Finally I am in Italy.
Absorbing the time zone, between a buffalo mozzarella and a summer thunderstorm I find myself reflecting on a world-wide problem. It isn’t the Brexit and not even the European Football Championships, but the total lack of handsome men in China.
You can say: “you are a forty years old woman married, what are you doing thinking of beautiful men in China?“
The answer is: The look is connected to the way it tastes.
Because every now and then look and be looked is good, you start to dress decently, put some make up in the morning, avoid getting out in pajamas with a horrible hairgrip on the hair. You find the motivation to do 100 crunches per day that keep your belly together after two pregnancies.
So if you live in China and you are used to seeing just crap this is what can happen to you when you land at Venice Airport: you suddenly find yourself at Disneyland. The pilot smiling at you and he has all his teeth and are also white!! The guy who is rolling the suitcases in the cellophane has a perfect, rounded, hard ass, the policeman checking the passports has a tattooed biceps who you would like to lick immediately while risking extradition.
So zapping between a Trash TV channel and a useless TV channel (without having a pay-per-view I am assuring you it’s better to read a book) I come across a journalist who talks about Bulgarian, Hungarian or Finnish football, I don’t even remember. I don’t remember his words but I have clear in my mind the blue shirt unbuttoned and his smooth, smooth, smooth neck, and I find myself hypnotized by the neck of this Damon Salvatore of football, and I am not a vampire.
I know, it’s me.
So please import a bunch of handsome guys in China, do it for us, poor expat women.
Or give us a pill that, like Melatonin acts on the time zone, acting on hormonal changes from repatriation.