The International Men of Mystery

I thought Italian men were vain. Not in the sense of matching shoes and belt (after all, the modern fashionisto makes his mark in colorful, clashing accessories). They are vain conversationalists, and they are always looking to unloose their talk on some unsuspecting girl. They start conversations about famous operas, jazz pianos, ancient architecture and liquors that blend well with absinthe. And they toss off opinions with the confidence of people who know that their audience will never be able to correct them. Why? Because their audience is American. I once shocked a group of "writer-revolutionaries" by asking them, in Italian, if they'd ever read Marcel Proust's Remembrance of Things Past. Of course, neither had I, but in those dark and pretentious moments around Sergei's bar, we shared the conspiracy of people who pretend to be better-informed than we are for purposes of getting laid.

Which is what it all boils down to. This is the country that invented love at first sight. But as Shakespeare once said, a rose by another name is still a rose. Similarly, the biological drive to reproduce with attractive people is still, by any other name, rude lust. But the story's not over! Petrarch, father of the Italian sonnet, wrote hundreds of love poems to a woman he saw once, from a distance. She grew older, got married (to another man!) and died, but the flow of his verbose passion never faltered. Petrarch, for all his maidenly protestations, was most in love with himself. It is a proud tradition. Italian men nowadays flirt with themselves and each other. Their partners - the much-touted long cool women in black dresses - are supposed to sigh their way through to the good parts. And demographers wonder why Italy has a negative population growth rate?

So imagine how surprised I was to read a recent review of Brazilian men that ranked them right up there with Italians. Brazilian men are beautiful in the same way that yachts are beautiful: costly to maintain, but all your fancy friends will want a ride. Which makes for a fun time at the beach, but there are pitfalls. Among them, a group of commentators dissecting Brazilian soccer player Ronaldo's recent image problems at the World Cup. Ronaldo is one of the best soccer players in the world, but the judges are fixating on his so-called "gut" like middle school girls at a cheerleading competition. My opinion: if these Nancies want to see a gut, they should hop up to North America. I know plenty of Midwestern guys (and girls!) who put their belly where their beer is. In some states, you may even get an eyeful of middle-aged nipple piercings. This is the stuff of nightmares in nations where trans fats don't need to be banned, because no one ever eats them.