The One Where the Ugly Fat Italian Thought I was a Prostitute

Tip for Travelers Number One: Almost all North Italian gas stations are automated. Not only do you have to pump gas yourself, but you also have to feed 5, 10, or 20 euros into a machine before the pump comes to life. And no, it doesn't give change.

Tip for Travelers Number Two: The only time the pump person shows up is from 8 am to 12 pm, after which they take a two hour siesta, then pack up for the day at 5 pm.

Tip for Travelers Number Three: Italian hookers congregate in industrial areas, where many cars pass but human traffic is few and far-between. Thomas and I had to pass by a port area to get to Venice. In this particular stretch of the road, I saw several women in miniskirts, three meters apart from each other, hailing cars or hunched over car windows. Prostitutes! I cried out. Thomas could barely hear me above the din, and therefore my remark went unheard.

Our Little Engine that Could could only take 5 liters of gasoline at a time, and therefore could only take at maximum 5 euros worth of gas, (1 liter = 1.30 euros in Italy). One sunny day we were running low on gas, and there were no gas stations in sight. Alas, we only had a 10 euro bill. Worse, it was in the middle of a two week holiday, and siesta time, to boot. Every freaking restaurant and establishment in the area was closed. Heck, even the McDonalds was closed!

What do we do then? We asked each other. I was furious at Thomas for not having his 10 euros changed at the pizzeria where he stopped to take a leak. We drove on and found a gas station in the middle of an industrial area. Problem number one solved.

Where to get change then? With a determined look on my face, I took off my helmet, and tried to stop motorists for change.

I wasn't thinking "OhMyGod, TheyMightThinkI'maProstitute," but more like "OhMyGod, WeNeedCash!" Besides, I was wearing a windbreaker, a pair of jeans, and my helmet was tucked under my arm: there was no way anybody could have mistook me for anything else other than a motorist in distress.

Cars whizzed by me. I was hoping that somebody would stop and pump gas there, but nobody came within the next five minutes. I walked on a bit further when an old white box-type car stopped at the opposite side of the road. I crossed the street with a relieved look on my face.

Italians can understand some Spanish. There was one time, while we were asking for directions, a dude asked us if we either spoke Italian or Spanish. I said we had some Spanish (meaning that our knowledge of Spanish could fill a thimble), after which he proceeded to give directions in Spanish.

The guy was friendly enough, and gave me a smile. From what I could see, he was short, stout, bald, and old enough to be my grandfather. His broad nose had little white hairs on the bridge (ewww!).

With a sheepish look in my face, I explained in broken Spanish that we needed change for 10 euros. "Tienes dos cinco euros para cambio por diez euros? Para gasolina?" At the back of my mind, I prayed that I was understandable, at the very least.

The old man said something unintelligible. I repeated the question, and gave him my ten euros. He took my ten euros, took a good look at it, and handed it back to me. I was puzzled at his behavior. "Scusi?" I asked.

More Italian words followed. Then he reached out of his car window and touched my crotch!

I was so shocked that I was speechless for a minute. Actually, my mind was blank. I just turned around and crossed back to the gas station. The nerve of this man, he actually backed up his car to follow me!

"Thomas!" I cried. "The man is following me! He thinks I am a prostitute!"

I was too far away from Thomas, who was watching over our bike, to be understood. I think it dawned on the man that I was NOT a prostitute, and that I had company, because he drove off.

Thomas doubled up in laughter when I later told him what happened. Then he asked, "Why didn't you slap him?"

In reality, my mind went blank. But in the split second after the blankness, I became afraid that he would pull me inside the car. So I fibbed. "Well, he had his car windows partially closed."

"Then how was he able to reach your crotch?"

Doubly embarrassed by the situation and for being caught in a lie, I sorely said, "Let's drive on. You said that we still have enough gas to drive on for a couple of kilometers."