Until last year, I never thought Colombians and Italians had much in common. Then I met an Italian for the first time, in February 2023. I was in Málaga, Spain, on a desperate house hunt. I had arrived for an exchange program (Erasmus, as Europeans call it) and paid two months’ rent in advance.
Two days after moving in, my Spanish roommates broke the news that by the end of the month, I’d need to find somewhere else to live because the owner didn’t want to have students renting anymore. Furious but out of options, I started searching for another apartment. I scoured Facebook groups, WhatsApp groups, and agencies, looking for anything that might be available.
Luck, however, wasn’t on my side. Everything was already booked.
One morning, a real estate agent called Mrs. Mercedes rang. She told me to meet her on Larios Street at 3:15 and to wait at the blue building. Then she hung up before I’d even said thank you. So I got ready, grabbed a folder with all my documents, and went to see this Mrs. Mercedes.
One morning, a real estate agent called Mrs. Mercedes rang. She told me to meet her on Larios Street at 3:15 and to wait at the blue building.
When I arrived, I saw a group of at least ten people waiting near the blue wall. They all had similar features: jet-black hair, light skin, bright eyes. The girls were all made up and dressed to impress. I wondered if they were siblings or if they had another appointment after this one.
I snapped out of my thoughts when I heard Mrs. Mercedes greeting us. I looked up to see a middle-aged woman, short, with a few extra pounds, and a bob haircut. I can’t explain it, but I thought she looked just as she had sounded on the phone.
Mrs. Mercedes invited us to climb three narrow flights of stairs to see the apartment, which could be ours — or, well, someone’s. She greeted the current tenants, then proceeded to ignore them, and began showing us the three tiny rooms, the balcony with a view of the shopping center, a cramped kitchen, and a washing machine of questionable capability.
As we were leaving, she reminded us there were already other people interested, and whoever paid the two deposits and first month’s rent that day would get it.
The others in the group seemed annoyed when Mrs. Mercedes left. They started speaking in a language I didn’t understand, though it sounded close to Spanish. By their expressions and energetic hand gestures, I guessed it was about the apartment. And, being a bit nosy, I couldn’t help but chime in.
“Is everything okay? What’s the problem?” I asked.
No response, just weird looks.
“Maybe I can help . . . ” I suggested.
A minute later, they stopped talking amongst themselves, and one of the guys looked at me.
“I need to find a place by tomorrow. My contract finishes today, and I haven’t found anything yet. I don’t want to be homeless until I find something.”
“Oh, that’s awful. I’ve seen a few places, but they’re out of my budget. Like six or, maybe, five hundred something.”
“Then, out of my budget, too,” he said, laughing wryly as he walked off.
I continued on my way to meet some friends until I realized someone else was walking alongside me. I turned and saw one of the other guys from the group.
“Do you and your friends have the same problem?” I asked.
“Nobody wants to rent us their house.”
“Why’s that? I don’t get it.”
“Because we’re Italians and they say we love to gamble.”
“And you didn’t say anything?”
“Well, I can’t promise to avoid something that I would probably do,” he laughed.
I stayed quiet, thinking about what he’d just said. Though I’d never been overtly discriminated against for my nationality, being Colombian carries a stigma that’s hard to hide, and it hurts to see someone else enduring similar prejudices.
That day, a seed of curiosity was planted in me. I was interested in understanding why Italians had such a “terrible” reputation. I wanted to know more about their culture. With that goal in mind, I slowly began to join their groups. I knew I’d need to be quiet and open-minded for them to trust me. Eventually, I was invited to a party.
What was the first thing I learned? That you can’t go unnoticed when you’re the only one who isn’t Italian at an Italian gathering. Not only did my appearance give me away, but my lack of fluency in the language did, too. Even though I spent hours nodding and listening to their conversations, I only understood about sixty percent.
I took my mission so seriously that I became a known feature at these gatherings. They knew my name, my address, and that I was terrible at holding my alcohol. And they knew also that I was hopelessly smitten with one of them.
It seems a basic rule in Italian culture: If you accept someone, you have to accept their romantic partners.
The reason I managed to “infiltrate” this crowd was that they’d allowed it from the beginning, once they saw that I was dating one of their group. It seems a basic rule in Italian culture: If you accept someone, you have to accept their romantic partners. Italians do not compartmentalize their relationships.
After six months of my little “investigation,” I came to a conclusion about why Italians aren’t welcomed as tenants in Spain. Italian Erasmus students are (in)famous for enjoying life. They go out more often than they attend class, they dance with their eyes closed (even if they can’t dance), they meet up with friends several times a week, and these gatherings often involve good food and drink. And lastly, they invite friends from Italy to stay with them on weekends to enjoy Spain together. Basically, they’re pretty much like Colombians on any normal day in Colombia: happy, living as if life were a big party, making friends on the journey, and, sometimes, stirring some trouble!
