No Country For Short Men

When I first got here, I was living in a house at the borders  of a forest with an exceptionally short german guy and two tiny taiwanese men. I felt like Snow White among the dwarves, with the exception that I was the one working all day long and they were constantly home doing my laundry, cooking for me and all that stuff. It was great knowing that there was a place, in this cold gigantic country, populated by people shorter than 1.70 and that I was their king.

Unfortunately after some months they went bad, like cute Gremlins that someone inadvertently fed after midnight: all of a sudden one of them became an alcoholic, one tried to sell me ecstasy in the kitchen and the other touched my bulge in the bus.

I had to move, even though this meant losing my special place in the world and facing the awful truth that I’m just another short Italian man. And of course this affected many aspects and situations. In my dating life, I’ve always been Getting Ghosted after the first date. I know this is due to my height which is why I am trying to learn something how to deal with it.


As you probably noticed, I love going to concerts. The only problem here is that I’m too lazy to get there early and conquer the front row, so I usually end up seeing nothing but backs and napes. The following pic represents well my usual POV on gigs.

crowd surfer girl


At some point, in one of the bagillions of apartments I’ve lived in, I had to repaint the walls. High ceilings are cool and make you feel like Princesse Sissi in one of those bavarian castles, true, but when it comes to do-it-yourself-painting they are a total bitch. First of all, the surface you need to paint is like double than the one of your regular italian room, which by itself makes the work longer and harder. But what’s more is that reaching the top of those walls can be extremely hard, no matter how long your brush is, if you’re a vertical limitated person. I got so desperate about this that I seriously considered scaffold tower rental.


I tried to date this very tall german guy named Mathias. I don’t remember kissing him and I barely remember his face, but I do have a clear image of his nipples in my mind, ’cause that’s everything I would see without stressing my neck.


I’m trying to have a career here. I try, I do, but it’s difficult to be taken seriously when you know that when people look at you they basically see this.

Filed under: Expat in Germany

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Federico is a human love letter to the internet. His favourite activities include: hypochondriasis, a tragic vision of the future and lowering his life expectancy one pastry at a time. You can stalk him on TWITTER / FACEBOOK / INSTAGRAM