Age 15, Forever and Ever

You know another thing that bothers me? Yeah, I’m in a bothered mood right now, I’ll admit it. The average emotional age of the Italian man is fifteen. As I’ve said before, I didn’t like high schoolers when I was in high school, I try to avoid high schoolers now, and I’m certainly not a fan of adults who act like they’re in high school. Which is a fairly high percentage of Italian men.

I promised to return to the story of how I’ve been confused for a prostitute more than once. Right. Upon arriving in Bologna, I put up an advertisement for a language exchange partner. I’d done the same thing in Rome and Florence with great success: I met a few great people, and really enjoyed getting to know them as we practiced Italian and English with each other. I figured the same thing would happen in Bologna. Apparently not. Well, that’s not entirely true. I have met a bunch of great people. But, God, the others!

I started to receive phone calls – the “sexy voice” phone calls.
- Hello?
- Ciaooooo . . . :0) ;) (Really, I could hear the emoticons.)
- Ciao. (Silence.) Ciao? Si?
- Yes . . . . I’m calling . . . about your ad.
- For the language exchange?
- Yessss . . . When can we . . . get together?
- You’re interested in a language exchange?

After getting a few sexy voice phone calls, I’d had it, and starting giving it to them. But two phone calls were just classic.

The first one came at seven in the morning. I answered, thinking that, if someone was calling me at seven in the morning, it must be an emergency, right? Well, an emergency of sorts, I suppose . ..

- Hello?
- Ciaoooooo ;) 
- Si?
- Yes . . . I’d like to get to get together with you . . . (This guy got right to the point. Forget the pretense about the language exchange.)
- Listen, I have no idea who you are. Could you please call back another time? (Apparently I have some semblance of politeness, and a major lack of Snappy Answerability, when I’m not yet awake.)
- No, I’m really really . . . hot . . . and I want to go out now. (Panting.) Pleeeease? (By now pleading, whining, pouting.)

Ickkkk!

The second one started off as a typical sexy voice phone call, so I told the guy to get lost and hung up the phone. Then he sent me an MMS – a video message. My phone doesn’t play videos, and hence I’d never received a video message, but the written message from the phone company said there was a way to go on the internet and retrieve it. Curiosity got the cat. Yeah, you guessed it, it was a borderline-inappropriate picture of him, in the gym, all jacked up, half naked, with the written message: “If you change your mind and want to talk more about it, send me your photo. :) :)”

God!

The latest Exhibition of Immaturity is my landlord, who keeps inviting me to do things. On one hand, he’s my landlord, and he actually has been very nice, so I don’t want to pis him off. I’ve also been running with his running team (I told you: everyone here needs a team.) On the other hand, he’s a fifty-year-old Italian male who keeps touching me inappropriately. Ick! This is probably why we have sexual harassment laws in U.S. offices. Fortunately my studies are keeping me busy and my social ineptness can be amplified on command. "Really? A Sardegnan dinner? Cool. I'll have to tell my classmate, who's going to do his internship in Sardegna! He'd love it!"

As on Sesame Street, but in a much different spirit, I leave you with today’s special word. Saturday has been brought to you buy the word:

ICK.