“You can stay here, but only if you’re naked.”

by Beatriz Domingues (Portugal)

A leap into the unknown Italy

Those words were spoken by a man a quarter-century older than me, offering me a free bed in his house. Er, thank you—but no thank you. Do I trust too much? My Mum has always said I do, and over the years I’ve wondered: Am I gullible? Or is the rest of the world too cynical? In 2019, I decided to take a leap into the unknown, to visit Italy all by myself. With a backpack and my favorite flip-flops, I decided to put my theory to the test by couch-surfing around six different cities. And the results of my survey? When I arrived in Milan, a happy kiddo dreaming about pasta and birras, Italy was hot, but the breeze I felt on the motorbike my host kindly collected me on provided a blessed relief. Marco was forty (I’m 19) and bizarrely proud of his dirty, ripped jeans. After I’d been at his place for five minutes, Marco dropped a bottle of olive oil which exploded like a liquid bomb. “Aaaaaaargh!” he screamed. “That means bad luck FOR LIFE!” Two hours in Italy, and I’m already condemned to a lifetime’s bad luck. But if I was uncertain about trusting Marco, he trusted me—he gave me a house key. I went out, ate some gelato, then hit the living room sofa-bed. And slept surprisingly well. The next morning I encountered Marco’s car—a little larger than a dustbin, but no cleaner. But he gave me a lift in it to Genoa. Ciao, and Grazie, Marco! Test 1 passed: Marco was trustworthy. Genoa was beautiful. But it was unbearably hot and humid--and so was I. So, what do you do when you’re too hot? You get undressed, right? Well, I'm not so sure. Raphael was a naturist. But I didn’t spot that detail until I reached his apartment, and his couch. “You are welcome to stay,” he announced, “—but only if you’re naked.” He said more. I didn’t have to be naked ALL THE TIME--just some of it. Because all his other naked friends would feel embarrassed if I kept my clothes on. I replied that I ABSOLUTELY respected his way of living, but it wasn’t for me. And that was that. I had to dig into my Holiday Emergency Fund earlier than planned—and find a hostel. Raphael’s Trust Rating? I’m afraid I awarded 3 out of ten. I won’t list all my Italian trust tests—but one more seems significant. From Genoa I went to La Spezia, where my host was a young doctor called Michele. Michele was young, charismatic and made life look so easy that I was thankful to live in the same universe as him. He was one of those bright, radiant souls that just seem to make the world a better place. After his shift he drove me to a beach in Tellaro only the locals knew about. We came to a tiny shack where wood-smoke filled the air. Michele ordered pizza and consumed its glistening melting slices with such artistry and beauty, that I actually enjoyed watching him more than I enjoyed eating my own pizza. It felt like art and I saw Michele as though Michelangelo was sculpting him in real life. But was he trustworthy? A little later I found out. Down on the beach, I suddenly found myself surrounded by tiny jellyfish, and back in Portugal my Dad was once hospitalized by a jellyfish sting. I started to panic. Michele was holding out his hand. “They’re not dangerous, Beatriz. Just walk towards me.” I hesitated, paralysed by fear. “I’m a doctor Beatriz. Trust me.” And so, I waded through the jelly, towards that radiant angel, thinking, “He’s a doctor. If I get stung, at least he can treat me.” But I wasn’t stung. Michele’s Trust Rating: 100%. My Italian journey wasn’t a scientific test — but nothing bad happened to me. Maybe I’m naïve, but going forward, I’m going to keep trusting my instincts—and keep trusting in human decency until I’m proven wrong. I certainly hope there are many more Michele’s out there.