I have been living in Italy for a month now, and everyday is still an adventure, complete with life’s greatest lessons. This past weekend, Kelli and I went to the laundromat; and, before our laundry was dry, I had managed to assault a gypsy. Normally, abusing people is not a typical pass-time of mine; but, under the circumstances, it was necessary.

At the laundromat we frequent, the entire front wall is glass, and everyone walking past can view the laundry-doers. I stepped outside for a minute to get some fresh air, and two young gypsy boys walked past, stopped, turned around and proceeded into the laundromat. They shoved pieces of paper into Kelli’s face; and, as one asked her several questions in Italian (keeping her attention), I could see through the glass that the other was unzipping Kelli’s purse. Even though Kelli had her hands on her purse, they had a hold on her other arm and knew exactly how to get into her purse. After a few blows, the two boys left the laundromat, but not before giving me a lesson in the profanity of my native language. While I admit that slapping a gypsy may not have been the brightest idea I’ve ever produced, Kelli was pick-pocketed two weeks ago, and someone spent around $1,600 with her credit card; her card was protected against fraud or theft, and her money was reimbursed by her bank, but it was quite an ordeal, and not something that anyone should have to deal with twice.

Kelli and I have found a very comfortable friendship here. While I protect Kelli in situations where she physically needs help, she tends to protect me from my outspoken nature. It has not been easy to be an American woman here, let alone a feminist. I am accustomed to living in a culture where my ideas, not my body, define me. Here, however, an American woman is a body, and her words are just background noise. Several times, men have made derogatory comments to me or my friends, and for a while, I was able to bite my tongue and keep walking. Lately, however, it has become increasingly more and more difficult for me to ignore. Usually, Kelli can sense when I am about to erupt, and she reminds me that I am in Italy, not the U.S.

Their comments are, after all, harmless for the most part; and, by responding to their often annoying and degrading comments, I might actually make the situation more difficult for myself. When I weigh the consequences, the choice is obvious: my safety is more important than proving a point, and this is not my country; it is not acceptable for me to attempt imposing my culture. After all, there is no better or worse between the two: the cultures are simply different, each with their own unique standards and norms. While I do not particularly enjoy being regarded as a piece of flesh, and while I do not understand the logic of men who continue to make comments at women who never respond positively or at all for that matter, the more I study the culture and history here, I can see how these actions make sense to a Florentine.

One of my courses this semester deals strictly with Florentine culture of the past and present.  Florence, and Italy overall, has always been a place where beauty is more important than ethics or common sense, which explains the ridiculous comments and the unacceptability of a rude response. Another example: hardly anyone runs outside on the streets here, except for Kelli and I and a few other brave souls. It is regarded as an ugly action, and so, the only other option is to spend a fortune on a gym membership.  To me, that seems silly. Why anyone would spend tons of money on a gym membership when it is fifty degrees outside and perfect running weather is beyond the realm of my understanding, but to the Italians, it doesn’t look pretty, so running on the streets is a giant faux pas.

Other than running on the streets, I have, for the most part, conformed to their other cultural norms, and it hasn’t been too painful. I wear heels most of the time, keep my sweatpants in my drawer, and put on make-up every morning. Surprisingly, I have enjoyed stepping out of my slob-like self for the last month, and along with my dark, curly hair, looking presentable helps me blend in with the Florentines. Needless to say, I can feel myself beginning to change in several ways, and yet, I still feel as if I am the same person. My tastes are changing, and I am becoming much more tolerant of things I couldn’t tolerate before. I have found strength in myself that I never imagined I could possess, and I am completely relaxed and stress-free in Florence; yet, I am still myself, full of emotions and opinions and dreams. I still love to read, write and sing, and I still cry during almost every movie I watch. So, I guess that I need to regard my changes as I do the two cultures to which I’ve been exposed: I am no better or worse, but a little different than I used to be, and change, while sometimes difficult, is a good thing.

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