When in Rome

There is a story doing the rounds today (it's a bit slack at the moment, newswise) about some British tourists in Italy who were charged 64 Euros for four ice creams in Rome. That's $84 or Fifty Four of your British Pounds.

Well Rome. La Dolce Vita, The Colosseum, Bunga Bunga - whatever you think of it and the rest of Italy, it tends to create an impression. The thing is, nothing has really changed in respect of the way they treat tourists.

I once tarried in Bologna, a place famous for Umberto Eco and a university that makes Magdalen College, Oxford look a bit, erm, red brick. I was scruffy and in back-packer mode but it did not stop a young fellow in smart trousers and Gucci shoes asking me for money. And they do it without the slightest hint of shame. It goes a long way to explaining Silvio Berlusconi who has managed to change the Italian constitution (statute of limitations and a cap on the age of convicted felons who can be imprisoned, etc) in order to stay out of jail. And he still had the gall to run for office.

But back to tourism. As I said, nothing has really changed; those on The Grand Tour of the 18th Century suffered similarly. I love reading Tobias Smollet's account of his visits to France and Italy. He constantly regaled his correspondents with tales of surly postillions and filthy sheets. Here's an example of a visit to Sestri di Levanti in Liguria, a coastal region in Northern Italy whose capital is Genoa, in 1765:

The house was tolerable and we had no reason to complain of the beds, but the weather being hot, there was a very effusive smell which proceeded from skins of beasts new killed...Our landlord was a butcher and had very much the looks of an assassin. His wife was a great masculine virago, who had all the air of having frequented the slaughter house. Instead of being welcomed with looks of complaisance, we were admitted with a sort of gloomy condescension..We had a very bad supper, miserably dressed, passed a very disagreeable night and paid a very extravagant bill in the morning, without being thanked for our custom. I was very glad to get out of the house with my throat uncut.

The next day he complains of being "almost poisoned at supper".

In the interests of journalistic balance, I have to let you know that Smollet later (and inexplicably) stayed at the same place, reporting to another correspondent that they were "most graciously received" and paid a "very reasonable bill". Smollet has no explanation for this turnabout in the butcher host's attitude, aside from a whimsical notion that a terrible storm had "terrified them into humility and submission".

Well, I think I understand what the answer may be and it is purely based upon my experience with Italians. In short, once they get to know you they treat you like long-lost friends. I once worked for an Italian chef. He was capable of holding me up against the kitchen wall with a knife to my throat and in the same evening hugging me with tears in his eyes. I don't exaggerate. It was my experience nearly everywhere in Italy; if you were on the move you were fair game, but if you returned or stayed a while or even tried a bit to get to know them, you had a friend.

So for those unwary travelers who reckon they are going to buy a couple of ice creams and an espresso by the Trevi fountain, you had best make a wish that you understand the real meaning of "When in Rome".