Romantic Europe
An essay by Alyssa Lerner Junior, Boston University
I just got back from a semester abroad in
Europe, and let me tell you, it truly was the most magical, amazing experience of my
entire life. The French countryside was like something out of a storybook, the Roman ruins
were magnificent, and the men, well, European men are by far the most romantic in the
world.
You American men all think you're so suave
and sophisticated. Well, think again! European men make you look like the immature,
inexperienced little children you are. They really know how to make a woman feel special
over there. Unlike the so-called men here in the States, European men know how to treat a
woman right.
For one thing, European men aren't afraid
to come up and talk to you. And they know how to start slow, with a nice cup of Italian
espresso or a long walk on some historic street. They know the places you can't find in
any tourist guide. They know the whole history of the cities in which they live-who the
fountains are named after, who the statues are. I remember one unforgettable night in
Athens, I sat and listened to a Greek sailor for hours as he told me about the countless
men who fought over Helen back in ancient times. Afterward, he told me he loved his
homeland even more now that he'd seen it through my eyes. I ask you, would an American man
ever say something as deep and beautiful as that?
European men know the most romantic little
cafes and bistros and trattorias, candlelit places where you can be alone and drink the
most fantastic wine. They tell you what's on the menu and what you should try. (If it
wasn't for a certain young man in Milan, I never would have discovered fusilli a spinaci
et scampi.) And the whole time, they're looking deep into your eyes, like you're the only
woman on the entire planet. What woman could resist a man like that? Then, after a moonlit
stroll along the waterfront and a kiss in the doorway of their artist's loft, you find
yourself unable to-well, I'll leave the rest to your imagination.
I'll never forget my magical semester
abroad. One thing's for sure-I'm ruined for American men forever!
American Women Studying In Europe
Are Unbelievably Easy
An essay by Giovanni Di Salvi
I'm a 25-year-old carpenter living in Rome,
and I don't mind telling you that I get all the action I can handle. I'm not all that
handsome or well-dressed, and I'm certainly not rich. In fact, my Italian countrywomen
could take me or leave me. But that's just fine, because Rome gets loads of tourist
traffic, and American co-eds traveling through Europe are without a doubt the easiest lays
in the world.
Being European gives me a hell of an
advantage. I'm not sure why, but there's something about the accent that opens a lot of
doors. All you have to do is go up to them, act a little shy and say, "Would you like
to go with me, Signorina, for a cafe?" I actually have to thicken up my accent a
little, but they never, ever catch on. After a cheap coffee, which to them always tastes
better than anything they've ever had, because they're in Europe, it's time to walk them.
Now, all they know about Rome is what they've read in Let's Go, so you can pretty much
just make up a whole bunch of crap. It's fun to see how much they'll swallow: As long as I
refer to Italy as "my homeland" and other Italians as "my people,"
they'll believe pretty much anything. I don't know who most of the local statues are, so I
tell the muffins they're all great artists and poets and lovers. Once, just for the hell
of it, I told a psychology major from the University of Maryland that a public staircase
was part of the Spanish Steps, which she'd never even heard of. Another time, I told this
blonde from Michigan State that the public library was the Parthenon, and she cooed like
I'd just given her a diamond.
For dinner, I usually take them to some
cheap little hole in the wall, someplace deserted where not even the cops eat. American
girls think candlelight means "romance," not "deteriorating public
utilities," so they just poke their nipples through their J. Crew sweaters and never
notice that there's no electricity. Just as well, because Roman restaurants aren't exactly
the cleanest. After a bunch of fast-talk about the menu, I get them the special, which is
usually some anonymous pasta with spinach and day-old shrimp, and whatever cheap, generic,
Pope's-blood Chianti's at the bottom of the list.
By this time, they're usually standing in a
slippery little puddle. Going in for the kill, I walk them past one of Rome's famous
2,000-year-old open cesspools. Then, as we open the door to my shitty efficiency, I kiss
them on the eyelids so they don't see the roaches, making sure the first thing they see is
the strategically positioned artist's easel I bought at some church sale. That's usually
all they need to see and, like clockwork, they fall backwards on my bed with their
Birkenstocks in the air.
I mean, they're hardly Italian women, but
we have a saying here in Europe: Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?
