One of the things that struck me when I visited Italy a few years ago was... not the architecture, which is magnificent... nor the food, which is delectable... nor the beauty of the country, which is eternal... it was Italian men's trousers. It was not just that they dressed differently - with the ubiquitous jumper draped about the shoulders, such as we in America saw with the preppies in the 1980s, and the weird-looking bowling shoes... no, it was the colours they wore. A garish rainbow of gelato-colours! Frambroisey pinks, screaming vermilions, blazey yellows, pistachio greens - extraordinary! And certainly nothing any self-respecting American male would be caught dead in. Here were men who were either utterly secure in their masculinity, or so dreadfully astray of the path of good taste as to be obliviously farcical. Perhaps they were both.
After being accosted at every turn by these colourful creatures, I began to surreptitiously photograph them when I could, so amusingly peacocky were they as they strutted through the streets, sun reflecting glaringly off of their showy plumage. Here, for the delectation of your rods and cones, are a few:
After being accosted at every turn by these colourful creatures, I began to surreptitiously photograph them when I could, so amusingly peacocky were they as they strutted through the streets, sun reflecting glaringly off of their showy plumage. Here, for the delectation of your rods and cones, are a few:
L'arcobaleno!
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