Flash: “Italy” Better Than “Fucking”
In Medium Story Titles
Yes, folks, it’s true. I’ve been writing on Medium for a year now, and my content has been strictly dictated by what inspires me to write. It turns out that writing about Italy is better than padding your title with the word, “fucking.”
I have written about other topics, but they just don’t have the attraction of a story about Italy, Italians, and Italian experiences. My articles about design and environment just can’t compete. My last, The Truth about Italy, smashed through the 1,000-views ceiling. Hey, that’s a lot for a newbie like me.
I write for myself, but I’ll admit it gives me pleasure to see that people are enjoying my stuff. So, I started to wonder what is the basis for such widespread Italophilia? Can it just be attributed to escapism?
Do we all dream of waking up in the morning to the tapping of the portafilter against a sink to empty the spent grounds, and the sound of steam being released from the espresso machine?
Or is it the thin, crisp, buttery biscuit we use to scoop the foam off our cappuccino?
Is it the amusement in observing a well-dressed Milanese signore dumping two packets of sugar into his espresso at the corner bar-café and downing it like a shot?
Maybe it’s the way Italians gesticulate while they amble down the street with their bluetooth devices flashing.
Could it be that everyone loves being able to get away with being fifteen minutes late all the time, or comfortable telling you that some sought-after locale (five blocks away) is “right next to my place?”
Perhaps it’s the dramatic carpe-diem style of courtship that sweeps us off our feet while on vacation? (Yes, he has a wife, and no, that is not his castle up there.)
It must be the food! The aroma of sautéing garlic, the sound of chopped tomatoes hitting the hot skillet, the knife scraping the wood of the cutting board. The friend who pours you a glass of wine while you grate some fragrant parmigiano cheese. Oh, yeah.
Maybe it’s the fact that when you sit on an empty bus, the next person who gets on sits near you, rather than giving you “space.”
How about when the train has stopped for some inexplicable reason, and it is past lunchtime. Someone mentions gnocchi, and soon everyone in your compartment is arguing over how they should be prepared.
Or the cab driver who, when you answer that you are not married, tells you that “the young men must have slices of salami over their eyes.”
It might even be the way they shrug their shoulders as if to say, who knows?
Indeed, who knows all of the little things that make us Italophiles?
