This Woman’s World

Fimmina senza amuri è fiore senza oduri
A woman without love is a flower without perfume
– Sicilian proverb

It’s the last class of the evening. We’ve been talking about manners and culture, and we’re all tired. I wind up the last minutes with an open class chat about men and women and what they expect of each other in different cultures. I throw some provocative statements out into the room. ‘Men should always hold doors open for women.’ There’s a mixed reaction to this one. A few say ‘yes’, but most say ‘no, not necessarily’. There’s a brief discussion which ends when one student says, “You hold the door for someone who needs it: it doesn’t matter if they’re a man or a woman,” and we all nod, satisfied with this sensible conclusion.

I decide to up the stakes a little: ‘Men should always pay for women when out on a date.’ This one gets more ‘yes’ answers. One student ventures the concept of going Dutch, but the men in the class are nonplussed by the idea. They are men: ergo, they pay. I put forward the point of view that, as a woman, being in debt to a man who wants to have sex with you puts you in a position of weakness. They look at me with incomprehension: it’s either not an idea that’s occurred to them or it’s something that isn’t talked about.

Nuddu si pigghia si nun s’assumigghia
Nobody marries who isn’t alike
– Sicilian proverb

We move on and I make a final statement: ‘Men should always see a woman to her door at the end of the night’. There’s a resounding ‘yes’ from the class. They’re confused that I would even question it. When I tell them that I’ve never been seen home after a date they are appalled. One woman, her mouth dropping open in dumbfounded amazement, says, “But we Sicilians always say that Englishmen are so well-mannered. We call them ‘lords’!” I try to explain that London – where I’ve done all my dating – is a law unto itself. When each person has travelled an hour on the tube from opposite sides of the city to the centre to meet, for the man to then take the woman home is impractical. It falls upon deaf ears. “It isn’t safe for a woman to walk on her own,” says Gaetano with finality.

Cù asini caccia e fimmini cridi, faccia di paradisu nun ni vidi
No-one who hunts girls or donkeys will ever get to heaven
– Sicilian proverb

A different night on Via Umberto. It’s late so I’m walking home from work the long way, along better-lit main streets rather than cut-throughs. A man on a bicycle goes past and slows to match my pace. He says something – I miss the words, but when a man on the road stops a woman walking on her own it’s not generally for innocent reasons. I’ve been caught before, thinking that someone wanted information when in fact they wanted me to ‘go for a ride’. I keep my head down and ignore him, pulling my bag closer to my body as I carry on walking. He persists. “No, no! It’s OK! Please!” I stop walking but stay the far side of the pavement from him. “Are you going to Piazza Duomo?” he asks. I wilfully misunderstand and point the way. “It’s down there to the left.” He shakes his head “No! I asked if *you were going* to Piazza Duomo.” I realise that there is no-one else around, and start walking again, anxious to get away from him. “No. I’m not.” I hurry towards the brighter lights and people on Via Etnea, hoping I can get there without incident.

When I reach Via Etnea, where the street is wide and well-lit and other people are walking, I slow my pace a little. I feel safer as I pass Savia and Spinella cafes, with their customers sitting outside eating granita. Then the man on the bicycle appears again. This time his intentions are more than clear. He waves a fistful of money at me. “Are you going to Piazza Duomo? Do you want to spend half an hour with me?” I snap. “Fuck you! I’m going home after a long day at work. Leave me alone!” I carry on walking as fast as I can, head down, cursing my stupidity for having lost my cool and for having told him I was going home. If he follows me I’m screwed: there’s nowhere to divert to. He seems to have got the message, but I don’t feel safe until I’ve got into my building and slammed the heavy outer iron door behind me.

La bona mugghieri è la prima ricchizza di la casa
A good wife is the richest part of the home
– Sicilian proverb

“You remember that husband and wife team?” asks Deanna. “The beginners?” I nod. “Well, he doesn’t come any more – he decided he was too stupid.” I make a sad face as I shove pasta into my mouth. He’d have been fine in a lesson with someone of the same level as him, but his wife had just enough knowledge to make him feel inadequate. Well, that and the fact that she’d sit there looking irritated at having to wait for him and then scold him when he didn’t get things right. Practising negative structures one day I asked him if she was German, expecting to get the reply, ‘no, she’s Italian.’ Instead, he sniggered and wagged his finger like a stern schoolmarm, watching his wife out of the corner of his eye. “Yes, she’s German!” His wife rolled her eyes without rancour: I don’t think this was the first time she’d heard the joke.

Deanna continues. “Anyway, I got one of my other students a job with them. They wanted a man – a *man*, mind you.” Chris raises an eyebrow and Deanna nods. Her voice is light but the sarcasm is impossible to miss. “Yeah – because of course women get pregnant and have periods and stuff.” She laughs: the brittle, resigned kind of laugh that means it isn’t funny at all.

È bona donna, donna chi nun parra
A good woman is one who doesn’t speak
– Sicilian proverb

Chris waves his fork over the mini arancini left on his plate. “Anyone want one of these?” Deanna gives a filthy chuckle. “Go on, Kate. You know you want a piece of Chris’ balls.” Chris looks across at her. “I’d say Kate’s got plenty of balls already, actually. Not like them.” He flicks his eyes towards the three women on the table next to us. “See those girls? They’ve been sitting there in silence ever since they arrived. It’s the men doing all the talking.” I glance sideways. He’s right. They’re not even talking to each other; instead listening in meek subservience to their menfolk holding court. “Just wait until they marry them, though,” says Chris. “They’re all sweetness and light while they’re reeling them in, but then they get married and turn into proper umbrella breakers.” We laugh at his use of one of our boss’ favourite phrases to describe someone who’s a real martinet. “How does the umbrella break, though?” muses Chris. “I mean – is it like this?” – he mimes stabbing someone – “or like this?” he whacks an imaginary umbrella over someone’s head. He grins appreciatively as he performs the second action. “It’s that one, isn’t it? Has to be!”

Pigghiala bedda e pigghiala pri nienti, ca di la bedda ti nnì fai cuntento
Take her if she’s beautiful – even if she has nothing – because you can be proud of her beauty
– Sicilian proverb

I’m five minutes from home when I feel the first spot of rain. I look up at the sky and quicken my pace. Two minutes from home the spots turn into regular raindrops. “Oh, please.” I mutter a silent prayer to the weather gods. “Just hold off until I get home, will you?” They listen. The rain starts in earnest as I reach the shelter of the doorframe and fumble for my keys. I hear a shout from across the street. “Ombrella? Eyyy, bella! Ombrella?” I look up to see one of the wandering African street sellers grinning and waving at me. He laughs. “Finally you notice me, gorgeous! Need an umbrella?” I laugh and shake my head, pointing out that I’ve got my keys and am going inside. He looks me up and down with an appreciative grin, then waves me goodnight. “Night, beautiful.” It may be all talk, but the open admiration is something that I’m more than happy never to get used to about being a woman here in Italy.

This month’s Italy Blogging Roundtable subject was ‘Being a woman in Italy’. As you can see, I chickened out of the bigger picture, choosing instead to focus on my personal experiences and those of women around me. Do check out how the other ladies have treated the subject, though: