Italian Hospitality

Among the many stereotypes that surround and, abroad, define Italians (pizza, mafia, mandolino) is their characteristic hospitality both to foreign visitors and, more locally, to friends, family, and guests. Perhaps more than anywhere else in Europe, Italy is famed for its openness, friendliness, and the warmth of its welcoming.

Consider another long-standing stereotype: the doting and attentive Italian mother.

I have encountered many models of Italian hospitality (or lack thereof) during my travels here over the course of the last thirteen years or so. All of them lead me to the same conclusion: like, I dare say, all other populations, Italians are human first, and hosts when they can be and within their means.

In 2011, Cosimo the cab driver took me on a thirty minute driving and walking tour of Policoro, Basilicata (at no additional fee) so I wouldn't have to wait for my (late) bus to Paola, Calabria alone.

A few days later, Tina welcomed me at my Bed and Breakfast in Catania with freshly baked chocolate cornetti and, more meaningful to me, conversation -- every day of my stay there.

In 2012, while vacationing briefly in Sardinia, I was offered free blueberry wine with my meal -- in omaggio, I was told, perché è la prima volta che viene dalle nostre parti (on the house, since it's your first time visiting the area).

It's the kind of hospitality you might both (rightly) expect as a tourist, and almost always find.

Then there are also those moments when you arrive at a Bed and Breakfast in Brindisi, Puglia, meet briefly with the owner's son, who gives you a map of the city, a few generally useless geographical indications, and leaves you to fend for yourself for the rest of your (one-week) stay, never coming by to restock the breakfast cabinet, check up on you, or provide you with clean towels. There are the times when you stop strangers on the street to ask for directions somewhere, and they can't be bothered to help you (between cigarettes); the moments when you are given false information over the telephone that misdirects your plans; the days when you are finagled into spending twenty euro on a cab ride to a place that, you were told, was not 700m but 4km away.

And these are tourist experiences, too.

They leave you feeling undervalued and helpless, taken advantage of and abused. Worse, still, are the moments of missing hospitality experienced not as a tourist, but as a person embedded in the daily rhythm of a city's local culture, even if still not entirely familiar. In Rome, once, a woman I'd seen on my train ride in from Florence walked over to me as I struggled with the automatic ATAC (public transit) ticket booth. I'd been in her position before; I understood how frustrating it was to be slowed on a frantic daily commute by someone who had no idea what she was doing and was inadvertently holding up the line. Still, I suppose I expected some degree of common decency from her as I clumsily fumbled with various unclearly marked buttons. Instead, I watched with horror as she pertly told me I was doing it wrong (but didn't correct me), and pushed me aside to buy her own ticket.

More recently, I was asked to please remove my charger from an outlet because my neighbour at the library needed it for her own computer. I was baffled. The solution seemed simple to me: had I been in her position, I'd simply have moved to another seat where a charger was readily available. But somehow, despite my protest and suggestion that she plug in elsewhere, I found myself unplugging my laptop, and pushing my charger into the other nearest outlet -- broken. Presumably, she'd already tried that one and knew better.

Each of these instances is accompanied by another prevailing stereotype: Romans are abrupt; Florentines are cold; Southerners are swindlers.

But for every moment of ostensible "every man for himself" is another of overwhelming and humbling generosity. Each time I visit them, friends in the Veneto go to great lengths, even at a moment's notice, to organise dinner with me, whether it be pizza takeout or a home-cooked meal prepared excellently by one of my by now surrogate Italian mothers. Although I don't see them frequently, friends in Florence and Bologna do the same. Distant relatives in Molise throw a feast in my honour every time I pay a (brief) visit, and others in Sicily routinely invite me to spend a portion of my vacation with them, all expenses paid, nothing to worry about. Even strangers have provided this kind of unexpected kindness. My roommates in Milan during the summer of 2012 frequently met me with a warm plate of pasta after a long day at the library; my Florentine neighbour in the summer of 2013 gave me a roll of toilet paper and a carton of milk when I first arrived to my then empty apartment; fellow patrons of Trenitalia have offered me coffee on board, just because; beach-goers on the shores of the Ionian have extended me iced coffee because it was hot, and I was without sun-hat or cold beverages. I have found signs of human goodness everywhere.

Of course, the more ritualistic displays of hospitality are also at least in some part motivated by a concern with fare bella figura -- or making a good impression -- less for patriotism than for personal pride. But finding pleasure in being a good host whose efforts are vocally appreciated has never precluded a genuine preoccupation with guests' needs and level of comfort. Appearance is just as important as fact to Italians -- but not more important. Being a good host also means seeming one, being acknowledged and remembered as one. Primarily, though, it means going the extra mile to ensure a self and culturally-imposed standard of excellence.

So, as most stereotypes, it is both true and untrue that Italians are exceptional hosts. Sometimes, they are. Sometimes, they aren't. In essence, they care deeply about their friends and loved ones, and if you are among them, you will be treated well. If you aren't (or aren't yet), as anywhere else in the world, it behooves you to fend for yourself, use good judgment, and develop thick skin. It won't always be necessary, but it's always good to have.

Paying it forward never hurts, either; nothing guarantees a good experience more than a positive attitude.