Italian
men are dogs and Italian women are cats. The statement feels so very bold that
I almost fear to write it. Firstly, because one’s childhood habit of comparing
people to barnyard critters and jungle animals may best be left to the private
sphere. And then there’s the risk of labeling a whole nation according to two
derisory categories-no matter how well loved cats and dogs are in the real
world. Nonetheless, I’m convinced there’s something to that initial statement.
So I’m sharing it, risk or not, ready or not.
The
inborn grace of Italian women, the ferociousness with which they protect all
they possess is surely the first clue worth noticing. Find me a single donna italiana who does not have a
lioness nature about her. They are the hunters whose feline eyes miss nothing.
And their natural sense of elegance, no matter their size or age, can only be
compared to that of a cat. With the single furl of a scarf, they are suitably
dressed. With a wave of their hand, the family is fed. Theirs is the kind of
magic that only cats can know. No one commands a space the way an Italian woman
can, and no one leaves a room the way she does. She’s superior whether Siamese
or strong-willed tabby.
And
the men? They do not leave rooms: they bound into them. With perky ears and
wagging tails, they are heedless about silly rules like not trailing mud on the
floor. With charm like theirs, who has to worry about paw prints? They have no
time for worry anyway. When taken with something, they’ll tear around the room
with puppy-like eagerness, and like dogs, find whatever they’re doing
world-stopping and delightfully urgent.
In
Italian, when a dog greets its owner at the door, fa le feste al padrone. He ‘makes parties’ for his master-as if the
latter’s presence merits a personal holiday. In a country like Italy, it’s not
uncommon for this expression to be used for people too. Fare le feste a qualcuno-to welcome someone with
center-of-the-universe warmth-is an inborn talent, especially for the country’s
males. This essential quality is part of their youthful appeal. For while
Italian women are often quite ageless, Italian men remain forever young. This
may be why, much like dogs, they tend to hide as soon as there’s wind of
trouble coming. I wouldn’t say that it’s cowardice. It’s just a question of
constitution. Italian men are fundamentally peaceable folk, who like the good
life and who never can figure out what all the fuss on the rooftop’s about.
Now,
I may be entirely wrong in my thinking. When Italian children think you’re off
base, they say acqua, and when you’re
nearing the target they yell fuoco in
the same way English-speaking kids will tell you you’re ‘hot’ or ‘cold’
depending on how close you’ve come to stumbling upon whatever’s well hidden.
This whole article could be acqua,
but writing it scares me enough to think that there must be some fire in it.
To
be sure, I checked the whole thing out with Giorgio Moro, my oldest and most
honest friend. We spend rare time together as adults, but, happily, last
Thursday was a national holiday. If on the same continent, Giorgio and I meet
halfway from wherever we are. There is nothing quite like spending Saint’s Day
with my very favorite sinner.
‘Is
it fair to say that Italian women are like cats and Italian men are like dogs?’
I asked him once dinner was over.
He
shook his head in disapproval. ‘Last time I saw you, you said you were going to
stop scrutinizing people.’
‘This
isn’t scrutiny. It’s admiration.’
Giorgio
looked doubtful. Then he cracked the shell off another boiled chestnut and
passed it across the table to me. I could never master getting undercooked castagne out of their skin whole. ‘It’s
admiration that sounds a lot like criticism.’
‘Well,
you know I’m never easy on those I love best.’
‘True.’
Giorgio half smiled. ‘It must be the cat in you.’
Yes.
Indeed it was. And how very doggy of him to see it.
