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A Broad AbroadBy Roz PlotzkerLike several undergrad students at my university (the University of Pennsylvania), I'm not at school right now. I am on a study abroad program, otherwise known as the brilliant excuse for American college students to wreak havoc on the rest of the world for the sake of experiencing an exotic culture. In my case, an apartment in Rome will be home for the next few weeks. Naturally, I was anticipating some major differences between Rome and Philly. The language barrier, the funny cars, the fashion the fashion the fashion. However, I knew that there would at least be Italian equivalents to my daily life back home. They have the Tiber, we have the Schukill; they have gelato, we have Rita's water ice; the coliseum, the Tweeter center; well you get the idea. I felt pretty well prepared for this place. It would be a piece of cake... sigh, stupid American. There was plenty I hadn't taken into account, which I quickly discovered upon arrival. But the one aspect of Roman life that had me completely floored was the public transportation, and the close relationship that I would quickly develop with the male passengers. Our first night here, the program held a pizza party at the school for our first orientation activity (yes, a pizza party) so we could meet all the other intimidated American students. All we had to do was get there. My two roommates and I bought our metro passes and got on the subway. To say that the metro system here makes the green line seem like riding in a stretch limo with a bar and cable TV would be an understatement. Septa is nothing like this. We crammed onto the subway car, literally. There was no need to hold on to any poles or overhead bars because we were so tightly packed there was no room for anyone to fall if the metro suddenly stopped. It was about 96 degrees (that's approximately 36 degrees in Celsius for those for you who want the European experience). And the body odor… I don't even want to talk about that. At first I was kind of aloof to the people around me. Just the general atmosphere combined with jetlag was enough to handle. The car would screech to a halt, the floodgates would open, and people would pour out while more poured in. Nobody could keep track of the neighboring passengers, so I was more concerned about pickpockets than anything else. But after a few stops I started to feel something bumping into my left hip. A cell phone? A belt buckle? A canolli? As a newcomer to this place, I didn’t want to risk a dirty look. I ignored it, expecting the person standing next to me to move locations at the next stop, but no such luck.
The strangest part of the whole experience was that there was no eye contact involved. Unlike west Philly, where even the 8 year olds biking on Spruce will yell out ‘hey baby, shake that ass’, getting hit on in Rome sometimes isn’t as overt. In fact, often it’s played off as an accident. I had been warned of this: the so-called mano morte or dead hand trick. A man will walk near someone, and let his hand wander where it wants, as if it’s not attached to his body. He doesn’t have to take any responsibility. It makes harassing girls less of a spectator sport I guess On the flip side, from the target’s point of view it’s hard to say which is worse: being openly hit on, where you know exactly what is going on, or have someone happen to stand a little to close on the subway. Don’t get me wrong I’m sure the accidental-ass-grab move is around in the US too (example, Stopping short for you Seinfeld fans), and here Italians absolutely shout out words to girls that I never learned in Italian class at Penn. It seems that in one form or another, getting harassed is everywhere. However, the key difference is what’s appropriate. Growing up, my mom used to tell me horror stories of taking the trolley to girls high and give examples of why to be careful when riding public transportation. Today, luckily I have no such horror stories about SEPTA because in today’s world, it’s completely inappropriate for a man sitting next to you on the subway to rest his hand anywhere other than in his pocket. Here things are different, and the standards for politeness are a much lower. I do not expect to change the city while I’m here. As the saying goes, when in Rome do as Romans. No, I’m not going to grab the next Italian butt I see, no matter how tempting. However, along with new sexual advances come new ways to deal with them. Besides the basic defense tricks (stand in a corner or get a seat on the bus) I am learning 101 new ways to say “leave me alone” in Italian. Expect a new Italian phrase book to be published 2004, entitled “Scusi, hai un Fanta nella sua tasca, o sei felice vedermi?” Contact informationE-mail: Rosalyn@sas.upenn.edu Photo by Chase Bowman |
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Finally a seat opened up and as I slipped away to sit
down, I was horrified to see that person standing behind me was a balding
30-something year old man, with what looked like an erection. This could all
be hearsay or assumption. There is no real way of knowing since ‘Excuse me,
is that a Fanta in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?’ is not in
my book of Italian phrases (however, I can say ‘I think you’d look good in
those leather pants’). My roommate told me that she had also been
“Metro-humped’ as we now call it, but she wasn’t lucky enough to find an
escape route like I had.