Italia! Piccolina!

I think one of the best things that happened to me in Italy, from a "what an interesting experience" perspective, is when I took a day trip on my own to Parma (home of Parmasean cheese and Parma proscuitto), and the natural herbal laxative (the name of which is cotidherbe, invoking the words quotidien, or daily, and herbal, creating a gentle, normal and natural aura around the product. Excellent apellation, in terms of marketing) this laxative, which I had taken the night before, as directed, and had been supposed to, presumably, kick in in the morning, had decided, instead to kick in around 3pm. So, in Parma, one of several well- urban- planned cities (clean streets, fancy new buses), I began to scurry to find one of their well-maintained public restrooms in a lovely wooded parked next to the city tourism office.

During my trip, I had, mixing together my spanish and french skills, managed to pick up an assortment of useful Italian. For example: vorrei una copetta piccola de..., useful for ordering my small daily cups of creamy gelato (increasing my need to take a small daily herbal laxative). Piccola means small.

So I was scurrying, as nochalantly as possible, towards this bathroom, in this lovely wooded sunlight-dappled park, when I realized that milling in front of the door to the public restroom were two middle aged Italians, of medium-unsavory appearance (nothing compared to, I dare say, the sketchness of North African teenagers in goofy looking tracksuits who spit pick-up lines at you... outside the grocery store... at 2pm on a Sunday. uncomfortable to admit. more uncomfortable to experience).

They spotted me. And I heard... che bella. bella piccolina. che bella la piccolina.

in an instant, my flight instincts kicked in. My butt muscles tensed up, and my mind click click clacked, and I realized that piccolina means itty bitty little one. Like -ita in spanish, and -ette in french, the -ina suffix denotes a smallness, a cuteness. They were call me itty bitty pretty girl.

I freaked out and scurried to another bathroom located on my free tourist map. I didn't freak out because they were catcalling me. That happens to me all the time (cuz I'm hottt), but because I realized HOW they were catcalling me. I understood their Italian, and my indignation at their choice of words (I hate to admit I'm short. shhh, it's a secret) blended with the adrenaline that pumped into my blood at the slightest hint of an unsavory situation.

So, one might say I am capable of trilingual indignation and over-reaction. Although I don't think I over-reacted in fairly running out of the park in search of the next bathroom. They were blocking the entrace after all, and I can imagine few things more mortifying for several people than to realize the piccolina has to make a daily and herbal influenced deposit. One thing might be more mortifying: being the piccolina.