Dispatch from Italy, where even the bin men are hot

Trigger warning: this post contains many references to standard beauty ideals and jokingly refers to some people not quite meeting them. If that causes you to re-live the trauma of being called a chunkster when you are a kid, maybe skip this one. It’s only for people with senses of humour. 

We arrived, beaten down from all our ‘non’-saying French waiters, in Italy last week. In Turin, the very first restaurant we asked to feed us agreed, without so much as a dirty look! And so began the Italian leg of our epic journey, back in the small town where I first lived at age 7, in 1983, and where my son has spent more than half the summers of his life.

Much like I spent my time in Paris marvelling at the insouciant style of French women, every time I return to Italy I marvel at the sheer physical beauty of the Italians. I mean, they are just a nation of goddamn stunners. Of course, there are a few 3’s and 4’s, and many’s a plump mamma on the beach rocking bikinis despite their ample girth, but even those who would not be able to squeeze a single leg into a size 0 nonetheless carry themselves with the same grace and confidence as most NYC models. 

Italians been beautiful since the beginning of time. (Credit: Caravaggio)

It’s something I notice in the United Kingdom and the US, that you can almost immediately tell someone’s social class by their appearance. Before they even open their mouth, you can tell if a person has grown up playing tennis and summering in France or if they spent their summers kicking a football around a housing estate. Here, that rule does not apply. I first noticed this years ago, when a neighbour of ours from Trevignano came to New York on a holiday with her boyfriend. I hadn’t see her in years, since she was a kid. She had grown into a beautiful woman, with big, almond-shaped green eyes and a petite frame. Her boyfriend resembled for all the world a Renaissance duke. Tall, wide set brown eyes and regal nose, his face framed by dark curls. Making small talk and just catching up on all the years that had passed, I asked them what they did for work. Him? A Roman bus driver. Her? A worker in an industrial laundry. Yet they both looked like Caravaggio paintings.

On the little street where my mother lives here, the bin men come a few times a week. And one of them, in particular, likes to play with a neighbour’s dog, which is how I first came to notice him, with the commotion of the dog barking with joy at his arrival. Despite his grungy work overalls, he is tall, muscular, and deeply tanned. He has an aquiline nose and a twinkle in his eye. And come to think of it, the burnt orange colour of his work uniform does work well on him. Jesus, I thought the first time I saw him. Even the refuse collector is hot. 

Yesterday, at the weekly market, I spied a nice bottle green blouse and my mother kindly offered to buy it for me. We went up to the stall owner to pay and yep, you guessed, super hot. Car mechanics, taxi-drivers, waiters, men and women up and down the social scale — just beautiful. 

And in spite of all the sun, the smoking and the wine, they do.not.age. My friends here look the same as they did when I met them, age 7. Our neighbour is in her eighties and has no discernible grey hair (and it’s natural). She is as slim and sprightly as when we moved in next door to her several decades ago.

It’s not just the Italians’ looks, it’s their bearing. They really do carry themselves like the descendants of emperors that they are. It’s truly a thing of beauty. 

They also manage to day-drink in the most decorous way possible. One of my favourite things is, on a weekend or big holiday which are occasions to enjoy long restaurant lunches, people gather for a pre-lunch drink at, like, noon. Bottles of Prosecco are popped and snacks provided as the impeccably dressed, confoundingly skinny Italians start the process of eating and drinking thousands upon thousands of calories before nonchalantly jumping in their cars and driving home. It really is the land of cool.

Try to imagine, if you will, a bunch of Brits or Paddy’s sitting down at noon, in the heat, for a few drinks. Actually, you don’t have to imagine. Any time the temperature in the UK heads above 21 degrees C (which is 69F to the Americans), just walk past your nearest beer garden and watch the day-drinking-in-the-sun carnage unfold.

I’m heading back to the United Kingdom, land of trolls and pissheads, next week. Still and all, it will be good to be home. 

I might take a week off from my newsletter next weekend, to give my brain time to start work on more serious matters again.