. Giovanni asked again and again if I thought Marcello was “bello.” Marcello explained, completely unprovoked, that his older brother was very handsome. He also wanted to know whom I believed to be the best looking of the three of them. I whispered in his ear, that I thought he was (which was actually 100% accurate).

It occurred to me as I watched all of this unfold that affection is a tangible entity in Italy. The fact that male twenty-something’s greet one another with a gentle touching of cheeks is heart-meltingly endearing. They grab each other around the back of the neck and are simultaneously pulled into a momentary embrace. A legitimate bodily connection. None of this puffed-chest, back-slapping, pseudo-hug nonsense that a society that has yet to overcome homophobia has instilled in us as the norm. This philosophy of affection is painted all over the country like a cheerful fresco, from the couples making out with unabashed fervor on a park bench to the tender way in which children are handled. Although unrelated, Giovanni held Marcello’s face gently in his giant palm and playfully chatted with him about school. And Marcello, for his part, didn’t flinch, and was as giving of his warm hugs with Giovanni as he was with me. It felt overwhelming, this pervasive love that can capture anyone in its tantalizing net; anyone, that is, who takes the time to notice, to appreciate, and to succumb to it.

After a beautiful four-course dinner, Andrea opened a bottle of the most delicious substance I have ever tasted. It is a dessert wine called Braghetto, produced in-house and not available for sale anywhere else. Made from Muscat grapes and amarena cherries, it is sweet, make no mistake, but I could sip a small glass of this every night for the rest of my life. Without even asking the price, I insisted on buying a bottle.

Although I was clearly basking in the glow of this warm display of human nature, graciously accepting Umberto the waiter’s insistence that I spoke wonderful Italian, and nursing a glass of this sweet ambrosia, I was keenly aware of the flipside of all this loving behavior. The side that we American girls, about to embark on a solo backpacking jaunt to Italy, are repeatedly warned about. In a society where so much man-handling is the norm, clear lines never seem to be drawn in the sand about what is an acceptable amount of touching amongst strangers. The boys, who had hardly let me pay for anything, despite the fact that I had bought a bottle of wine, had already asked me to join them at the discotheque. I was loathe to get into a car with two strangers, and I made certain that our destination was not more than a short cab ride away. To be clear, it is nearly impossible to judge someone’s character when you can only understand 40% of what they are saying. So I had to decide based on other factors.

The pros: (1) They knew everyone in the restaurant, men who were terrifically kind, accommodating, and not at all creepy, and who even knocked 30 euro off the bill. (2) They also knew everyone on the street, people who seemed eager to stop with a smile and say hello. Although I suppose this could also have meant that they were drug dealers. And (3) the way they were with Marcello was so loving and gentle, and he seemed so keen on spending our entire meal with us, that I became enamored with this perceived inherent goodness.

The cons: (1) Within moments of my sitting down, Giovanni had asked if I had a boyfriend. (2) At some point he said something along the lines of I should open my home in LA to him, the way he was opening his home in Palermo to me. When I said “I don’t understand,” he said, “You don’t want to.” Hmmm.

Fast forward. Suffice it to say, I survived the evening. But not without experiencing first hand just what the can happen when this philosophy of affection kicks in to high gear. Never mind that this affection is clearly (in your perspective, anyway) unrequited. Never mind that no matter what enormous sum the man is willing to blow on yet another round of tequila shots, you are on your guard—aware of where your belongings are at all times—and how quickly you would have to run to reach the exit before he notices, so under no circumstances are you getting drunk. Never mind that you have asked everyone in the club who speaks English what they think of these guys in an attempt to save yourself if they are, indeed, the local salesmen of vital organs on the black market. Never mind that at some point it all becomes like bad slapstick when Giovanni takes your face and squeezes it like a vice so that you cannot escape his kiss, while your limbs flail like a cartoon character and you pry him off by pressing the entirety of your upper body strength into his nose—HARD—with your fist. In the States (and if it were not happening to me) this would be the making of an evening of hilarious entertainment. In Italy, no one laughs. No one even seems to notice. Perhaps they have just become immune to the sight of female tourists struggling to come up for air. But the icing on the tiramisu was that after Giovanni’s repeated amorous failings, Giuseppe, who’s baby being born that day I could swear we had been celebrating at dinner, had to try his luck. Evidently, nearly punching a friend in the nose is no deterrent for an Italian man on a mission. 

So I think it is safe to conclude that in the subject of procreation, Italian men, exhibiting no fear of humiliation, ethical obligation, or physical pain, get an “A” for effort.