Sicily — On Italian Men

Sicilian men talk to you in real life, real time, the way I imagine tinder conversations would happen if they happened in person.

I sat on Mondello beach, reading Cesare Pavese’s Disaffections: a book of Italian poetry with the English translations on the adjacent pages. I was reading in front of the water, waiting for the sun to dry my skin. In Sicily and especially in Mondello, it is customary for vendors to walk up and down the beaches, yelling loudly to sell whatever it is they are selling. Beer, sfincione, bracelets, massages. Regardless of the contents of their crates, all the vendors are the same; they stop at your towel and force you to repeat the word no until they finally move on to the next man. I’ve had plenty of these experiences with invasive Sicilian salesmen which was why, when a man with a crate of water bottles stopped in front of my towel, I barely looked up.

“No,” I said, avoiding eye contact. I expected him to leave or at least make another pitch but instead he sat down right beside me in the middle of the sand, his legs touching my towel.

“What are you reading?” he asked.

I held up my book and turned back to it, hoping he’d see that as a sign to leave. But then he asked my name. He asked if I was American. He asked if I would let him see my book again because he was trying to learn Italian.

None of this raised a red flag. I’m used to the Italian lack of spatial awareness and the discrepancies between American and Sicilian metrics of hospitality.

But then the man asked me why I was in Sicily. He told me he had just written a book. He asked me if I would edit his book. He asked me if he could add me on Instagram. He asked me if we could get drinks that week. He asked me which bus I took. He asked me if I lived alone.

He phrased the question just like that. Not “do you live with anyone?” but “do you live alone?” inserting himself ever so casually into my personal life. I wanted nothing more than to extract myself from the situation but he persisted. Though the beach was crowded with people, his question felt threatening and I edged further along my towel, leaning away from the man.

“Sorry, I’m with friends here,” I lied.

“Can we get a drink?” he asked.

“I can’t,” I said. “I’m meeting up with friends.”

And he nodded, disappointed, and then waited until I took out my phone to add him on instagram.

“We’ll get drinks this week,” he said, before disappearing down the beach. I watched as he stopped a few towels over, exhanging a water bottle for a few euros. When he was no longer visible, I blocked him on instagram.

Less than 24 hours later, I was standing at the bus stop alongside three or four other people. Not realizing I was a clueless American, the man waiting beside me asked if his bus had already come. When I shook my head, I said “Non lo so” - I don’t know - and he grinned, inching toward me.

“Where are you from?” he asked.

“Stati Uniti.”

He nodded, still grinning. I checked my phone. I looked into the street. I re-read the bus sign. But I could still feel his gaze on me.

Then, immediately: “Do you live here alone?”

“No, I’m here with my family.”

“Give me your phone number and we can start texting and talking and then go out this week.”

“I don’t think so, sorry.” I peered outward, hoping the bus would arrive.

“Why not?” he persisted. He didn’t seem to care that his bus was behind schedule but directed all of his energy toward me.

“I can’t. Sorry.”

“Why not?”

“I’m really busy. Sorry.”

“I won’t text you when you’re busy. Why don’t you give it to me?”

“No. I’m not interested.”

A look of disbelief crossed his face and he shook his head, seething at my apparent rejection. When his bus came, he muttered something to me - I couldn’t hear what he’d said. He jeered at me through the bus window until finally slithering away.

I’m not reflecting on these experiences to generalize the men I’ve encountered in Sicily. Nine times out of ten, I’ve actually found that Sicilians, men included, have been exceedingly well-intentioned. It is not uncommon for Sicilians to open themselves up and extend kindness to temporary Palermitanis. In fact, I accredit many of my best moments in Sicily to the warmth and hospitality of the people who live here. They’ve welcomed me on my street, at my temporary church, at my favorite restaurants, at my neighborhood cafe… at all of the places I visit on a daily basis. Those interactions have defined my time here; without strangers opening themselves up to me, I would feel less like I belonged and a whole lot lonelier.

Rather, I’m recording these encounters to acknowledge moments I’ve trained myself to experience on high alert. As a young woman living alone in a foreign country, it is beyond frustrating when men take my solidarity as an invitation for conversation. While talking to strangers is one of the best, most rewarding parts of traveling, my solidarity is not a plea for company. Yet often times people take it upon themselves to inhabit my personal bubble which, even if and when well intentioned, taints my time with an added degree of caution and self-awareness.

Of course, the aforementioned men could very well have been well-intentioned. There is no shortage of Sicilians who would want to take an American girl out for a drink in their hometown. My friend Katarina is Russian so she garners a lot of unsolicited attention from Palermitani attracted to her light hair and foreign accent. She speaks nearly fluent English but I’ve taught her a few words. One of her favorite is “creepy,” which she says I use too much. If I were her, I’d think so, too; she says she’s never had an experience with a creepy Sicilian. In fact, we’ve had exact opposite experiences. Whenever men approach her she manages to have perfectly normal conversations with them. These conversations often extend to dinners and never end with physical advances. In the rare event a man comes onto her, she asks him “che vuoi?” - “What do you want?” - and it’s proven enough to diffuse the situation and keep him in check. A few weeks ago, a man approached in front of the cathedral and the two of them began a friendship that has persisted for over a month. He even drove her to see the ruins in a nearby town.

So while it is possible to have positive experiences with Sicilian men, the men I’ve encountered have shown me that sometimes it’s not worth the risk. The speed in which the man at the beach and the man at the bus stop asked for my information and the way they phrased their questions made me uneasy. They probed into my life despite my obvious disinterest, calling into question the line between cultural hospitality and unwelcome curiosity. Many Italian men are bold and relentless in ways unprecedented in other cultures, and while the majority of my experiences with Sicilians have been positive, the interactions like these are the ones that linger.

On Katarina’s last night in Palermo, we grabbed dinner at a local restaurant. The restaurant was in a basement without service so by the time we left, messages from earlier in the evening reached our phones. She had multiple missed calls from Fabio, the man who’d driven her around Sicily, the man she’d said was strictly a friend with the completely pure intent of showing her around Palermo. They’d had plans to meet up after she’d finished dinner, and while she’d told him she’d let him know when the meal ended, he was getting impatient. Outside the restaurant, we listened to the series of voice memos he’d left her.

“Who do you think you are?” he screamed into the phone. “After all I’ve done for you? How dare you not meet me earlier? Who do you think you are? I’m done waiting for you.” He’d thrown a string of expletives in there, too.

Katarina laughed at the messages that took us a total of five minutes to listen to. She was shocked that Fabio would react the way he had. She’d never encountered that kind of aggression before but she didn’t ask me what she should say. Instead, she sent him a voice memo of her own.

“Che vuoi?” she asked.

He never responded.