Women of Italy
Manuela Arcuri, actress & model
America has a permanent love affair with all things Italian, whether it's Hollywood mob movies, a passion for pizza and pasta, or an envious belief that Italians know how to enjoy life to the max, writes Italian-American Giuseppe Schillaci.
The belief that Italy and Italians hold the secret to savoring life and love is evident in the recent and awful Eat, Pray, Love starring Julia Roberts and based on the best-selling book, Eat, Pray, Love: One Woman's Search for Everything Across Italy, India and Indonesia, by Elizabeth Gilbert.
If we wished to be cruel, we could say that Gilbert searched for everything and found nothing. In the movie, Julia Roberts' character dumps her American husband, gives up her American job, and heads to Italy and countries further afield to munch on pasta, stroll through ancient alleys, and learn the art of doing nothing.
Karima el-Mahroug. Crossed legs beauties
Margareth Made. Crossed legs beauties
Carla Bruni. Crossed legs beauties
Federica Fontana. Crossed legs beauties
Monica Bellucci. Crossed legs beauties
Work ethic
Of course, the charade does not last long. The protestant work ethic and a strong sense of guilt, are enough to drive Americans back to work after a week or two of foreign travel. In fact, there are few Americans who can take a weekend break without at least once having to check their laptop or cellphone for messages.
True to American form, author Gilbert is back in the States working on consolidating her career as a best-selling author. So much for a deep spiritual change of heart.
Climate factors
Even in parts of the United States that are as warm as Italy -- Georgia, Arizona, Texas, etc -- there is nothing remotely resembling an Italian pace of life. No siestas, no leaving the office after a half day to enjoy a glass of wine at your favorite restaurant. Air-conditioning and a religious commitment to corporatism, keep the pursuit of the American dream on track.
American food culture does not help matters, with its emphasis on speed and quantity rather than quality and enjoyment. We cannot sit and savor a good cup of coffee; we're desperate to have it poured in a paper cup, mixed with all sorts of sweet nasties like peppermint crisp and ginger nuts, then drink it on the go while rushing to our next appointment.
Enjoy food
I am not exaggerating, not much at any rate. When did you last enjoy your food? When did you last focus on its preparation and taste? Chances are, you can't remember. But you will remember the meal was huge, served on plates the size of wagon wheels, probably sold as some eat-as-much-as-you can deal with limitless soda thrown in for a few cents more.
As an Italian-American I cannot deny that the American way of life has given us a standard of living -- not to be confused with quality of life -- that is the envy of the rest of the world. We work harder and longer than most Europeans. As a result our cars are bigger, our homes are bigger, and our salaries are higher. And we are not burdened by such useless anachronisms as labor unions, universal health care, and collective thinking.
But also, our guts are flabbier, and our hearts and legs are weaker. We're also addicted to pills as an answer to every problem. Your kid's too noisy: drug him. You're not happy: drug yourself. You're wife's getting you down? Off to the shrink she goes for a few doses of happy pills.
Nanny state
Americans are individualists, boldly making our mark on the world. We are not protected by a welfare social net. If we are sick, we pay to get well. If we go on vacation, we pay in full for the privilege. If we get into conflict with the boss, we fight it out or leave. We don't need a labor union to defend us. We don't need a nanny state to look after us. We don't want five weeks paid vacation because we wouldn't know what to do with it other than use the time to find a second or third job.
The corporate approach to life seeps into American romance and takes over. A love affair has to be scheduled and planned like a business meeting. I once fell in love with my manager's gorgeous ex-wife, Claudia. She was built like a young Sophia Loren: dark hair, curves upon curves that just invited you to nuzzle closer ... but Claudia was Italian in appearance only.
Our intimacy, always brief, always clinical, took place on Tuesday evenings from 6 p.m. to 7.40 p.m. She arrived at my apartment immaculately dressed: high, black heels; deep red lipstick; perfectly manicured, blood red nails; black stockings; and tight designer dresses.
Foreign invasion
The meetings required planning equivalent to invading a foreign country. Our time together was planned in minute detailed, choreographed, taking place in a very strict order: Claudia arrived; she sipped a glass of mineral water; she, well, you can gues the rest.
This lasted for eight long months, always the same day, the same time, the same routine. By the end of it, I was bored out of my skull.
No passion
For a woman of Italian heritage, Claudia was surprisingly passionless. I saw no rages, no frantic hand gestures, no screaming and pleading, no begging to be taken, no love-making anywhere other than in bed. Her husband was American, a man called Jeff, so there wasn't even the titillating prospect of being chased and beaten by henchmen named Bruno and Luigi.
By Giuseppe Schillaci
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