Berkley Center

From the moment he stepped into the library, his authority was palpable. He had a swagger to him, a smarmy confidence only heightened by the gun swinging from the waistband of his distressed jeans. His “ciao” was lazy and disinterested, punctuated by a glance at his iPhone, cementing the impression that he had much more important places to be and people to see.

Professor Cicali ebulliently introduced this man, Michele, the chief of police, with his usual verve and enthusiasm. Michele examined his nails. We clapped politely and he stepped to the front of the room, gazing out at our folded-chair assembly with an expression of mild distaste.

"You are Americans,” he began in thickly accented English, “You are targets. People will try to steal your handbags, to beg you for money, to give you drugs. You must be alert always and DO NOT BE DRUNK.”

He continued in this vein for some time, making frequent allusions to Americans’ propensity for alcoholism and embarrassing naïveté, when the precautionary lesson dovetailed into a startling proclamation:

“You know the national sport of Italy?” he asked the crowd.

Silence, peppered with a few halfhearted suggestions of “football” or “soccer.”

Smiling, he shook his head.

“The national sport of Italy is women.”

With that, he embarked upon a diatribe so offensive and shocking as to send the faculty squirming in their seats and the students making astonished faces at one another. He told us how Italian men will call out to us, grab our hands or shoulders, or stroke our hair, and that this is “normal” that they are just “playing” with us, no cause for alarm. He told us that sometimes, Italian men will try to use drugs or alcohol to triumph at “the national sport.” He told us the story of an American study abroad student who was recently murdered in Florence by a man whose advances she rejected, concluding the tale with “What was she thinking? Inviting a man up to her apartment? It is sad, but what did she expect?”

Finally, he bestowed upon us women his glowing pearl of wisdom: do not react. No matter what they do or say, do not give them a reaction—because to react would be to escalate the situation, to turn it from lighthearted fun to a serious and potentially dangerous interaction. He also told us not to bother calling the police since we would not know where we were anyway, and that they would not drive out for such a trifling reason. He ended the speech with a hollow and insincere “Welcome to Italy!” and left the room in a disbelieving silence.

Since then, I’ve been jumpy. An innocent “ciao, bellissima” takes on much more sinister tones when I half expect to be groped or grabbed any second.

This sentiment of women as the weaker, dumber playthings of men has been echoed in many of my study abroad experiences thus far. I see it when I’m grabbed at the nightclub, and the only effective method of dissuasion is when one of my male American friends puts a possessive arm around my waist. I see it when my history professor directs her lecture entirely to the two boys in the class, asking them for additional information or comments, while only addressing the girls to ask if we understand. I see it when we plan our nightly jaunts into Florence or to the pub up the street around the availability of the few boys in the program, since going just a few blocks feels unsafe.

Sexism is not a revolutionary concept in my life. This is not the first time that I’ve been hindered, harassed, or unsafe because of my gender. But here, the tone is very different. I’ve never before been exposed to such an unapologetic delineation of the social norms, the police chief’s excuse that “I am sorry, but that’s just how it is.” Italy is beautiful and cultured and colorful and exciting. And on the whole, I have loved my time here so far. But the knowledge that I am its “national sport” tinges that beauty with an undeniable pall of anxiety and skittishness, inexorably tied to the mostly wonderful and exciting experience.