OVER THERE

All I wanted was to keep up my college Italian, so a few months ago, I placed personal ads for a correspondent in three Italian papers. I wanted a pen pal. I got 99 love letters, one dating service application, seven form letters, three poems, enough pictures to fill a photo album and absolute proof that the myth of the Southern California blonde bombshell is alive and well and living in Bologna, Milan and Florence.

In innocently describing myself as a “friendly Californian in her 20s,” I elicited everything from soul-baring confessions to marriage proposals. Bundles of letters arrived, sometimes 15 a day. And every suitor gave the same reason for writing: my state of residence.

“If ever there was an Italian male with a dream, it would be to visit California,” wrote

Giuseppe, 33. “And I, as one of the ‘last romantics,’ am happy to correspond with a woman from that mythical land.”

“For us, California is a place of invincible policemen and happy, superficial girls in bathing suits,” wrote Bruno, 22.

“I decided to write because they say that the blondes in California are the sweetest and prettiest,” declared Mario, 28.

“For many Italians, California is Paradise,” explained Francesco, 25. “I hope this isn’t a joke and you’re not a man and you really exist,” he added.

From high school students and middle-aged married men, from bellboys and lawyers, the letters still pour in, each hoping the same thing.

“Excuse me if I’m wrong, but I imagine you as blonde and tall, with blue eyes,” mused Aldo, 27.

Poor Francesco, Mario, Bruno and Giuseppe. If only they knew they were writing to a short brunette who doesn’t even own a bikini.