Easy American Girls!

Did you know that American girls currently hold the title for being the easiest girls on the planet? Haha! Actually when my Italian friend Giovanni told me this I was not so surprised. The image of the drunken and easy Americana is now a universal truth and American girls constantly enhance the stereotype.

Before going to Rome I never really thought of American girls as easier than all other girls on the planet. We were warned by our program-officials that we were considered promiscuous and flirty. We were even warned that if we smiled at Italian men on the street that stared at us they would think we were interested in them and might even proceed to follow us home. I did not realize that American girls had this sort of reputation, but then I saw how my friends in the program were behaving and I witnessed the stereotype play out right before my eyes. By acting as if they are constantly on a Girls Gone Wild: Spring Break edition, drinking shot after shot at the bar, and yelling at a deafening volume what little Italian they know (Meee peee-ahh-chay-beee-raah.) they not only embodied the ideal Americana, but they also displayed the typical image of the Ugly American Tourist.

I have never really been the type to drink to get drunk. I would drink occasionally with friends at parties, but I was usually smart about it. It grew apparent that they thought the only way for an American college girl to have fun was by holding an alcoholic beverage in one hand and a persistent, slightly sober, horny, Italian holding the other. It was scary for me to see so many of my girlfriends drunkenly take shot after shot, leave with random Italian guys, and not remember how they got home. Don’t get me wrong. I have done a few stupid things too when it comes to this stuff, but not repeatedly every weekend for 5 months!

What was going on with these girls? I think by being American, the girls initially thought they were desirable because they were different. They knew that American girls are a sex symbol all over the world and they wanted to live up to it. This attitude only inspired the Italian men to constantly molest us at clubs. It was as if they could tell we were American from a mile away. Right when we got onto the dance floor within 10 seconds, we would be surrounded. Without asking or even attempting to speak to me random Italian guys started groping my ass and rubbing everything against me. I felt like Molly Shanon in the old "A Night At The Roxbury" skits on Saturday Night Live. One guy was so persistent that even after I moved away from him and started dancing with one of my girlfriends, he kissed me on the neck. He did not even greet me or ask me my name! It was as if he thought that the kiss would instantly seal the deal and I would be his for the night. I kept wondering if that tactic actually worked with Italian girls, but I had a feeling it was reserved for American girls who might actually reciprocate. I went to the clubs just wanting to have fun, dance to my heart’s content, and maybe talk to a nice guy, but the only thing that came out of the night was the overwhelming urge to take a shower.

What was totally shocking about the study that Giovanni told me about was that Asian girls ranked second highest in easiness! WHAT?! This actually makes sense because Asian culture is so restrictive that sexual promiscuity seems like an easy way to rebel. After hearing the statistic I thought, “Wow… No wonder that guy kissed me on the dance floor! I’m Asian American…All systems go!” I guess the neck-kissing-guy was not a jerk after all… he was just a good statistician! hehe

What a Pity!

Carrie, my friend from first year high school, has found the love of her life. I’m extremely happy for her, not only because she is my friend, because I was part of the reason that they ended up together in the first place. They are truly meant for each other and just got married or are going to get married very soon.

Over a cup of English Breakfast tea Carrie told me that it saddens her when she sees people who have not found their true love because it is the best feeling in the world. After she said that, the words seemed to hang around longer than words usually do before they evaporate. These words have stayed with me so long that they watched over me as I slept on the plane to the Philippines, went through immigration without a passport upon landing at the airport, sits with me at meals, keeps me company in my room, lays next to me as I slept and still lingers today as I write this.

I think these words have stayed with me longer because I am in the Philippines. Being in the Philippines and not missing a boyfriend back home is a new experience for me. Usually I have someone that I miss terribly and email him everyday. I have only been here for two weeks, but already I have been asked many times if I have a boyfriend. The script usually goes something like this…

“Ah, Cristina. Do you have a boyfriend na?”
“No.”
“Ah. Why not?” (This is asked as if I just said I do not believe civil rights and treating people equally.)

I remember being asked by a Filipina in the open-air market in Rome if I had a boyfriend.
“Do you have a boyfriend in the States?”
“No.”
“Ah, you have an Italian boyfriend,” she said this confidently as if I had no other choice.
“No, actually. I don’t have a boyfriend right now.”
“Ahhh! You should have a boyfriend!”

After she said this, the Filipina treated me as if I had leprosy or some sort of horrible disease. She immediately offered me a cure. His name was Marco and he worked at the open-air market. With a sense of urgency, she hailed him to come over and meet me.
“This is Cristina,” she said in Italian. “She is American and has no boyfriend.”

I smiled embarrassed that a woman, who I basically did not even know at all, felt that she had to take time out of her day to cure me of my disease. Marco smiled back politely, but gave the Filipina a slightly annoyed “well…what do you want me to do about it?” look. Thinking back on it, that situation was really awkward and Marco was nothing special.

I think another reason why Carrie’s words have stayed with me for so long is because very indirectly she is also saying that it makes her sad to hear that I have not found “the one” and that I do not have a boyfriend. The idea that people might actually pity my boyfriend-less existence makes me a bit blue because I never like being the cause of other people’s sadness. It is not a good feeling to be pitied.

My mother tells me that, “Boys are not worth it because all they want you for is your VAGINA!” (When she says this, she dramatically emphasizes the word “vagina” and makes it sound as guttural and vulgar as possible. hehe) She even told me that it is fine with her if I do not get married. “Once you are married, you are legally BOUND to someone.” (She says “bound” this with the same dramatic inflection as she says “vagina.”) She warns me of the downside of marriage and explains how much work it can be.

I actually look forward to marriage though, because I think I would be a good wife. I have never been afraid of hard work in relationships. Most of the time I am reasonable and can sit down and seriously work things out with another person. There has hardly ever been a time when I throw my arms up in the air and say “I don’t want to deal with this anymore!” because I always need resolution. Even with my schoolwork I would never partially leave it partially finished before going to sleep. I always had to stay up late into night until the assignment was completed to the best of my ability.

I have never been the type to slack off and just do enough to “get by.” I always have tried to excel in everything. I think that is one reason why it bothers me to have peoples’ pity because I feel as if I have failed them. I know by not having a boyfriend right now I have not FAILED because I am young and have my whole life ahead of me. I also know that by dating just any guy on the street I would not be considered a great achievement either. I realize that Carrie and all of the Filipinas who have encouraged me to have a boyfriend only say these things because they only hope for my current and future happiness. I know they mean well, but it is strange to feel like I am not living up to someone else’s hopes and expectations.

Okay… wow… I just read that back and it sounds shallow. Why should I care what other people think of me? If I am happy with my life right now, why should this be an issue? This is a very western-minded and individualistic idea that teaches people to rise above conforming to social norms. I know that this attitude would be ideal, but I do not feel this way. The fact is most of the time I do not care what other people think of me, but on this subject I do. Maybe it is because underneath my jaded-towards-relationships exterior I really feel like I want to find someone special to share my life with. It must be the hopeless romantic in me who cries at watching the Notebook and is touched by old song lyrics that makes me feel this way. Secretly I want others to look at my future-husband and me and jealously yearn for our grande amore. (Hehe. Of course my husband is going to be Italian! Certo!)

For now, my choice of not having a boyfriend is validated by the fact that most of the guys my age act as if they are 12 years old. I don’t think that the people who pity my situation take that into consideration. I know there are a few who are probably mature and perfect, but they get lost amongst the sea of early 20-something jerks. The probability of finding a male who is absolutely amazing and available seems too slim at this stage of physical, emotion, and mental development so I figure that I am not missing much. When people ask me why I do not have a boyfriend I confidently reply, “Because the boys my age are stupid.” Then they usually laugh and agree.

Even though boys my age suffer from being socially challenged and, according to my mother, “only want VAGINA,” I still dream about my future love life through Ella Fitzgerald songs.

Some day he'll come along,
The man I love;
And he'll be big and strong,
The man I love;
And when he comes my way,
I'll do my best to make him stay.

He'll look at me and smile--
I'll understand;
And in a little while
He'll take my hand;
And though it seems absurd,
I know we both won't say a word.

Maybe I shall meet him Sunday,
Maybe Monday -- maybe not;
Still I'm sure to meet him one day--
Maybe Tuesday
Will be my good news day.

He'll build a little home
Just meant for two;
From which I'll never roam--
Who would? Would you?
And so all else above,
I'm waiting for
The man I love!

The Man I Love by George Gershwin

I think the older generation really knew what love is because their lyrics were so romantic. A part of me wonders if this type of love is dated and impossible to find. Then I think about Carrie and Brian and how sweet they are together. This makes me certian that someday he’ll come along, the man I love.

Congratulations Carrie and Brian!!!! I wish life long happiness to you both!!!

Paintings and Boyfriends

My mother recently quoted her friend who told her that, “Painting is like sex because you know each part of what you are painting, just as you know each part of a lover.” (I love that she talks this way in front of me.) I have also gotten used to hearing my mother say that every time she looks at her painting she falls in love with it again. What does she fall in love with? Her accomplishment? The color-scheme? The memories of what was happening in her life during the time she was painting it? I know if I ask her these questions there would not be an absolute answer for all of her paintings. She would tell me that she loves each painting for different reasons because it is unique.

The way I look at a painting is the way I look at an ex-boyfriend. I know everything about it. It is familiar. It is safe. I can identify with it. I see myself when I look at it. It brings me back to a happy time when I was in love. I look at a painting and fall in love with it again. However, one major difference between a painting and an ex is that most likely the painting has never hurt you directly or intentionally. It may cause memories to surface, but it brings no new baggage.

When I look at an ex, I fall in love again, but only for an instant. After the first 30 seconds of bliss, I realize why it never worked. Something in his actions reminds me of how the relationship was ruined: how it was his fault, how it was my fault, how we were both to blame. It is the constant elements about him that kill the dream. How he eats, walks, talks, and breathes become reminders of the failures of our relationship. It is when I have recognized these characteristics that knowing everything about an ex backfires and I am no longer able to relive my past feelings.

A painting, whether it is your own or someone else’s, stays lovable and, unlike a boyfriend, it is the constant elements that make this so. Elements such as the pose, the gesture, and the expression of the subject remain things I admire. The image and its story are burned into my memory.

A painting is how the artist perceives the physical world, their outlook on life, and their history. All this is represented through the brush strokes. An artist’s whole psyche is framed and hung on a plain white wall. It is a mere reflection of reality. In a sense, every painting is a self-portrait. Even if the subject is a flower and not his own face, the painting shows how the artist sees the flower. It demonstrates what the artist thought was beautiful and fascinating about the subject. It shows what the artist obsessed over and fell in love with.

Just as a painting is a reflection of reality, each one of my boyfriends was a reflection of my own reality and ideals at the time. They represent stages of my life. With each new guy (I talk as if I have had many, but I can count them all on one hand with fingers to spare) came new views, new baggage, new hang-ups, new hope, new laughter, and new tears. Through an ex I see what I found beautiful and fascinating, what I obsessed over and fell in love with. More importantly, I see who I was when I loved him and who I am now and laugh.

Even if I was hurt during the process of the relationship I recognize that each one was a learning experience that helped to alter my views and mold them into what I am today. I have accepted the fact that whether I like it or not my ex-boyfriends are always with me because whenever I trust, whenever I give in, and whenever I fall in love it stays with me. The love that I felt never goes away. My mind simply changes its perception of it and puts it in perspective. It is as if the subject in the painting is depicted at a different angle or painted in a different color-scheme.

I have not been in a relationship for, what to me is, a very long time (over a year). I do miss the dizziness of having a crush even though crushes make me completely stupid to the point that I cannot stop thinking of the person and punish my family and friends with inane details about his life. I do miss knowing that I have someone to call at anytime without having to explain why I am calling at 4AM and have all the energy in the world. I miss holding hands. I miss leaning my head on someone’s shoulder. I miss hearing someone’s private voice: a voice that you know is meant only for you. I miss the support of someone who is not family and not just a friend, but something different.

I wish that boyfriends were like paintings. I wish I could visit them, fall in love with them and leave knowing that I can see them again whenever I want and nothing would change. With a painting there would be no new problems, baggage or fights. Our love would timeless but extremely unrealistic.

I miss things about being in a relationship, but not enough to try to be in one again… not right now anyway. I’m a bit jaded when it comes to finding love at the moment. I like being all that I need and not having to live up to anyone’s expectations. Hehe I know when the right person comes along I will be singing a different tune (“Here I go again. About to take that ride again. Starry-eyed again. Taking a chance on love”) but for now I fall in love with the simple things in life. Natural beauty. Old song lyrics. Paintings.

Unforgettable

"Was I really there? Did I really stay there for five months of my life?"

These are the questions I end up asking myself every time I look at the pictures that I took in Italy. I stare at them and try to bring myself back there. I wish I could dive into a scene, submerse myself in the culture, as if it was a pool of deep water. Cigarette smoke mingles with the sweetness of freshly baked pastries, the clinking of espresso cups placed atop a counter in a bar, and the rushing of constant running water from knee-high drinking fountains fills my senses and I instantly lose myself. I walk down the narrow cobblestone streets through small alleyways canopied by line-drying laundry. As I turn the corner, I meet by the Tiber and the top of Basilica di San Pietro. Like a shining jewel in the distance, the lantern of the basilica sparkles against the night sky. For many, this lantern is a symbol of holiness but to me it signifies home. I walk toward it. Political posters with pictures of crossed ballots and graffiti, professions of rebelliousness and love, line the boards and buildings on my way. I walk on forever deeply submerged in my memories. Suddenly something forces me out of my memory and I recall that I do not live in that place or in that moment anymore. Just as quickly as I plunged into my memories I am dragged out and am forced to come back up to reality for air. I surface only to find that this air that is without cigarette smoke, without sweet pastries, without history, and without soul.

If it is not obvious already, I miss Italy. However, it is hard for me to tell if my memories of my stay are still accurate or if they have already romanticized. As I enhance the photograph, lessen the exposure, or saturate the colors, I wonder if by altering these pictures that I am also altering my memories. Was that door really that green and weathered? Were the tiles on that roof truly that vibrant?

I am always trying to find bits of Italy in Oxnard. As I drive down Pacific Coast Highway toward Santa Monica I enter Sicily with dark jagged rocks protruding from crashing waves and light greenish-yellow vegetation alongside the hills. While driving back home at night, the lights of Hollywood Beach against the black ocean remind me of the reflection of the streetlights against wet Roman cobblestone or of the reflection of Florentine streetlights against the river. I see bits of Italy everywhere. These images, smells and sounds flood my thoughts constantly and I act as a person obsessed with a lost love.

As with all memories that involve significant others who are far away, are my memories becoming too idealized? They say (whoever “They” are) that absence makes the heart grow fonder, but does it also make the heart grow blind and forgetful as it overlooks and denies all of the difficulties that my love has put me through? I ask this because I have been guilty of doing this in the past. I remember coming back to my boyfriend at the time after a month long vacation only to realize that he was not the person I had been missing all that time. I would return with such high expectations that disappointment was certain.

The knowledge of this particular character flaw worries me and only brings forth more questions that concern my future relationship with Italia. Am I missing the true Italia? When I visit her again, will she be everything that I expect or would she have evolved into someone else who I do not understand?

I longingly look at my pictures and treat them as if they are reflections of my lovesick feelings about Italia. I push all of my paranoia aside and I say to myself, “The door to that house may not have been THAT green and weathered and those tiles on that roof may not have been THAT vibrant, but to me they were and will forever be that way.” To me Italia is a place that is timeless and unforgettable.

There is probably something damaging about constantly ruminating and reliving the past. In fact, based on psychological studies, in certain situations I know it is damaging. In my case it may cause my expectations to escalate to such as height that disappointment is inevitable, but I have faith in my Italia. The Italia that I have grown to love would never let that happen because she always has something mystifying up her sleeve. I don’t know why but something tells me the next time we meet I know will not be disappointed.