My Ex-Pat Adventure
How it Started
When I went to Italy on a one-way ticket at the age of 25, I was truly a Pollyanna. I even wore a straw hat as I descended the steps of the train, leapfrogging my suitcases with my free hand. This is where I get to hit the reset button. This is how I get to define myself, no longer surrounded by the people who made assumptions about my personality, my behavior, and my possibilities. There are few things that feel as liberating as getting rid of your stuff and getting on a plane with no return plans.
This is not the story of a hopeless romantic finding a quaint corner in Tuscany to write (on what living?). Nor one in which the heroine meets an elegant count who is waiting to marry her and make her a wealthy noblewoman. I discovered, for instance, that one freezes one’s ass off in those rustic agrarian structures, whether they be estates or humble farmhouses. In the second instance, while you will be able to have your fling with the count, he is going to marry for money and prestige. His affair with you may be the result of pure sexual curiousity. I have met a number of Italian men who have told me that they have a tendency to find beauty in every woman, as well as a desire to further investigate.
So, this is the story of a more practical yet no less idealistic attempt on my part to gain a cultural education by throwing myself into the cauldron of hypercharged Italian design that was thriving in the Eighties. Its epicenter was Milan, and that was where I was headed. My belief was that if I took a chance, I would never sleep on a park bench. As I rode the train, I flipped through my portfolio with my English-Italian dictionary on hand, trying to memorize sentences that would explain the concept behind each project. I visited several architects, all of whom seemed pretty open to hiring an American assistant.
After navigating the linguistic hurdles as well the Metropolitana (which I found much easier than New York’s subway), I was, in fact, sitting on a park bench near the Castello Sforzesco. I remember thinking, if only I could get a job and a place to live in one stroke!
Well, that is exactly what happened. I was offered a position in a studio until 3PM every day, after which I would provide a warm English-speaking body in my boss’s condo after school. The kid I was supposed to be teaching at home was an entitled brat: as nasty as he was good looking. Rather than learn English, he sat in front of the TV watching Japanese animated cartoons. My boss (Daniela) was a tough Milanese woman (but I repeat myself), and her husband (Roberto) was a cynical psychoanalyst who worked with victims of heroin addiction. He always gave them money when they begged on the streets so that they would die sooner. My hosts sometimes tried to fix me up with young doctors, most of whom I found so old. Little by little, I made a few friends, including one who became my boyfriend.
The marriage between Daniela and Roberto was one of convenience, as I learned when he tried to reach under my bathrobe one morning. This will not surprise anyone who has been in the same circumstances. The real story of young female expats, once the sense of adventure and possibility is peeled back, is one of the vulnerability that we shared as wild cards in the social structure. When Daniela encouraged me to take him up on the advances, I got a sick feeling in my stomach and felt horribly trapped. One night, Roberto and a few colleagues came home in a pretty good mood and came into my room to torment me. I pulled the covers over my head, and they retreated, laughing. Daniela stood in the background, smoking a cigarette and telling them half heartedly to leave me alone.
After this incident, my boyfriend convinced his roommate to let me move in with them. So, I had passed Level One, and my next round of experiences was about to begin.
