Why Italy Hates Seventeen
Category: Superstitions & Lore 27th May 2026
Goodness, England fusses over thirteen and we make whole flights skip a row; Italy, being more theatrical and slightly better at Latin, has a different scapegoat: the number 17. It is not merely unlucky in the way a cracked mirror is unlucky. It arrives with the solemnity of a small tragedy in a period drama and the paperwork to prove it.
The tidy, historical reason rests on Roman numerals. XVII, if you scrawl it carelessly on a tomb or an epitaph and then an irritable philologist rearranges the letters, becomes VIXI, which in blunt classical Latin means "I have lived" - a polite way of saying "I am dead." The ancients were not subtle. Thus 17 acquired a deathly whisper, and Italians, who respect both history and a good theatrical whisper, treated it like an ill-mannered guest.
Because human beings adore ritualised avoidance, the superstition has practical contours. You will find hotels that prefer not to sell room 17, and some older aeroplane seat charts and hospital wards have quietly omitted the number. Footballers have been known to decline the jersey. It is not universal, and it is not enforced by any law; rather, it persists as that deliciously petty communal agreement that says: "Let us ignore this number together, because we like feeling slightly cleverer than numbers."
There are modern addenda. In other cultures thirteen is the ledger-book ogre. In China eight is beloved because it sounds like wealth. Italy keeps its theatrical misfortune for seventeen, enjoying the continental eccentricity of being the sole proprietor of this particular superstition. It is, in short, an example of how numerals accumulate personality and gossip.
One can be sensible and point out this is folklore, an amusing cultural quirk. One can also, with far more pleasure, imagine a committee of Romans in togas frowning at an epitaph and deciding to persistently sulk about a pair of digits. Either way, when you are in Italy and someone grimaces at the sight of 17, do not argue. Offer them a coffee and a biscuit and the kind of social consolation only the British and Italians have perfected: polite avoidance accompanied by excellent pastries.