When my mother put me on the plane to Italy for what was supposed to be a single year of soul-searching, one of the last things she said to me was, "Whatever you do, don't fall in love with an Italian." After all, her experience with Italian-American romance (my dad is Roman; my mom was born in Brooklyn) didn't have a happy ending. I was born in Verona, but I moved to the States with my mother when my parents separated just before my fourth birthday.
"Don't be silly," I said. "That's not what I'm going to Italy to do."
As fate would have it, I met Luca during my third evening in Verona, where I had found a teaching job. We started dating three months later (after he took me to have wine and chestnuts on the holiday of the Immaculate Conception), and now—as my third year in Italy winds to a close—we are happily engaged to be married next September.
It hasn't been easy. It's still not easy. We have to reconcile many cultural differences (Why does he always worry about "catching cold"? What's the deal with his skimpy bathing suits? Why won't he drink water from the tap?), but perhaps the biggest difference—one that has ignited the most wildfire fights between us—is the influence of the butei.
Becoming a Butella
Butei (pronounced boo-TAY) is the Veronese word for ragazzi, or "the guys." An integral part of Italian social life, this group of lifelong friends determines much of what the Italians hold near and dear: Saturday evening plans, fashion statements, drinks of choice, vacation destinations and, yes, even girlfriends.
I met Luca the first evening that I met the butei, celebrating a friend's birthday in Verona; he was one of the fifteen new faces that I struggled to attach to a variety of Italian names: Andrea (of which there were three), Matteo, Flavio, Piergiorgio and so on. The butei had decided to call me "la Texana," even though I'm not from Texas or even the Southwest. This, I would eventually learn, was just a taste of their sense of humor—irreverent and ridiculous, but somehow always able to make me laugh.
When Luca and I began dating, I asked him not to share the good news with the butei, a request that he later admitted left him feeling confused. By then I had seen enough to know I wanted to keep my affairs of the heart private. The butei have been known to commit torture by embarrassment; they're ruthless when it comes to teasing.
I had heard stories. Several months earlier, our friend Flavio wanted to introduce his new girlfriend Sara to the crew, and the boys were well prepared. While waiting for the couple to arrive at a mountain lodge where everyone was spending a weekend, the butei created scorecards with giant numbers stenciled in tampons. They were in position to deliver Sara's score when she walked through the door: thankfully, a perfect ten (especially in Flavio's opinion, as she is now his wife). This is why, fearing the same mortification, I wanted my relationship with Luca to go unnoticed for as long as possible.
Money Matters
While the butei—a group of athletic, well-dressed young professionals—intrigued me, I quickly realized that a few things made us strikingly different—and made being the American half of an Italian-American couple surprisingly difficult.
Almost all of the butei live with their parents; in Italy it's not unusual for grown children to stay at home until they're married. From my perspective, however, thirty-somethings who sit down to dinners cooked by mamma and drive cars owned by papa seem abnormal. It's convenient for them, though: no rent and therefore a good amount of income to dissipate on the latest fashions, telefonini and, of course, nights out with the guys.
Those evenings in compagnia are fun but costly, as they almost always begin with an hour of aperitivi (delicious local wine, prosecco or beer) before moving on to a three-course dinner and sometimes a late-evening stop at a nightclub. Sunday afternoons are occasions to meet in town for hot chocolate or, if the weather permits, in the Toricelle—the hills above Verona—for iced tea.
Squeaking by on a teacher's salary, I found it hard to afford the butei's social engagements. I would encourage Luca to go without me, which he didn't understand. Now that he had a girlfriend, he argued, what would the butei think if he showed up solo? What would he tell them? "Just tell them the truth," I'd say, knowing he never would; discussing fiscal matters is taboo in Verona, known for centuries as one of Italy's wealthiest cities. I grew weary of worrying about my dwindling bank account whenever Saturday night rolled around.
After a few months, Luca grew more comfortable (and happy, as it turned out) sometimes appearing solo among the butei. Our problems, however, were far from over.
The Day of Reckoning
Exactly one year after meeting Luca, the butei made plans for a friend's birthday. They decided to drive to the mountains on Saturday for a northern Italian lunch, overflowing with the kind of hearty, homegrown food I love. I worked on Saturday mornings, however, and had to opt out of the festivities. Promising he would return right after lunch, Luca headed off with the butei.
After work, I headed home to wait for Luca. By three o'clock, however, I still hadn't heard from him. I tried calling, but he didn't answer. As the hours passed, horrible scenarios ran through my head. Where could he be? Had something happened?
In the late afternoon, Luca finally called. "Are you okay?" I asked. Everything was fine; in fact, they were having a great time. My blood began to boil. He was tipsy and looking for a ride back. When he finally returned hours later, I was furious.
Perhaps I was overreacting, but it wasn't the first time this had happened. As sweet and considerate as Luca was, the butei had a stupefying effect on him. I was no longer dating only Luca; I was dating all ten of the butei, and I felt outnumbered.
Embracing the Enemy
I was about ready to hand my boyfriend back to his beloved butei. Then something happened to change my mind.
One afternoon, when Luca was at work, I got lost in Verona, a city that still seemed labyrinthine to me even after months of living there. Driving in circles down narrow vicoletti in a tiny, borrowed Fiat Panda, I tried reaching Luca several times, becoming more and more discombobulated with each passing moment. Not knowing what else to do, I called one of the butei, who—much to my relief—soon arrived to lead me home. After that heroic act, I felt accepted and embraced, or maybe I finally recognized the warmth the group had always been ready to give.
Our friendships changed from that point on. The gang invited me to dinners and movies when Luca was busy studying for a law exam. They helped christen my new apartment with wine and post-dinner dolci. They considered me not just Luca's girlfriend but also their friend. I, in turn, began to see them as people I could count on for advice, company or a good laugh.
As frustrating as the butei can be, many of my fondest memories center around this motley crew of casiniste (literally, noisemakers) who never fail to shake me out of my reserved, American skin and make me carry on like a true Veronese butella: battling it out at mini-golf in the Toricelle; going grappa for grappa at the Festa del Risotto, the annual fair of the rice harvest; dancing and belting out classic Italian ballads into the wee hours.
These adventures with the butei have strengthened the bonds between me and Luca. Taking cues from his friends—from their love and support for each other—Luca has become an affectionate and caring fiancé who would do anything for me. As our friends have begun to marry and have children, Luca has grown excited about our upcoming nuptials (when the butei will celebrate with a round—or three—of Sambuca and appropriately toned-down antics) and looks forward to raising a family.
Together with our friends' kids, our children will be a new generation of butei—the little buteletti.
