No Speaka Italiano.

Working in Skandinavian Bar on Mykonos has been a rollar coaster ride this summer. With the recession wiping out the world’s bank accounts and the prides of potential tourists, tourism has taken a fall…or a plummet.

Greece thrives on tourism. It is where history was born and olive oil sells faster than iPods. However, on my little island in the Cyclades, the freaks are coming out, and when I say freaks, I mean arrogant, primal, uneducated Italians with one thing on their brain: Getting my telephono number.

So I am taking it apon myself to write Italy a letter with my concerns of their people.

Dear Italians men everywhere on vacation,

I work in this bar you are standing in. I am wearing a sexy dress because I have to. I am not looking at you staring at me for a reason, even though you are standing 2 feet away from me. I walked through the dance floor holding my blonde hair in my hand so you won’t pull it, and covering my other parts with my hand so you won’t touch it. But…you do anyway. Why is it when you go for a cheap shot when I am not looking, you turn away and pretend as though you had nothing to do with the disrespectful act? Or what about when I catch you doing it and scream at you, you become offended that I am calling you out.

Three things you should know, Italiano.

1. I won’t tell you where I’m from.
2. I won’t give you my name.
3. And I absolutely will not give you my telephone number…even if I did, you wouldn’t understand the numbers, because none of you speak English.