Fucking Tourists*

*not fucking tourists like sexy time with the
buggars. FUCKING TOURISTS as in SHUT.THE.EFF.UP.AND.MOVE.OUT.OF.MY.WAY.

Look,
in the same way that when an old acquaintance emails me on Facebook to say,
‘Hey, long time no speak. What you up to these days?’ and I respond with the dick-like words, ‘I’m living in Rome. Are you still working at Tesco?’ there is
no way for me to write the following post without embodying the epitome of pretentiousness.

I
know that.

Sorry I’m not sorry.

TOURISTS.
Let’s talk about tourists.

I
know how to spot you. I know that you are a tourist because your shoulders are
pink. You wear clothes too skimpy for dry land- that white Primark Lycra halter-neck
shouldn’t be worn to pound the Roman pavements just because it’s 30 degrees.
That outfit is for the beach, not the restaurant. And I know you are walking
with the limp because the new sandals you got to look trendy for your trip rub,
and your thighs have started to chafe when you walk.

I
have fat thighs too, so you know what? I do everyone a favour AND COVER THEM
THE HELL UP.

You
think talking louder means Italians will suddenly understand you, and you don’t
understand that if your stop is next on the bus you should already be stood by
the exit doors so that you don’t hold the rest of us up half-hanging out of the
bus and saying, ‘PAUL. IS THIS THE RIGHT ONE? PAUL!’

Urgh.

It’s
not like I have magically morphed into an Italian- bloody hell. I wouldn’t want
to. Last week, the man at the flower shop said to me, ‘So, are you a student
here?’

I
said, ‘No. I work here.’ He looked me up and down- not subtly, it was totally a
head whip from toes to top knot bun- and took in my green skirt, sheer pink
blouse, orange boob tube and red lipstick. He smiled, wryly. ‘I teach
children,’ I added, and he nodded his head, suddenly understanding. Those crazy-dressing bimbi teachers, I
could hear him think. As if anywhere else
would employ her looking like that.

And
yes, my outfit was Primark too. It’s not the origin of the clothes I object to.
I’m just saying: an ill-fitting cotton maxi dress does not la dolce vita make. It marks you out as not being from here in all
the wrong ways because IT’S UGLY.

Generally,
I ignore tourists. I’m always tempted to say do you want a picture with both of you in it? to the people stood
in St. Peter’s, or to tap the line of people outside of the shit gelateria on
the shoulder, one by one, to tell them the Nutella ice cream is better at the place up the street. But I don’t. When I travel, I hate when people start
telling me where I should go, what I should do… I like to figure it out
alone. So I keep my mouth shut.

It
surprised me, then, when I was at the rice ball shop, and in came a family of
eleventy thousand. They all stood blocking the entire counter to look at the
deliciousness on sale, saying loudly, ‘EWWWW. WHAT ARE THOSE, THEN?’ I piped up,
‘Rice balls. You should try it. I recommend them- I’m here all the time.’

The
family reminded me of my mum’s. Mama Janie is one of five girls, and they cause
too much noise and trouble wherever they go. This family was way more
embarrassing though, all wearing their ‘best clothes’ for their Roman adventure
(read: Marks and Spencer’s crochet scarves and lots of floral) with burnt noses
and bad shoes.

‘Oh
yeah?’ said one of the overweight women. ‘What’s that one you’ve got?’

‘It’s
called Stromboli- it’s mozzarella and tomato. Total heaven.’

They
all did some standing around and talking loudly to the guy serving, confusing
him and saying things like NO! THE OTHER
ONE! WHAT DO YOU CALL THIS ONE? A WHAT? I DON’T KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS! DOES IT
HAVE HAM IN IT?

I let
them get on with it.

As I
cleared my little self-service tray away, though, I ended up at the trashcan
right by them.

‘How
was that?’ I said.

‘Terrible,’
the chubby one in orange said.

I
furrowed my brow. I must’ve misunderstood. ‘You… you didn’t like it?’

The
other fat, burned one said, ‘It was horrible. Like a soggy potato.’

I
pointed at another woman. ‘Did you hate it too?’

‘Mine
was alright, I suppose,’ said one of the men.

I was
dumbfounded. I mean, to not like it is one thing, but to be so blunt about it
with somebody who was genuinely just trying to help is quite another.

‘Oh.
I’m sorry I recommended it with such enthusiasm,’ I said.

‘Well.
At least we gave it a go,’ said Fatty.

‘It’s
traditional Sicilian fare,’ I said.

The
mean woman said, ‘Well. I don’t like Sicilian food then.’

I
smiled. ‘Nobody has ever said that in the history of Italy.’

‘As
long as I don’t get shot for it,’ she said.

AS
LONG AS SHE DOESN’T GET SHOT FOR IT? SHE WAS STOOD IN THE MIDDLE OF A SICILIAN
TAKE AWAY CALLING THE FOOD SHIT, TO THE CHICK THAT RECOMMENDED IT TO HER AND
SURROUNDED BY ALL THE STAFF WHO COOKED IT!

I
shook my head in disbelief.

‘There’s
a restaurant on the corner that does omelette and chips,’ my imagination said.

‘Goodbye
then,’ I said.

‘SEE
YA,’ they chorused.

Total
rude fuckers.

I
walked out of the shop with my Calabrese friend, shaking my head. ‘I was just
trying to help,’ I said. ‘Who doesn’t like Sicilian food?’

‘I
know sweetie, they were just dumb British tourists. That’s is why we ignore
them,’ she replied. ‘Eat your fried chocolate and ricotta sandwich and you’ll
feel better.’

‘Ok,’
I said. ‘Ok.’ And then, ‘I hope their thighs chafe to bleeding on the way
home.’

‘They
will,’ my friend said. ‘They always do, remember? Now eat. Eat your Sicilian
goodness.’

I
ate. It was good.