True, this post’s title might not evoke the same lurid connotations as “My First French Kiss”, but what if I told you said Italian smooch occurred on the streets of Volterra with three raunchy, strangely-dressed men in full view of my children and wife? Does that help? Although I have no physical documentation of the act itself I promise to provide photos of the perpetrators of this surprising display of affection in just a moment.
But first, let’s untangle this mystery a bit. One: I was kissed by strangers. Although rarely likened to a troll or circus freak show star, I don’t exactly go easily mistaken for Mel Gibson or the ilk either. Rule out blind lust. Two: There were three of them. Okay, maybe you could understand just one loony, but two, three? Three: They were men. Actually, given the brazen and public act, maybe this makes it easier to understand. By now you’ve probably solved the mystery. They were drunk! While that line of reasoning has a lot going for it, I’m afraid that you’re going to have to dig deeper.
Look for clues. What has been left out of the story? Are you attempting a culturally-based solution, something to do with Italians being more demonstrative with their affection, less prudish about public displays of it, or perhaps, seeing my home is in the United States, guessing a different gender-based expectation regarding affection amongst the majority than that generally understood in Minnesota or New Hampshire is at work? You’re getting closer, kind of. Let me help you with some more specific vocabulary. Swap “strangely-dressed” for “anachronistically-dressed”. Make sense? Congratulations! You’ve got it now, I’m sure!
But first, let’s untangle this mystery a bit. One: I was kissed by strangers. Although rarely likened to a troll or circus freak show star, I don’t exactly go easily mistaken for Mel Gibson or the ilk either. Rule out blind lust. Two: There were three of them. Okay, maybe you could understand just one loony, but two, three? Three: They were men. Actually, given the brazen and public act, maybe this makes it easier to understand. By now you’ve probably solved the mystery. They were drunk! While that line of reasoning has a lot going for it, I’m afraid that you’re going to have to dig deeper.
Look for clues. What has been left out of the story? Are you attempting a culturally-based solution, something to do with Italians being more demonstrative with their affection, less prudish about public displays of it, or perhaps, seeing my home is in the United States, guessing a different gender-based expectation regarding affection amongst the majority than that generally understood in Minnesota or New Hampshire is at work? You’re getting closer, kind of. Let me help you with some more specific vocabulary. Swap “strangely-dressed” for “anachronistically-dressed”. Make sense? Congratulations! You’ve got it now, I’m sure!
Indeed, we’d headed down for a couple of days to Volterra 1398 AD, the hilltop, walled town’s annual Medieval Festival. Not that just any three guys in 1398 would come over and kiss me either, but suffice it to say they had just pulled up some lady’s skirt for a look and mooed as others walked past, too. It was all part of the act (and no, they weren't that type of kisses!). If you haven't already scrolled ahead you've waited long enough. Here they are, the fine jesters themselves!
On our ten minute walk to and from the Monastery where we were staying up into the festivities within old Volterra we would pass by a little museum with a big name splayed across the top of the entrance and a chair with nails sticking out of it: Il Museo della Tortura. With a long-time knee injury aggravated and sending random, electric-shock like bursts of pain into my right patellar tendon throughout the weekend, I felt no need to check it out any further. I could already relate just fine. But you know what? I didn't feel it once during the jesters' clowning and baci. So, from one publicly reserved Minnesotan/New Hampshirite to three outgoing Medieval Italian jesters, I thank you for my first Italian kiss!
On our ten minute walk to and from the Monastery where we were staying up into the festivities within old Volterra we would pass by a little museum with a big name splayed across the top of the entrance and a chair with nails sticking out of it: Il Museo della Tortura. With a long-time knee injury aggravated and sending random, electric-shock like bursts of pain into my right patellar tendon throughout the weekend, I felt no need to check it out any further. I could already relate just fine. But you know what? I didn't feel it once during the jesters' clowning and baci. So, from one publicly reserved Minnesotan/New Hampshirite to three outgoing Medieval Italian jesters, I thank you for my first Italian kiss!
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