Hooligan's outfit

Without suspecting it, I made the hosts of my last vacation suspicious. Fortunately, it's not just first impressions that count!

I arrived at a hotel on the Greek island of Kefalonia, late in the evening. My wife went to the reception, I stayed outside for a while to admire the surroundings. When I went inside, a lady from the staff, who was standing by the elevator, suddenly changed her face, without saying anything.

My wife stayed at the reception to fill in what needed to be filled in, and the lady by the elevator decided to accompany me personally to show me my room. So many shacks, so many customs - I didn't comment.

When I got to the room I noticed that it was nothing special, a room like many others. The lady took out a sheet of paper and, with her eyes fixed on me, began to present the price list: the TV cost this much, the front door was more expensive than the one on the balcony, the toilet bowl a little higher than the sink... and so on, evaluating each fixed or movable piece.

A little irritated by the long list, tired from the journey, I went to my backpack to get a bottle of water - it was the first time I had turned my back on the host. She almost shouted: "Romania! Are you from Romania?", pointing to the back of my shirt, on which that was exactly what was written. I confirmed, these being the first words I spoke.

The lady said that there was no need to continue with the rest of the prices, since the procedure was applied only to British fans. Suddenly, I realized that the whole situation had been caused by my "football" shirt, which she had mistaken for that of an English team. My mistake, I dress more casually on long trips. I won't do it again!

The next day I found out the rest of the story: the passionate English fans, who came on holiday in the area, after a certain number of beers, used to redecorate the hotel rooms out of too much enthusiasm.

I continued my holiday peacefully, but with more care in my clothes: I switched to pastel, neutral colours, without signs, drawings or inscriptions. From then on, I started to look at my wardrobe as a true diplomatic statement. A T-shirt could make me suspected of hooliganism, a checked shirt gave me the air of a meticulous German, and a banal cap was enough to arouse suspicions that I was an English tourist on a mission to reconquer the Greek islands.

Every morning, the choice of clothes became a small geopolitical strategy: to appear neutral, not to offend, not to be confused. I was left with the feeling that the hotels on the Greek islands are little embassies where you enter with your passport, but you are judged by your T-shirt.

At the end of the vacation, looking in my suitcase, I told myself that the title of "hooligan" is easily earned and, paradoxically, hard to wear. Otherwise, it remains as it has been established for centuries, not only the man makes the clothes, but the clothes make the man.