TRAVEL | HUMOR

The Cats of Italy Are Judging You

Attenti al Gatto — Beware the Cat

The wheels touch down in Rome. At 42 years of age, I’ve made it to Italy for the first time — correction, I’ve made it overseas and out of the United States for the first time.

An over-fixation on certain career priorities kept me away in my 20s and 30s, along with the misguided notion that international travel was for the wealthy alone. My heart was finally mature and self-actualized enough to win out over the brain and any objections.

When it’s your first jaunt across the pond, there’s an extra pressure in selecting that very-first destination. And how can you choose between Greece or Croatia, Spain or the Netherlands, England or Switzerland?

My partner Eddie intervened, as he’d already explored London, Paris, Milan and Amsterdam and craved something new. As a Roman history buff who could always be found buried in yet another documentary about a fallen emperor, the Eternal City had been calling his name.

But he threw down the gauntlet with this realization:

“I cannot watch Rick Steves give another tour of the glorious Cinque Terre region just from here on the living room couch. We’re not getting any younger; we’re going to Italy!”

And now we’d arrived. Ahh, bella Roma.

Travel books, YouTube vlogs and even Medium writers, try as they may, cannot capture the softening of the heart that occurs in Italy as you take in all the aromas good and bad, the deep historical contexts, the rugged coastal views and the rolling vineyards.

My itinerary had us enjoying a train trip to the ruins of Pompeii, an excursion to the stunning hill town of Orvieto in Umbria, strolling through the heart of Rome itself and then zipping to the coastal Cinque Terre region.

I anticipated deep reflections on the passage of time or on the nature of art. Instead, the following interaction often occurred:

Me: Eddie, look at that Roman arch there. Oh, just think of the history.

Eddie: Yes, I know, it’s just so — oh look, a cat!!!!

My Eddie is a cat fella through and through. We could be on Maui, in Spain, Mongolia or even Antarctica and mew, the furry felines find him.

I was raised in a household where my father would utter the word “cat” with a look of distaste like he’d just eaten a mixture of sauerkraut and poo, so we were more of a dog household. But I’d warmed to the furry creatures.

And so, The Cats of Italy became a leitmotif, a running theme through our entire Adriatic travelogue. There was no stopping it. We encountered them amidst the crumbling pillars of Pompeii, or maybe admiring the commanding 360-degree view atop the rampart walls of Orvieto, or fraternizing with the bustling priests and nuns near St. Peter’s in Rome.

We even came upon an Italian mama kitty nursing her babies along a cobbled back lane.

These cats were so content, yet so determined to insert themselves into our Italian travelogue, and we got to wondering: are Italian cats more content, more fulfilled than their feline counterparts across the Atlantic?

There are articles about the differences between, say, French and American women — in food, and diet — and there are journals overflowing with evidence on how a Mediterranean lifestyle is more healthy than the stressful American grind. Well then, what about the kitties?

Do they partake in a more deliberate, healthfully organic diet? Do discerning Italian felines work hard to maintain the critical work/life balance compared to the apartment-dweller cats of Manhattan? Do the lady kitties follow the latest fashions out of Milan?

(I just had to throw that one in).

Now, we’re not complete loons. Of course, we knew the Italian scenery had influenced and certainly made it all seem that way, but they were just so proud and content, as if they held the key to la dolce vita, a feeling that so many world-weary humans travel thousands of miles to experience.

The tail-end of our trip brought the colorful coastal villages of the Cinque Terre (“the five lands”). Rick Steves did not lie and Eddie’s intercontinental trip was not in vain — the Liguria region is a jewel and did not disappoint.

You’ll be pleased to learn that a frowning black and white cat greeted us at the train station and strutted along, practically leading all the new arrivals up the main corridor of Riomaggiore.

After so many cat encounters, we couldn’t help it and started assigning them backstories. Over our freshly-baked, not-American-overly-sweetened croissants and cappuccinos we joked:

“See that ginger over there? She’s like the Maggie Smith of the group, looking down her nose at the kitties from the other side of the tracks, silently judging their upbringings.”

“Oh, and that tabby over there? He’s got dreams, baby. He’s gettin’ outta this one-horse town and heading to the big city, to Roma, to be somebody in the art world.”

Intermixed with the food, the wine, the sights and the genuine people of Italy, giddiness had overtaken our softened hearts and the Italian kitties had overtaken our consciousness.

Daybreak, the final day of a journey, the journey that later became the jumping-off point of my obsession with the life-affirming benefits of travel — the extended worldview, the break from American concerns, the glimpse into better ways to exist. I was no longer a Europe virgin, and Eddie had kept his promise to himself to one day see the glory of Rome.

As we halfheartedly ventured through the village lane, watching the shopkeepers prep for the morning trade, we encountered this bruiser camped out in his usual place.

We marveled at the scene. Neighbors greeted one another in the morning sunlight. Old ladies gossiped on their front stoops. A middle-aged shopkeeper violently swept dirt away from his entryway, just inches from the kitty.

And then, we knew. We were firm in our convictions.

Yes, yes, there was something unique about these Italian cats, in their grace, in their regal countenances, in their —

whack! went the broom, as the man smacked the street kitty across the fanny, gesticulating and adding vocal grievances that were unquestionably Italian.

Sir Kitty grimaced, scowled back, wet his lips, and traipsed off to oversee a different cobblestone, as apparently this happened every morning.

And across the street, two not-yet-disenchanted American guys thought,

Even the Italian kitties have to work hard to win some human hearts.

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