Mambo Italiano No. 1
Sep. 29th, 2006 12:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
penfieldPreparations have begun in earnest for my forthcoming trip to Italy, where I will serve as Jessica's cheering section as she attempts to run 26.2 miles in a row. As a demonstration of solidarity, I have started on a training regimen of my own, mostly involving pizza slices and bicep curls.
Apparently I have caused something of a stir within her marathon training community by being the first "significant other" to agree to go along on the trip. To my brothers in arms now being pressured to tag along, I apologize, but let's face it. You're never going to be as good a boyfriend as I am, anyway. You might as well stay home and watch football for me.
I freely admit that it was not an easy decision. Ultimately I was convinced by the serendipitous timing of the event – coinciding with my 30th birthday – and the realization, after talking with knowledgeable sources, that Italian men look at blonde American women like American men look at red Italian sports cars. If any swarthy, inappropriate guy was going to sexually harass my girlfriend, it was going to be me.
Most of my anxiety is based on shameful inexperience with foreign languages. I regret that I made little more than a passing effort at foreign languages in high school and college, preferring to concentrate primarily on English, French kissing and Belgian waffles. My various travels have generally limited me to domestic destinations, aside from a few short trips to Canada and a long vacation in England and Ireland – where, of course, they speak Drunk. I'm not worried about finding a bathroom or a hospital – those things generally take care of themselves. I am afraid, though, of looking like the big fat ugly American that I know I am, acting unilaterally and bullying the locals with my xenophobic, ethno-political imperialism.
So I invested in one of those CD-ROM packages from Rosetta Stone. This is actually the same program used to educate the aforementioned imperialist swine in the U.S. State Department. I am pleased to say that the lessons are going along slowly but smoothly. Still, I'm not sure how fluent I'll actually be by the time I leave, so I've had to use a translation Web site to prepare certain valuable phrases, like: Il Presidente Bush è un asino. Non siete biasimare mi. Ho votato per Kodos.
As part of my socio-political camouflage, I am also supplementing my wardrobe with culturally ambiguous styles and labels. Any clothing with American writing, professional sports logos or bald eagles on it will not be permitted in my suitcase. Forget about baseball caps. Anything from Old Navy is right out. I recently purchased a new jacket that I figured was sufficiently inconspicuous, though I recently discovered a very small Tommy Hilfiger logo on the sleeve. I'm thinking of coloring it in with a Sharpie, or covering it with a Canadian flag pin.
Perhaps most difficult will be the necessary attitude and personality adjustments. I will have to remember that, compared to Americans, Europeans speak more quietly, move more slowly and have only a dim awareness of the concept of "personal space." (Except, of course, during soccer matches, which make our punk rock concerts look like Statistics lectures.) I will need to find some way to slow myself down and not talk so much, while safeguarding my personal space.
I think the solution is obvious: constant consumption of more pizza slices.
Apparently I have caused something of a stir within her marathon training community by being the first "significant other" to agree to go along on the trip. To my brothers in arms now being pressured to tag along, I apologize, but let's face it. You're never going to be as good a boyfriend as I am, anyway. You might as well stay home and watch football for me.
I freely admit that it was not an easy decision. Ultimately I was convinced by the serendipitous timing of the event – coinciding with my 30th birthday – and the realization, after talking with knowledgeable sources, that Italian men look at blonde American women like American men look at red Italian sports cars. If any swarthy, inappropriate guy was going to sexually harass my girlfriend, it was going to be me.
Most of my anxiety is based on shameful inexperience with foreign languages. I regret that I made little more than a passing effort at foreign languages in high school and college, preferring to concentrate primarily on English, French kissing and Belgian waffles. My various travels have generally limited me to domestic destinations, aside from a few short trips to Canada and a long vacation in England and Ireland – where, of course, they speak Drunk. I'm not worried about finding a bathroom or a hospital – those things generally take care of themselves. I am afraid, though, of looking like the big fat ugly American that I know I am, acting unilaterally and bullying the locals with my xenophobic, ethno-political imperialism.
So I invested in one of those CD-ROM packages from Rosetta Stone. This is actually the same program used to educate the aforementioned imperialist swine in the U.S. State Department. I am pleased to say that the lessons are going along slowly but smoothly. Still, I'm not sure how fluent I'll actually be by the time I leave, so I've had to use a translation Web site to prepare certain valuable phrases, like: Il Presidente Bush è un asino. Non siete biasimare mi. Ho votato per Kodos.
As part of my socio-political camouflage, I am also supplementing my wardrobe with culturally ambiguous styles and labels. Any clothing with American writing, professional sports logos or bald eagles on it will not be permitted in my suitcase. Forget about baseball caps. Anything from Old Navy is right out. I recently purchased a new jacket that I figured was sufficiently inconspicuous, though I recently discovered a very small Tommy Hilfiger logo on the sleeve. I'm thinking of coloring it in with a Sharpie, or covering it with a Canadian flag pin.
Perhaps most difficult will be the necessary attitude and personality adjustments. I will have to remember that, compared to Americans, Europeans speak more quietly, move more slowly and have only a dim awareness of the concept of "personal space." (Except, of course, during soccer matches, which make our punk rock concerts look like Statistics lectures.) I will need to find some way to slow myself down and not talk so much, while safeguarding my personal space.
I think the solution is obvious: constant consumption of more pizza slices.
