A sudden thunderstorm in Prague in 1993 had me and Hattie diving into the nearest café. It was tiny, with only room for about three tables. We took the four-seater one, as the others were occupied.
Two Italian men then approached, and one of them asked, in Italian, if they could take the other two seats. I said prego.
He then asked, in Italian, if I could speak Italian. I said no.
He hesitated slightly, trying to process the logic of this (as I obviously understood his question both times), then sat down with his friend and started chatting.
At some point, I heard them talking about me and Hattie, commenting on the disparity in our sizes and heights. Instinctively, my head jerked up in their direction. The speaker stopped mid-sentence, then said to his friend, in Italian, “She says she doesn’t know Italian, but I don’t believe her.” They totally clammed up for the rest of the thunderstorm and just sat there, not daring to speak.
When the rain stopped, they got up to leave. As they walked past us, I said a cheery, “Ciao!” The man convulsed as if I’d pinched him in the bottom.
PS: I couldn’t resist the last line because my second sister’s friend, Sufei, had toured Europe in the late ’60s en route to the UK for her accountancy course. She’d sent postcards from all over Europe, and said Italian men were the most notorious as they pinched women’s bottoms.
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