Italian men are funny. In many cases totally immature and unwilling to take on responsibilities, but they're so charming, romantic and witty sometimes (and in some cases, irresistible) one is willing to forgive their defects, and love them nonetheless.
I was 7 months pregnant and my bump looked particularly huge that day. Perhaps because it was. I was waiting at the bus stop by the traffic light on an unexpectedly hot autumn day, late for my prenatal yoga class.
E was dancing the conga in my belly, and I felt unusually serene despite the bus was nowhere in sight (I usually hate being late).
I was wearing a strappy premaman dress, a pair of comfy UGGS and I had draped my raincoat over my arm. The warm breeze twirled my gestational mane of long chestnut hair and billowed my skirt exposing tanned legs. I stood there emanating the trademark motherly glow, waiting. I didn't know it then, but I must've been beautiful in that suspended moment of quotidian bliss.
I say this now only because of that young man, not more than 19 years old. He drove up to the traffic light on his vespa, wearing his helmet unbuckled and pushed back, like James Dean's cowboy hat. As he waited for the light to turn green, he looked me over, giving me a full x-ray type up and down glance and–after a long meditative pause––he leaned in with a smirk, as the connoisseur of such matters, said Hai scopato, eh!?––which roughly translates to, "You fooled around, didn't you?"
The light turned green, he winked and dashed off, riding the back wheel.
I climbed on the bus laughing aloud, flattered and amused. As I said, Italian men can be so funny.
Photo © Owen Franken/CORBIS
I was 7 months pregnant and my bump looked particularly huge that day. Perhaps because it was. I was waiting at the bus stop by the traffic light on an unexpectedly hot autumn day, late for my prenatal yoga class.
E was dancing the conga in my belly, and I felt unusually serene despite the bus was nowhere in sight (I usually hate being late).
I was wearing a strappy premaman dress, a pair of comfy UGGS and I had draped my raincoat over my arm. The warm breeze twirled my gestational mane of long chestnut hair and billowed my skirt exposing tanned legs. I stood there emanating the trademark motherly glow, waiting. I didn't know it then, but I must've been beautiful in that suspended moment of quotidian bliss.
I say this now only because of that young man, not more than 19 years old. He drove up to the traffic light on his vespa, wearing his helmet unbuckled and pushed back, like James Dean's cowboy hat. As he waited for the light to turn green, he looked me over, giving me a full x-ray type up and down glance and–after a long meditative pause––he leaned in with a smirk, as the connoisseur of such matters, said Hai scopato, eh!?––which roughly translates to, "You fooled around, didn't you?"
The light turned green, he winked and dashed off, riding the back wheel.
I climbed on the bus laughing aloud, flattered and amused. As I said, Italian men can be so funny.
