The men are hard to escape when in Italy. They LOVE women. They love women of all shapes, sizes, age, and colors. If you ever need an ego boost, come to Italy. The Italian men will make you feel cherished and beautiful like none of them men back home will do.
However, with the admiration comes passion. They are a sensitive lot and will act spiteful when their advances are shunned. I've had a few romantic affairs or encounters with Italian men in my lifetime and they were all similar to this story here of Hivo.
My girlfriend and I ordered two cocktails from the bar. The bartender was a healthy looking Italian with a shaved head and olive skin. Even with his hair closely shaven, you could see his receding hairline. My friend was extremely tired from today’s travel and didn’t bother to hide it when she tried to order her drink. The bartender told her, in English with the tiniest hint of an Italian accent, to smile. Initially, he sounded pretty rough around the edges as he criticized her for being so tired when she’s on holiday and he works seven days a week without any time off and he doesn’t complain. I asked him not to be so mean to her. Well… maybe I TOLD him not to be mean to her. He turned his attentions on me and I tried to soften him up by flirting with him so he wouldn’t be so rude to my friend anymore. I ordered a pina colada and he said he would make it special for me. He poured the blended cocktail into a tall glass and sliced a small strawberry to decorate the rim. I told him that the drink was, “Very nice.” He responded, with a straight face, meaning the corners of his lips turned downward, “I think YOU (pointing at me to emphasize the word) are very nice.” I thanked him, with a smile, and my friend and I turned around to walk out of the bar. The bartender’s name was Hivo.
In the middle of my conversation with my friend, Hivo came around to serve and clean the tables. He called me from the next table. Okay, he appeared to have softened up. He asked to take me out after work. I asked (yes, flirtatiously), “Aren’t you married, Hivo?” He replied, “Yes. And I have two mistresses. I’m saving money to buy a house big enough for all of them. Are you bisexual?” I told him no. He said, “That’s too bad. They would loooove you.” I laughed so hard as he moved onward.
The next night we returned to the bar after another long day of sightseeing. Hivo came around our table immediately and he knelt down to my level, kissed my right shoulder, and said, “Hello, Risa. Can I take you out tonight?” I smiled, feeling a little uncomfortable. It’s been awhile since I had to turn down a date. It’s also been awhile since I’ve been asked out. Hivo looked at the guy who sat across from me, “Is she your girlfriend?” At the same time, he shook his head No and I answered Yes. I laughed. Hivo stood up and gave me a dirty look. I laughed again. He took our drink orders (I ordered a pina colada again) and before he left us he said to me, “It would have been easier if you had told me no.”
Hivo served our drinks; my pina colada was dressed with a slice of pineapple and cherry tonight. As he handed me my glass he said, with that straight face and corners of his lips turned downward again, “This was made with my heart. Broken.” And walked away.
I thought Hivo’s attitude was pretty comical and I was having a good time with it until I realized that he was really not talking to me every time he walked by. He deliberately ignored me. At one point my girlfriend and I were having trouble remembering the Italian word for dog so I asked Hivo when he walked by. He didn’t respond. So I asked her to ask him when he came around the next time. She stopped him and he stopped and flashed a giant grin at her, his features softened up immensely. “Yes,” he cooed. She asked him the question that was weighing in our heads and he said, “Cane.” Oh yes, of course. Cane = canine. I should have known that. Before he left, he looked at my friend with the same Cheshire grin and told her, “Ask me anything, bella.” Oh gosh! Why is he being so immature? I thought of the last Italian bartender who fancied me, in Rome, when I was 20, and how immature he acted when I turned him down.
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