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The Italian: A Romantic Proposal?

It’s been a while since I wrote anything on the story of how the Italian and I came to be in wedded bliss but you might recall I told you about how we met, our first date and how we came to live over the brush.

You would think that dating, let alone being married to an Italian means that i wake up every day to a rose on my pillow, sweet nothings whispered in sensual Italian in my ear and that I’m showered with romance at every given opportunity.

If you think that, you would indeed be incorrect. Our engagement is a perfect example of how romance doesn’t feature much in our lives.

We had been visiting the Italian’s family and friends in Italy and despite the usual rows with parents, we had had a wonderful time. We were both sad to be going back to london, leaving behind great weather, good food and fabulous friends.

When we got to the airport, I saw a vulnerable side to the Italian that was quite endearing. He is normally the type of person who talks incessantly, sometimes mostly rubbish just to fill the gaps, he’s not overly tactile or overtly emotional for an Italian and often prefers to keep his true feelings hidden rather than get into a situation where he feels the need to explain himself.

He was very quiet. Subdued almost. As we approached the gates to departure we thanked his parents for a lovely time and for the first time I saw the Italian get emotional upon his leaving his folks behind. This wasn’t normal, he usually can’t wait to leave.

Once we were through customs, I asked him if he was ok.

“I’ad a loverly time you’a know. This’a time. I’a always enjoy’a myself when’s you are’a by me.” he said softly, almost thoughtful.

“I’a don’a ever wan’a be in a situation when’a you’re’a not ‘ere.” he continued. Then, out of the blue, right there in the middle of the departure lounge, like it was an everyday statement, he looked me straight in the eye…

“I think’a we should’a get married!!”.

A statement. Not a question. Not on one knee. A statement. In the middle of the departure lounge in the most rubbish airport in the world (it didn’t even have a duty-free where we could by champagne!).

“Well that’s not what every girl dreams of but on then.. Let’s get married!”.

Like every other little girl, I had imagined fairy tale romances, hearts and flowed, candle lit dinners and a Milk Tray man delivering my enormous diamond engagement ring via circling helicopter over a snow-capped mountain!

“You really mean it? Married? Are you sure?” I double checked.

“Look’a, I love’a you, you’a love’a me…..”

“Ok!” I said rather blazé like we had just had a normal conversation and not like we had just made a life changing decision at all.

As we headed to the departure gate to catch our flight to London Stansted, we grinned from war to ear at what had just happened. When? Where? There was a lot to decide!

Once we had boarded our Ryanair flight and made ourselves comfortable, we started the celebrations straight away, with two large coffees and a large bag of peanut M&Ms!!

And that was it, our romantic airport proposal. There was no down on one knee, no ring, no fuss. It was perfect!!

How did your man propose? Do tell!

X-O-X

 

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Posted by on September 1, 2012 in Italia

 

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The Italian: A Horses Head in my Bed #2

It had been days that I had been able to keep up the facade. I ignored the Italian’s calls and purposefully didn’t return them. I deleted his texts. I gathered his belongings and packed them into a bag.

“What are’a you’a doin’a? You’a been’a stupid’a girl’a now eh?!” he said “answer your’a bloody’a phone’a!!”

After about a week, I took the cowards option again and text him to tell him to come to the flat and collect his things. Five minutes, in and out. Job done.

Having never dated a foreigner before, I was in for a shock.

He was persistent. He arrived, as usual, on time. I could tell he had made an extra effort with his appearance; nice shirt, his best jeans, aftershave.

“Now’a sit’a down’a ere’a an’ tell me’a what the hell’a you’a doin'” he said as he patted the sofa with his Mediterranean tanned, perfectly manicured yet masculine hand.

The “chat” began. He basically lectured me into understanding that if I had a problem with space, I should have told him. If I had a problem with him, I should have told him. If I had a problem being in a relationship, I should have told him. “How’a can’a we jump’a over buildings’a if’a we don’ta talk it?”.

Hurdles. You mean jump over hurdles. Talk about it, not talk it.

I listened. I argued. I explained. This was all going way too fast for me. Only a few months previous I had been free and single and actually loving it. I wasn’t ready for this. The staying over was one thing but staying over permanently was another.

To my surprise, the Italian was, as ever, accommodating. This laid back Mediterranean attitude was new to me. An Englishman would have long stormed out. The Italian, however, was strategically fighting his corner. I couldn’t help but be a tiny bit impressed.

“Guarda” (Look), he said. “You’a like’a me, I’a think’a you’re a not’a that bad’a, you either’a go’a out’a with me’a, or’a you don’t a”. I couldn’t help, again, but be impressed with his candid frankness. “But’a I’a tell’a you this a’now, I’a not puttin’a up with this rabbish, you’a not’a twelve’a eh?!”.

That told me. He wasn’t finished.

“I’a think’a that we ‘av’a good thing ‘ere’a. Now, dont’a you’a look’a ‘orse in Its’a mouth’a to count’a all Its’a teeth’a! Ok?!”.

Don’t look a horse in its mouth to count all it’s teeth?? After an enormous fit if giggles at how stupid he sounded I realised he was telling me that as we had a good thing, I shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth and just accept things as they were.

I did accept things and I stayed with him. I gave it a shot and with a bit more communication and a lot of patience, we both settled into our new circumstances.

It wasn’t before long that the very thing I had been running from happened.

The Italian moved in officially and that was that. I had committed to having his horse’s head on the pillow next to me forever more but promised never to look in his mouth to count his teeth!

X-O-X

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Posted by on July 20, 2012 in London

 

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The Italian: A Horses Head in my Bed #1

When I had returned from traveling, my flat was rented to tenants so I had to wait for their contract to end before I could move back in.

In the meantime, I was renting a room in a house, where I met the Italian who was visiting someone, that belonged to a friend. After a series of ‘you can’t do that’ and ‘you can’t do this’ arguments with the “managers” of the house, I decided to leave.

I moved into a shirt let studio flat about three months after starting my thing with the Italian and finally, adored what was going to be my own space. Wrong.

Obviously having our freedom at last was a great thing fit me and the Italian but after about a week, I realised that he hadn’t been home. Piles of his clothes had started to congregate in corners and he had accumulated more toiletries in the bathroom than me! I started to get cold feet.

Only a few months previous I had been downing cocktails in posh Sydney bars, kayaking in Laos and eating BBQ’d crickets in Cambodia. Now, here I was cohabiting with an Italian man, living in a bedsit and thinking ‘wooah, this isn’t what I signed up for!”.

The Italian did all the right things; called when he said would, always turned up on time, cooked me amazing dinners. It just wasn’t working for me.

I tried to approach the subject but I took the cowards way out and just started either being nasty to him or just ignoring him altogether. That’s what guys do, right? Turn on the Marty do that you get annoyed and end up calling it off.

One day, I woke up to the Italians main laying on the pillow next to me and everything started to close in. Breathe, breathe I told myself. Take one deep breathe, get up, get washed and leave.

I went to work that day with the decision made: OVER.  It was over.

X-O-X

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Posted by on July 18, 2012 in London

 

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Dates Gone Bad: Meeting The Italian

This is the final episode of Dates Gone Bad although this really wasn’t a date, more of a chance meeting that led to a date, that led to a proposal, that led to a lovely lovely wedding.

I’m kind of sad that my dating era is over because although I’ve had some great ones, most of them have been pretty shoddy and therefore highly amusing!

Anyway, I thought I would try to end this little series on a high note by telling you how I met my husband. I’m kind of setting the scene for the intro to the English/Italian mix that we’ve got going on.

I had been travelling with friends for over a year and when I had exhausted every last available penny, it was time to come home. As it was a last-minute decision, I had to give notice to the tenants that lived in my stamp sized apartment.

In the meantime I went to stay at a friend’s house whilst she was still in deepest darkest Peru.

One day, after trudging through every job agency known to man, I opened the front door only to be blinded by a cerise pink hue shining out from the living room. I was then deafened by screams, shouts and raucous laughter. What on earth was going on?

There he was. All tanned and dark, speaking at a billion decibels and waving his hands all over the place. There were ‘Madonnas’ and ‘mamma Mias’ being thrown in at any given opportunity. That explained it, he was Italian.

I had never been to Italy. I was never interested in it. I had no intention of going until I was at least a pensioner. There were far too many exotic countries to go to first and Italy was way down my list of priority visits.

He must be gay, I thought. Italian and gay. Loud, Italian and gay! Great, as if my day hadn’t been hectic enough. Only a gay, Italian gay man, would command that amount of attention in an empty room! I couldn’t be bothered with it.

I failed miserably to ignore the din coming from downstairs so went to introduce myself. “Ciaoooo! I’ma Gian Lucaaaa” he bellowed as though I was about ten miles away from him. (His name isn’t Gian Luca by the way, but it is something that requires a bit of a hand wave when pronounced!).

Once I had reassured him that I wasnt yet ready for a hearing aid, and he turned the volume down a notch, he was actually quite a nice guy – and not gay at all. How did I come to know he wasn’t gay?

Well, he was at the house visiting a girl he knew. She was living there. She was from Rome and she was extremely fortunate in the lady bump area. Gian Luca practically had his head buried in her cavernous cleavage for the best part of an hour whilst she was gossiping about someone they knew. A gay man wouldn’t do that, right? He barely came up for air!! No, definitely straight! Cerise pink, lots of it, but definitely straight!

Eventually, the girl from Rome took her chest to bed and I stayed up until the wee hours discovering that Gian Luca was actually a really nice guy. Nice. I hadn’t opted for “nice” men before but something about him was luring me in.

Before I knew it, it was 3am and Gian Luca had to leave. As I walked him to the door, he kissed me on both cheeks, rested his massive hand on my tiny shoulder and said “so’a I pick’a you up’a at’a eight I clock’a?”.

For what? When? The look on my face must have appeared confused. “You’a not’a doin’ anthin’a Saturday night’a eh? Then’a I pick’a you up’a, be’a ready, we ‘ava nice ‘a dinner. Ciao Bella!!”.

And with that he threw on his helmet, jumped on his Vespa and sped off into the night, his cerise pink t-shirt still glowing in the distance!

Come back next week to find out how the Italian nearly strangled me and gave me frost bite on our first date! Nothing ever goes according to plan!

X-O-X

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Posted by on May 13, 2012 in London

 

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