Apart from the usual stuff—saving four-leafed clovers, never opening an umbrella inside the house, throwing a broken mirror into a stream—Italians observe a mind-boggling array of superstitions. When I walk with Italians on the street, I notice many little tics and odd gestures. Most Italians have elaborate routines designed to bring good luck and avoid bad. As I add up all the possible pitfalls, I wonder how anyone can bear to step out of doors.
If you don’t wear a scarf when it’s the least bit chilly, you will surely fall victim to the dreaded colpo della strega (the witch’s hit). You must watch where you walk. Some towns have an arco del cornuto (the cuckold arch). If you unwittingly pass under one, your lover will betray you. To undo the damage, you can try to squeeze between a couple carabinieri. These special policemen always walk in twos, reportedly one to read and one to write. (They are notoriously dim, according to the Italians.) If you walk between two nuns, however, it will have the opposite effect. You do not want to be on the receiving end of the Church’s holy anger. But your situation may not be entirely hopeless. You can find a cigarette butt still smoldering on the ground and stamp it out. This will transfer all the luck of the smoker to you. Also, accidentally stepping in dog poop is considered one of the luckiest omens of all. (Interestingly, this does not result in a tremendous rush to every little pile on the boulevard.)
The Italian national pastime is not bocce ball. It is sitting around the dinner table for hours at a time. This is one of the most perilous things you can do. If you’re unmarried, never sit at a corner, unless you plan to stay single for the rest of your life. When clinking glasses, never cross arms with fellow toasters across the table, unless you have a death wish; making a cross means someone in the group is doomed. Never pour wine overhand with your wrist turned outward, or the recipient will be insulted. Also, make sure your guests’ glasses are filled before your own; however, you are allowed to sneak the last drop for yourself. This is an elaborate form of good luck that ensures romantic interest from guests with the opposite hair color. It goes on and on. Spilling the salt is bad; accidentally tipping over your wine glass is good.
A recent survey reported that just under half of Italians believe in the evil eye. My students assure me those people are just gullible and scared. Then I notice some of the students carrying around a little pepperoncino (red hot chili pepper) to ward off evil. They tell me it’s just for fun and characteristic of southern Italy. It’s a little more difficult for them to hide it when they make the corna gesture. They stick out their pointer and little finger (like the American gesture for rock ’n’ roll) and vigorously point their fingers downward. This is a way to avoid being jinxed.
I explain that, in America, we cross our fingers to prevent bad luck. The boys stand up and say, “In Italy, we touch our balls! Here, touch my balls for good luck! You must touch my balls!” I pass on the offer and should really change the subject, but I can’t help asking: “What do girls do?”
The boys scramble to their feet, grab their pants, and yell, “Girls, too! They must toccate le mie palle!” Luckily, the principal doesn’t happen to be walking by the classroom. (That’s another thing. Just mentioning the name of the principal is bad luck and leads to failing a test.)
The lesson has already digressed, so I ask my students to list all of their superstitions. Each requires commentary, however. Never wear purple on TV (“It’s true! No one ever dares risk it!”); if you get bat droppings on your head, your hair won’t grow (“It’s a myth, but I do always wear a hat at night!”); if you’re sweeping and you brush your shoes, you’ll never marry (“I insist my mamma always does the cleaning”).
Now that they’ve explained their system of beliefs, I know why all the boys seem to be digging in their pockets with a look of fear each time they hear an ambulance or see a hearse go by. They don’t want to be next.
In spite of myself, I’ve become more careful while living in Italy. I don’t pass under ladders, I never toss my hat on the bed, and I would never kill a spider (certainly not a seven-legged one). When Friday falls on the seventeenth of the month, I feel a new sense of dread. Like any true Italian, I don’t plan anything too important.
—Eric Dregni