So here’s me, Little Miss Know-It-All, taking a picture of this sign posted on a shuttered storefront about a week ago, breezily walking by and thinking to my super-know-it-all-little-self “I’m sure I can come up with some snotty comment to poke fun at the store owner who’d post a sign on his business that says “Closed for Flu.” That’s kind of silly, isn’t it? Yes, it is.”
Fast forward to last Thursday night, when the Universe decided to show me just what it means to have to close your business for the flu, as I thrashed about all night battling a high fever and basically feeling like I was on the edge of death, or at least Dante’s vestibule of hell. Yes, folks, I was officially “Chiuso per Influenza” and let me tell you, this year’s flu ain’t no joke. I am just now emerging from my bed after 2 full days.
Can I tell you another reason why I love these handwritten signs? Because they almost always, pretty much inevitably, end up having some smart ass remark scrawled on them, in response to the main message. No exception here. Underneath the “closed for the flu” message, someone who is probably even more know-it-all than I am walked by and wrote “Why didn’t you get vaccinated?”
But, enough about the Raging Flu Monster of 2013. Let’s get on with the voting, shall we?
I don’t really have much to say (that’s particularly useful), except that I wanted to show anyone who comes from my home country (or any other country with less than like 30 different political parties), that voting here looks a *wee* bit complicated.
To answer your question—no, I will not be voting. I still have to finish applying for my citizenship, so there. Not like I’d vote if I had the chance to. Are you kidding me?
I found a paper left on a bunch of windshields by my apartment. It’s a “fac-simile” (I just love how in Italy they write it like that. I don’t know why. FAC-SIMILE. So old-fashioned) of a ballot. Now, this particular one is for Berlusconi’s party so you see that’s the symbol that’s highlighted. But what I really wanted to point out was just how super-duper fun an Italian regional election ballot is! I mean, let’s compare, shall we?
U.S. presidential election ballot:
Pretty straightforward, no? Black and white, two political parties, check the box, go drink a beer and celebrate. Not much to it.
Italian regional election ballot:
Weeeeee! Kind of makes you want to do a jig, no? I mean, so colorful! All kinds of little round symbols and pictures. A little hand showing where you’re supposed to actually write in the name for the candidate (this I don’t really understand but it’s fun). You get to make X’s on the pictures, and write things, I mean honestly people, voting in an Italian election is, well, it’s like a microcosm of Italy compared to the U.S., is it not?
I really think one of the important vocab families to know, if you’re going to live in Italy (or hell, even visit for that matter!) is the whole family of words that revolve around “demonstrations.” Manifestazione is a way to say that a public protest is going to take place, and sciopero, many of you already know, is strike.
A sciopero is a bit different from a manifestazione, and sometimes, as in the case of the event yesterday (pictured above), they take place simultaneously. When transport workers strike (sciopero), they don’t generally take to the streets and protest (manifestazione)–they just don’t show up for work, and your buses don’t run.
When something happens like yesterday’s huge manifestazione, that’s cause for even more concern, in my opinion.
Yesterday has been dubbed with the Twitter hashtag #N14, which stands for November 14. It was an international “European Anti-Austerity Day” and protests against government fiscal cuts took place all over Europe.
Rome had its fair share of protesters. On my way to work yesterday morning, my bus got blocked in traffic at Piramide as this group of students marched through the traffic circle.
It was nuts. The bus driver let his passengers off right where you see the pictures taken from, because there was no other way to reach the entrance to the Metro across the street, where the bus normally stops. In typical Roman fashion, he hollered out to the passengers as they got off the bus: “Watch out for the scooters, eh!!” God bless.
As we managed to round the bend towards Piazza Venezia, there was a pretty stark contrast between the carefree tourists taking pictures of the Vittorio Emanuele monument and the huge police buses with iron-barred windows.
I imagine that most tourists had no idea what was happening or about to happen, as the protesters started their march near Piazza Venezia in front of the Bocca della Verità, and planned to finish the march at Piazza Farnese (near Campo de’ Fiori).
More about the demonstrations specific to Italy can be found here on the Italian Huffington Post.
Living in Rome, public demonstrations become a sort of way of life. Very different than the States. Perhaps because I never lived in a big city in the States, I never experienced the chaos and disruption caused by these demonstrations.
Do the protests make news? Of course. Do they actually provoke real change? That is always a debatable question.
Ok, folks, I’m serious here, this time I really need your input. So put on your critical thinking caps and give a girl a hand.
Last week, I was thinking about all my NYC girlfriends and enjoying their stories of dating. Apparently, or so they tell me, “everyone” uses online dating sites in the States. My girls on the other side of the pond have a new man on their arms pretty much every night. Even though my lifestyle wouldn’t permit that kind of action, it got me to thinking: (here’s where I get all Sarah Jessica Parker on you)
“Do online dating sites in Italy work as well as in the States? What kind of men are on them?”
I decided to do some “research” in the name of journalistic curiosity. (Sorry, I don’t mean to offend any journalists out there who have actual credentials.)
I signed up for a site, loaded a few pictures of me from my Facebook page, and was trying to figure out all the cutesy little symbols and menus when I was informed that someone “wants to meet you.”
Whoa, baby! That was quick. And I’m not even drunk yet!
I figure out how to message the guy and I send a note: “How does this site work? I just joined.”
We ended up chatting for over a half hour. He was quick-witted, has a responsible and legal job, even has kids, which for me was a plus since all the men I’ve met so far my age don’t have kids and therefore have a really hard time relating to my life with three kids.
I ask, “Are you separated?”
He says, “Separated inside the house.”
I was just about to cue the epic fail horn, when I remembered my mission to my readers, and my own curiosity got the best of me. WTF IS THIS SEPARATI DENTRO CASA THING?
I didn’t ask right then and there. I assumed it to mean that he was legally separated from his wife and that they shared the same house but maintained separate bedrooms and were basically the emotional equivalent of roommates.
Herein, as a foreshadowing of what was to come (which of course my Italian readers and all readers less naive than I am will have already seen coming), I will offer up a phrase that one of my high school teachers, who was a real hard-ass former US Marine, used to say to us all the time:
“When you assume, you make an ASS out of YOU and ME.”
Get it? Get it? Because, I’m here to tell you: it’s true.
Anyhoo, we exchange phone numbers and start texting over the next few days. He’s lovely. Good looking, sweet, charming, smart. Total pitter-patter.
Finally we talk on the phone. At one point, I have to address the elephant in the room.
“So…separated at home. What exactly IS that, anyways? I mean… are you still married?”
“Yes. My wife… blah blah blah blah”
I think this is the point when the Twilight Zone song started playing in my head and my eyes started to cross.
But, being the curious know-it-all nosy brat that I am, I start grilling him.
“But, but, but… wait. Help me to understand this. You can’t possibly sleep in the same bed though, right?”
“Of course we do! Otherwise how would the kids see it?”
Here’s where, had I been drinking any sort of beverage, it would have splattered out of my mouth all over the wall. If it were milk, and if this had made me laugh, it would have been coming out of my nose.
“WHAAA?”
As we delve now into my subjective analysis of this phenomenon, I offer you two caveats:
1) I am American living in Italy. I love my adopted country but am often mystified and intrigued by its ways. I haven’t heard of arrangements like this in the States. I may be wrong. I’m not here to morally judge, either. I’m one person with my own views. So, like don’t hate on me for anything I say, because, duh. I’m not here to beat up on anyone. I just want to figure this out.
2) Um, maybe both were in the above one.
So, he goes on to explain that, “for all intents and purposes, we’re separated.” (Um, ok?) Financially, he tells me, totally two independent entities. (Thus now you can’t tell me that you still live together because you wouldn’t be able to afford your own place, which is the only possible justification I could see for a situation like this.)
I say, “Wow. Because, I’ve been separated and now divorced for nearly two years, and frankly the idea of having to live in the same house with my ex, even though we’re on good terms, well, that just wouldn’t be good for the kids.”
He says, “Well, you have to put your kids before yourself. I can’t imagine not waking up to my kids every morning.”
Now, I’m no psychologist, but when you read that in black and white, it’s a direct contradiction. Put kids before self + my needs come first because I don’t want to not wake up to them every morning = one confused Shelley. But, whatever.
I say, “But if you consider yourself separated, but you’re still married, and she’s still technically your wife, and you still sleep in the same bed, and live together, I don’t understand how that’s separated.”
He says, “Because I love my kids so much that I’m willing to live with someone who I would rather tell to go to hell, but it’s important for kids and their fragile infantile egos to see that mom and dad still care about each other and live together. I mean, sometimes we hug and stuff, just to fake it for them.”
(FYI his children are younger than 10 but older than 5.)
I say, “Well, I think you’re underestimating your children. What you call “their fragile infantile egos” are actually quite acute. How long do you think you can pretend and play this game? I bet you they already understand.”
At this point, I guess my grilling was becoming not such the fun and flirty situation he had been looking for, because he abruptly said, “Let’s change the subject.”
I say, “Why? Does it make you uncomfortable talking about this? Because I’m really curious about how it works. I think it’s a cultural difference. I don’t know any Americans who do this.” (Once again, I’m just one person. I’m not trying to say it doesn’t exist. But I certainly don’t think it’s commonplace.)
He says, “Well, you Americans are too quick to divorce. You break up in such a hurry and divorce so quickly.”
Mah. I don’t know how to respond to that. I mean, I’m divorced at a fairly young age. I was with my ex-husband for 10 years, however, and I’ve never dated in Italy until now. So I can’t really comment on much there.
Folks, I don’t know. Truly. I mean, I don’t have moral objections to couples living their lives the best way they see fit. I don’t think it’s for me to judge ANYONE for how they choose to live their life, so long as they don’t hurt others or impede on others’ freedom or right to live the way they want to live their lives. “Live and let live” so to speak.
For me personally though, I find it really hard to wrap my head around the proposition of becoming emotionally involved with a man who goes to bed with his wife every night, regardless of whether or not it’s an agreed arrangement between both parties that they can see other people. I suppose it would be like getting involved with someone who told you that he or she has an “open” marriage. I have no moral objections to it. But, as a woman who, maybe naively, hopes to find a quality partner who can help me to grow as a person, share my life, hopes, dreams, failures, etc., all that stuff that I think many people hope for in a partner, my question to you and to myself is: How can that be done in a situation like this?
Like so many things in life: it’s complicated.
Maybe that’s where Zuckerberg came up with the relationship status for Facebook.
Sigh. Back to the drawing board, I suppose. I don’t think I’ll be trying anymore online meeting sites anytime soon, however.
First poster to greet me on my return to Rome? At the airport pharmacy, from our dear friends over at the Somatoline company, purveyors of the trusty “circumference-reducing intense abdominal night cream” for men from my previous post.
Let it hereby be known:
“Cellulite is an illness. A medicine can fight it.”
Um, ok. Good to know.
N.B. The woman in the poster has no visible cellulite, like, anywhere. Even though she’s trying so hard to squeeze it out. It’s just not there, folks.
Only in Italy: poster on the pharmacy door advertising a night cream for men, in which apparently the effect is sculpted abs. Check him out! Looks convincing to me. Forget the gym, just go to the farmacia! It says “Stomach and Abdominals Intensive Night: Helps to reduce circumference in two weeks while you sleep.”
I don’t know. I still think the plank is a cheaper and more reliable option. (Who knows, maybe Scott here has been using Somatoline cream.) But judging by that poster, I could very well could be wrong!
A post that has been in the making for quite some time. Far too long, truly. A post geared towards foreign women, maybe even especially American women, who come to Italy with all of their doe-in-the-headlights innocence and fresh-scrubbed milkmaid smiles, giggling at the Mediterranean men purring “Ciao bella” at them on the street. Or at the bar. Or at the gas station. Or at the bus stop. Or online. Or wherever. Hell–maybe they’re even yelling it from the entrance to the women’s bathroom at McDonald’s.
Suffice it to say, they’re everywhere. In waiting.
This will probably be long-winded and way too self-revelatory but frankly I don’t care anymore. Once you become a 35-year old divorceè raising three children under age five in a foreign country, “giving a shit” about a lot of things just doesn’t really exist anymore, outside of my family and close friends.
So before we begin this odyssey, let me provide a brief, 5-second soundtrack. Ready?
Play.
Yes. That, my friends, is widely known as the Price is Right “fail horn.” As in, EPIC FAIL. As in, you’re such an idiot you just guessed that electric toothbrush costs $90 when in fact it costs $9. Or, take poor Elisabeth here. Ok folks, this 2 min. clip is a metaphor for life, ready? Go.
Did you hear the epic fail horn? Did you hear Bob Barker correct himself when he was about to say “You didn’t win a DA….well, you get ONE DOLLAR.”
And then he goes, “I’m sick! That’s terrible!”
And please take note that only TWO products were over $9.50. All the rest were under. All poor Elisabeth had to do was choose the goddamn Garlique or the Absorbine Jr. or even the damn GERITOL, for Christ’s sake!
But noooo, she had to go for the fool’s gold and pick CALCIUM supplements. (Even though personally I think she should have just chosen the shimmering bronze powder guaranteed to “unleash your animal instincts.”)
Where am I going with this? Oh please, bear with me. It will all come full circle. I think.
*takes deep breath*
I am probably going to make some really broad and unfair generalizations. But hey, that’s life. I have had some anthropological experiences up to now in the Roman jungle, the results of which I believe make me qualified to accurately attest to the existence of a species known in the wild as the cazzaro romano.
How would you translate this, exactly? Roman bullshit artist? I think that’s my closest stab. And yes, before you ask–trust me. The Roman bullshit artist is a species unto itself.
I have a few personal examples but I won’t go into detail. However, I will say that both of the married cazzaro examples in which I was preyed upon were nearly identical in scope, format, and technique. KNOW THE WARNING SIGNS, ladies.
The cazzaro romano is looking for vulnerable but socially outgoing and friendly women who feel flattered by their unsolicited attention and affection. Once the compliments have worked their sleight-of-hand magic, and the poor girl has stars in her eyes (“he said I was BELLAAAAA…sigh…!!”) he can pretty easily deceive, because the woman is, for whatever reason, in a vulnerable enough position to believe nearly anything he says and/or overlook any ridiculousness he throws out there (ie, any shit shoveled). He tells blatant and outright lies without blinking an eye, in order to catch his prey. If this sounds a lot like the definition of a sociopath, you would be right. Trust me. I read this book a couple years back and was convinced it could be any of the cazzari I’ve met. I’m sure there are a wide variation among the species, but today I will be focusing on the MARRIED CAZZARO.
This is where I get into controversial territory. But the amount of shit I give about this is below zero at this point, simply because I know I’m not the only one who has come dangerously close to getting snared into the traps set by these jackasses.
Take an American woman–outgoing, smiley, trusting–and place her in the vicinity of an Italian man around her age who’s unhappily married but enjoys the security and social status bestowed by marriage. This may be an extension of the mamma effect, only now instead of living at mamma’s house, he’s conveniently replaced her with a wife, and possibly someone to raise his kids, present or future as the case may be. Add in sociopathic tendencies, especially agility for pathologically lying, and you’ll be on your way.
I don’t think that married men prey on women here more than in any other place I know; however, I do think there is one distinction in Italy as compared to my experience in the US: here in Italy, it seems to be widely accepted that married men take lovers and cheat on their wives.
I’m just putting that out there. I call it like I see it. I’ve never talked about this on my blog, but frankly now that I’m single again and truly for the first time ever in Italy (I met my ex-husband at age 24 on the first day I arrived in Rome 11 years ago), I’m intrigued by it and I’ve been preyed on now by more than one married man. Have not had an affair, in case you’re wondering. Ick. That would be gross. Plus my bullshit meter is still just barely enough in tact to unmask the hooded villian before he makes his move. But, let me tell you, they’re really good at pretending they aren’t attached, or, if they have the audacity to admit they are, or rather the inability to hide it, they’re also quite skilled at making it sound like they’re on the verge of a collapsing marriage, blah blah blah. They do the whole “feel sorry for me” thing really, really well. Sensitive, social worker-types like me are the perfect foil for the drooling wolves in sheep’s clothing.
I have no doubt this happens in the States to women as well. But what I wonder is: why is it that it seems so much more commonplace and accepted here? Why is it that I have more than one couple of acquaintances here whom everyone in the circle of friends knew that the man, or both, were cheating? It becomes easy dinner conversation when the couple isn’t around, and yet, the couples nearly never break up. There’s a fairly common phenomenon here known informally as “separati dentro casa” (separated in the home) in which they basically agree to have separate lives but still stay married and live together, especially when kids are involved. What is this?
The cazzaro romano can sometimes be harmless and fun, but the married version is really good at his game. He has a lot of practice and always, always has a *just believable enough* response to any question. He can make up a lie in the blink of an eye and can really take advantage of a vulnerable woman.
I have no moral judgement against these guys. There are certainly plenty of unhappy women out there who are willing to have an affair, and that’s their business. Hell, there are women out there who fall for murderers in prison. Not my business. My only point here is that, foreign women coming abroad are by nature vulnerable, to a certain extent. I see it a lot with newly arrived (and especially younger) expats. They’ll give the time of day to any man who compliments them on the street. They strike up conversations feeling so flattered that a man says they’re beautiful. I know, because this was basically me before I got all cynical and bitter (like a few hours ago) and decided enough is enough.
Why do Italian men looking for an affair strike up conversations with foreign women?
Because the Italian women WON’T LOOK AT THEM. Because they KNOW THE GAME.
I don’t really have much else to offer here. This was more of a diatribe than any kind of helpful field guide. What I really need is an Italian woman to write a post on this phenomenon. What I really need is an Italian woman to write a guide to the Italian cazzaro and how to avoid him, for foreign women.
Frankly, I for one have come to the sad conclusion that my prospects for a normal dating life and/or healthy relationship here in Rome post-divorce are pretty slim to none. There’s still a taboo against divorced and separated women to a certain extent, plus there’s the whole MILF thing which basically makes me want to retch. And then, the simple fact of having three (wow, count ‘em! THREE!!!!) kids makes you a sort of social freak. (TRUST ME ON THIS ONE. I live in a country with a NEGATIVE BIRTHRATE. The question I get asked most often when I’m out with my kids is always, “Are they ALL yours?” I still haven’t come up with a decent, bitchy-enough response to this question, simply because when the people ask it, they’re totally sincere. Like, they simply just CAN’T BELIEVE one woman could actually give birth to and then try to attempt to raise three kids. In fact the usual response back to me when I say “Yes, all three,” is this, swear to God: “Che corraggio!” which means, “You’re so brave!”)
Sigh. End of rant. I will now go back to hiding under a rock, of course bringing my fully-charged iPod with me so that I can listen to the epic fail horn on repeat, for all eternity.
Women, we need to write a book about our stories with Italian boys. I hardly have any experience, given that I met my future husband on day one and we were together for 10 years. So basically my dating life begins now, at 35, a prospect which, frankly, makes my stomach churn.
You know what book I really need to read, folks? This one. I think Andrea and I have had a long-overdue coffee coming for a while now.
Solidarity, ladies! Strength in numbers!
And, oh yeah, the coming full circle with the pricing games part of this post? Because you know I aim to please. You see, it’s like this: the cazzaro romano is very charming, and very charismatic, and has hypnotic eyes that lure you into a false sense of security. Just like that sign that flashes out quickly $10,000 (TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS!!!!) and then all of a sudden goes down to a mere dollar, (as in: WTF just happened there? but you’re already hooked in now) with the promise that if you can only guess what goddamn stupid OTC pharmacy product is less than $9.50, then you’ll really, truly win the TEN–THOUSAND–DOLLARS!!!!!!! So you sit there, and you listen to all the b.s. descriptions of the product (cazzaro tells you all about himself and how you and he are made for each other, etc.). The Geritol is insurance that you’ll live together until old age, nice and strong with your Citracal-reinforced bones. But then, what? What’s that, you say? The Citracal costs more than $9.50? And someone already put a ring on it? Holy fuc— but, but…and it was all just an illusion. The Geritol, the Citracal, even the pills to give you all the health benefits of garlic without the inevitable stink. All of it, vanishing away in a sparkling cloud of the “costs more than $9.50″ Physician’s Formula shimmering and bronzing powder that was really supposed to unleash your animal instinct.
AND THERE’S THE RUB.
Yep. There’s Bob Barker, there’s the fail horn, there’s the revelation that, holy shite, this dude isn’t worth TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS! Oh no, folks! This dude is trolling on women who giggle and smile and fall prey to his charms and… [cue epic fail horn] you didn’t even win a DA…
Well, you get ONE DOLLAR.
Thanks for playing! You’re in the frickin’ Euro Zone here! That shit isn’t even worth 85 euro cents, for the love of God!
And that, my friends, is when I will wholeheartedly agree with our good ol’ Bob cazzaro Barker.
I’m sick!
That’s terrible!
I really want to hope to end all hope that Elisabeth took that damn dollar and went and bought herself something nice. Maybe like a small cup of Dunkin’ Donuts regular coffee or something.
With my roughly 82 euro cents, I intend to treat myself to a nice, dark, bitter espresso. The bitterer (yes, it is a word, because I say so), the better.
(Muuuuhahahaha) Evil laughter shall be my constant companion – starting – NOW!
To be followed soon by my pièce de résistance which I have been dreaming up for the last five years, more or less, about the cazzaro romano. But I’m still doing personal research on that one, unfortunately for me. Stay tuned.
Meanwhile I bring you a SPECIAL REQUEST from a Twitter friend, a Roman in London (go on and follow @terespol). Pretty damn cool when your readers start making special requests for you to explain Roman cultural concepts in English. I’m starting to feel like a bit of an expert which makes me OH SO HAPPY.
Ah, yes, today we shall dive into the stinking, rotting dumpster where the concept of “coatto” makes its home. Just like in any disgusting mess, you can sometimes find a rare treasure, and such is the paradox of the coatto. My Twitter pal is so right when mentioning that the English word “tacky” or the British English word “chav” just doesn’t quite do justice to the Italian word coatto. As with many Italian words, their richness exceeds any sort of precise translation and begs an entire story be told.
And now the story can be told. Oh, yes, it can.
Let’s do a quick primer, in any case, on our ideas surrounding the English concepts of “tacky” or “chav” (although I admit my schooling comes from the American shores). Our friends over at the Urban Dictionary define “tacky” thus:
1) In bad taste. This usage, as opposed to the physical description, originated in the rural South but has since been adopted for use nationwide and in urban settings. Wearing a translucent blouse and a black bra is downright tacky. 2) gaudy, flamboyant, and flashy in apparel;
wearing lots of gold jewelry; pimp-like appearance; 3) Someone that is overdressed/overdone and is just a show off; see: Kim Kardashian; anyone from the cast of Jersey Shore.
Yes, that’s all fine and good, and of course it gives you a good jumping-off point to put your listener in the right general context. However, is there a special species of tacky chav that only grows on Italian trees? I’ll take the lead from my dear reader and go out on a limb (pun intended!) and say: why, yes.
Yes, there is.
First, allow me to gather some photographic evidence to assist us in our investigation.
Here we find a treasure trove of coatto-ness (ie, coattezza, perhaps?) just brimming over with greasy love for adoring fans. Allow me to unpack them for you:
1) Sleazy smile
2) Cigarette hanging out of sleazy smiling mouth with inimitable nonchalance: i.e., “I was born with this cigarette in my mouth, bitch!”
3) Willingness to lift shirt for cameraman
4) Inherent belief that lifting shirt for cameraman is somehow pleasing to viewers
5) Hip region in plain view with underwear band hovering above jeans
6) Stating the obvious: random shitty tattoos on his chest
7) Stating the not-so-obvious: random shitty tattoo in the middle of his chest is the name of his shitty paparazzi company which he aptly and oh-so-coatto-ly named “I Corona’s”
8) Do I really need to note for my astute readers the coatto inherent in the totally gramatically incorrect use of the apostrophe in his COMPANY’S NAME?
9) Answer: no.
10) Mysterious cocktail with random orange floaty crap that vaguely resembles an orange. This is coatto because it reminds me of a concoction that people used to brew up at college parties in old 5-gallon pickle buckets, a whole mess load of grain alcohol and fruit that was called “jungle juice.” And if you want the recipe, who am I to turn you away? I mean, holy shit, someone actually purchased a domain name called “junglejuice.org” AND put a TUTORIAL VIDEO on it. Please note the specific use of “Boone’s Strawberry Hill” which I cannot even bring myself to dignify with the term wine (synonym: Two Buck Chuck). Do not interpret my knowledge of this terminology to mean that I myself am coatta. I am merely the reporter of such phenomena. This concoction, in any case, my friends, would be coatto if it was in Italian. Are you beginning to see the cross-cultural applications ?
But, as usual, I digress.
Lest I bore you to tears by arriving at #3,249 of Corona’s sheer abudance of coatto-ness, let’s move on to the female species:
I give you the holy grail of coatta (trumpets sound): Valeria Marini.
This is what Italians cutely refer to as the “lato B” or B-side. Oops. Because truly folks, the front is my favorite:
Awww, Vale… you’re so cute with your random little teddy bear with a weird green thing on its face I have no idea what that is wtf? And is that some kind of cubic zirconium heart dangling from your ridiculously sparkly ring that you might have purchased at Accessorize?
Don’t worry, honey, we won’t tell anyone that you’re ridiculous. It will be our little secret.
But while we’re on the topic, who’s this chick?
Article says “After Antonio Manfredonia, I’m Single and Happy.” Coatta alert! One, because anyone who has to justify being single by saying they’re happy is clearly lying. Two, because who the hell is this Antonio Manfredonia of which she speaks? Oh, dear Google, can you be of service?
I knew you wouldn’t disappoint us, Antonio! Lovely you, coatto you! You were only 28 years old, you’d been with this 50-year old coatta for THREE WHOLE MONTHS and you said, ANDIQUOTE “I asked her to marry me.“
Sure you did, sport! Any of us would, clearly.
Oh, people, I could go on and on and on, and yet—why? The land of the coatti is truly a never-ending source of ridicule and catty delight.
And, just for kicks, how about some non-famous coatto looks for your viewing enjoyment. The typical coatto romano:
OMGOMGOMG! That comes from a web post in which there is actually a COATTO CONTEST … and I learned a new word for coatto! Tamarro! This is so exciting I can hardly stand it. Look at this dude’s elegant definition:
- Il tamarro, o meglio il coatto (in romano), è una persona che riesce a fare tutto, adattarsi a ogni situazione, anche a indossando un vestito elegante.
“The tamarro, or better the coatto (in Roman dialect), is a person who can do everything, adapting themselves to any situation, even while wearing an elegant suit.”
Ok, that my friends is the definition of a coatto AS SEEN THROUGH HIS VERY OWN EYES. The psychological implications of this are huge. I just might enroll at La Sapienza in psicologia so I can write my thesis based on that statement alone.
But leave it to 06blog.it (06 is the Rome telephone prefix) to bring us the priceless example that went viral a couple summers back. Every damn single time my son wants to buy a Calippo popsicle I think of this video.
Poor kids. It’s not their fault they’re coatti. Not their fault they can “adapt to any situation–even if it requires wearing a fancy elegant suit!” They just are, and they just can.
And so, I leave you with this parting gift. These two poor girls on Ostia Beach, just being themselves, and yet being such incredible examples of “coatte romane” that the YouTube video comes out with SUBTITLES IN ITALIAN. Yes, my friends, this is coattezza at its artistic height.
