GIULIANO & THE WHORES

GIULIANO & THE WHORES  

 Traveling overseas, a lot can happen; missed flights, fender benders, train delays, lost hotel reservations and foods that cause intestinal distress.  Clothing that can result in being manhandled by guards isn’t on that list of common problems. In the US, we aren’t much bothered by clothing rules.  People wear pajamas and bunny slippers at Walmart, attend church weddings in shorts and flip-flops, and no one has a clue any longer what ‘smart casual’ means.  Americans have embraced the “let it all hang out” attitude when it comes to clothes but the rest of the world has not.  

The list of clothing guidelines I give my travel groups is sparse but practical.  One lady told me, if she followed my suggestions, she’d fit in at the casino table, a funeral or as a night stalker, all of which I took as a compliment.  My emphasis was a bit heavy on black, but black is always well coordinated.  Black hides mistakes. The spilled soup, the sweat stains, the odd bit of blood and dirt.  I ask my people to avoid bright colors and flowery prints and instead choose subdued clothing so they ‘fit in’ better in Europe.  Clients had always followed these suggestions, that is, until the Rome incident.

Two of the women on my Italian tour, friends and roommates, had decided against my list of recommended clothing and colors.  Dull, boring, masculine and anti-fashion, they said.  Instead, the two packed blouses they had bought the previous winter in Florida, where fashion for the older generation is unique, even for the US.  The men wear white polyester pants, wide open shirts stretched across watermelon bellies, with gold chains dangling around their necks.  The women wear sandals they refer to as “kicky”, floppy white shorts and chaotic blouses with huge flowers in reds, golds and yellows.  The two wore the ‘Florida blouses’ for our arrival in Rome and assumed the garments were the height of fashion.  The tops were the latest look from Miami Beach and they felt elegantly ahead of the fashion curve in Rome.   

Our hotel was near the Rome Museum of Antiquities, a respectable neighborhood. I’d known Giuliano, the receptionist, for years.  As he retrieved our keys and told me the new breakfast times, he broke in mid sentence, stared 

across the lobby and frowned.  I followed his stare to my two women, standing apart from the group like beacons, blouses ablaze with the huge colorful flowers.  Giuliano snapped his fingers for security and pointed to the two women.  They smiled back at the men, a little giddy from the unexpected attention of three young men.  The women almost posed, proud of being noticed, but then Giuliano spoke.

“Get those two whores out of here!”  

Every head in the lobby swiveled to look at the two women whose blouses revealed them, in Rome at least, to be prostitutes.  The security guards moved toward them.  Guests chuckled, others looked stern and covered their children’s faces, but everyone was riveted by the scene.

“Giuliano,” I interrupted, “those two women are with my group.  They are two of my passengers,” and pointed to their names on the roster.

He looked shocked. “You bring prostitutes on your tours?!”  

By this time, the guards had apprehended the women and were manhandling them toward the front door to chuck them into the street.  Although he looked unconvinced, Giuliano shouted to the guards, 

“Bring back the whores!”  

His continued use of the term convinced everyone within earshot that, indeed, these women were prostitutes.  Repeat anything enough times, even a lie, and people believe it. The women had been condemned by a fashion faux pax.  Far more guests had entered the lobby and when they heard the word “whores”, craned their necks to see the street walkers who had had the audacity to come into this fine establishment.

The women were scuffling with the guards, as Giuliano and I made our way to them through the throng.  Resistance gave way to tears and the women were near collapse from embarrassment and struggle when we reached them.   

“So these two women are with you?”, Giuliano asked.  I nodded. 

“Then why are they wearing whore outfits?”, and pointed to the blouses.  

 “This is what women wear in Florida.  It’s fashionable,” I said.    

“Older women in Florida dress like whores?” he said, perplexed.  Now he had done it.  Not only had he called them whores (several times) but worse, “older”.  Between the sobbing women, the aggressive security guards, the melee of the crowd and my people who just wanted their keys, it felt like we were in a ‘Seinfeld’ episode.  

Giuliano in speedy Italian explained the situation to the guards who backed off but continued to look at the women with suspicion.  I steered the two ladies to a secluded place off the lobby and asked Giuliano to order them drinks, something strong, and went back to the desk to give out keys to my people.  Some of my group comforted the two friends, put their arms around their shoulders and told them no one would remember their faces in an hour or so.  More like they’d forget in minutes, I thought, from my experience.  Victims may feel the sting of embarrassment forever but crowds forget faces in a fingersnap.  I gave the two women their keys and they dashed to their room.  

That evening, while I waited for the group in the lobby, I noticed a maid polishing a mirror with a bright scrap of cloth.  I looked more closely.  The rag was a ripped piece from one of the Florida blouses. The women had thrown out the garments and the cleaning ladies had recycled them.  Not acceptable as clothing, they were now put to good use as rags.  My two women emerged from the elevator in tailored gray silk blouses from the Prada boutique around the corner and we all went to dinner without a mention of the dust up that afternoon.  In the next 2 days we were in the hotel, no heads swiveled toward the women as they crossed the lobby or entered the breakfast room, and no one stared or pointed.  The faces, as predicted, had been forgotten.  

I thought this was the end of the incident until someone in the next travel group asked on a group email chat about the clothing list.  Before I could respond, someone shot back a comment:  ‘don’t bring bright colors or flowered blouses!  They’ll think you’re a whore!’.  Since I’d told no one of the incident, I wondered how the tale had gotten around.  The story had the speed of social media behind it and spread like smoke in the wind.  My list isn’t perfect, but no one on my tours was ever again mistaken for a whore.