Mistaken for a Prostitute
“Exposing yourself to various cultures is so vital towards personal growth.” — Unknown
Study abroad
My love of people, culture, and travel seduced me into studying abroad in Florence, Italy. Pursing my dream of living in Firenze tickled my senses with the promise of new experiences, lessons, and adventures.
When I arrived, the cobblestone streets and magnificent, Renaissance sculptures made my eyes widen with enchantment. I immersed myself into the culture and started to learn their language. Italian words played upon my lips, as I shyly conversed with locals. A combination of English, Italian and Spanish rolled off my tongue, while a smile lit up my eyes. At 20, I was young, innocent, and falling in love with my new city.
Out and about
I spent many a night out with friends, savoring the fanciful flavors of Florence. The pizza was paper-thin, and we delighted in devouring a complete pizza on our own. Pasta dishes were homemade; spinach was flavorful, and the wine was intoxicating. Gelato put ice cream to shame.
My friends and I explored all the hot spots. We let the vibrations of loud music thrust our bodies into a trance, as we danced our nights away. Often times, we would shut down the venue. Our energy levels were spiked with laughter, fun, and playfulness.
Sometimes, I ventured out with my roommate. Other times, I met other friends. When I walked home solo, I kept my head low and my hair covered. I tried to emulate a male presence the best I could. The beautiful, cobblestone streets were often deserted or peppered with a few men. The chill up my spine quickened my step. Italian girls never walked alone, late at night. American girls were different, but I avoided unnecessary attention.
Italian girls versus American girls
Upon one evening, I engaged in a conversation with an Italian girl. She informed me Italian girls did not like American girls, especially the ones who studied abroad. I asked, “Why?”
She explained the old-fashioned dating rituals Italian girls follow. Young, Italian girls are chaperoned on their dates. This prevents the hormonal urges of young boys materializing into any sexual behavior. The young Italian girl’s virtue is preserved, as she hunts for a suitable husband. Italian men are taught to respect their women and marry them, if they want to bed them.
Then along came American girls, who ruined marriage prospects for the well-behaved Italian girls. American girls were seen as easy, promiscuous, and ready to bed Italian boys. Why would a young, Italian male take cold showers and sleep alone with so many fun, willing American girls, tramping their streets? I was shocked, intrigued, and fascinated by her revelation.
A shady street corner
One night, a group of us went out dancing. At the end of our evening, we looked for a cab. The streets were dark and deserted. The cabs were scarce, as an unplanned strike had erupted. Strikes were a common occurrence in Italy.
My friends and I had to start walking. We stumbled upon a group of scantly dressed women, hanging out on the street corner. Their appearance was out-of-place. I had never seen a group of Italian girls standing on a street corner. Nor, had I ever seen Italian girls dressed so provocatively. Apparently, we encountered the shady part of town, where prostitutes lined the streets, looking for their midnight hit. The scene was surreal.
Ringing bells
One evening, I was dropped off at our place at the exact time my roommate was waiting for her ride. The time was 11:30 p.m. The rawness of the night bit through my winter jacket, jeans, and sweater, as we chatted on our street corner. I shared my adventures, while she informed me of her plans.
After a few minutes elapsed, a car with two men pulled over. They started ringing bells at us, beckoning for us to hop in their car. They mumbled a few words in Italian, which we could not understand. We giggled nervously and looked at each other with bewilderment in our eyes. Why were they ringing bells at us? We were like deer caught in car lights, frozen.
Our reaction silenced them. We could sense the confusion in their eyes, before they burst out laughing and drove off. Why the bells? What did they want from us? Well, young, Italian ladies never linger on street corners late at night, unless they are “ladies of the night.”
The only skin exposed on our bodies was our hands and faces. Our presence was innocent. However, we were not following the cultural norm. This is how I was once mistaken for a prostitute, while conversing with a friend in Italy.
