Roman Holiday

My antique writing desk faces the window where I look out past my sage colored window shutters.  The paint is slightly chipping, and as I push them out and open they creak just a little bit.  In the copper colored building across from me is a man in his bathrobe smoking a cigarette on a balcony  with fantastic white French doors.  Just diagonal is a woman watering the small little oasis of flowers and vines that has overtaken her balcony.  The sun has been up for a few hours now, the birds too, the bustle of traffic is starting to grow in the street below.  Sunday morning in Rome.

By 8 in the morning the sun is already high.  It is going to be a hot and wonderful day.  Sunday is my one day off and I am going to take advantage of all the sleep I got last night, and set out on a walking tour of Roma in about an hour.  But before I do that, I want to embrace every last charming detail of my hotel.

Hotel Lady rests on the 5^th floor of an early 19^th century building.  The ceiling is high and the exposed beams give it a homey lived-in quality.    In the living room there are three card tables set with beautiful linens and find china tea cups.  Yet I am not sure why, since there is never anyone there in the morning for breakfast, and the place settings haven’t moved as far as I have noticed.  All the furniture is antique, but some how it doesn’t feel fragile or contrived.  It feels like home.  It feels like every piece is loved. The walls are white which is the perfect surface for the wonderful modern art sketches, watercolors, and prints of Rome from the 19^th century.  The couple who owns the hotel is hysterical.  Signora Angela really runs the place.  She walked me through the rules of the house: nothing but water down the drains (it’s an old building), leave the room key on the plate when you leave so they know where you are, and be back by 1 because that’s when they go to bed.  Easy enough.  Her husband (I’m assuming) loves to talk about the beauty of Rome.  This morning as I was trying to get out to early to see as much as I could, he talked to me for 20 minutes straight on the beauty of St. Peters Basilica.  If I ask him where the best place to get to an internet cafe he gives me directions, and then gives me five different options and points them out on a map.  They both speak emphatically, so that their raspy voices always seem a little bit anxious.  To me, it just makes me love Italians that much more.  Their mannerisms, their inflection, everything is exaggerated but completely natural and completely Italiano.  

Saturday I set out into the city with my map, my mac, and no guide book.  My map had little pictures of the must see sights, so I figured that would be guide book enough.  My real guide book lies within the location of the libraries.  That’s my reason for being here, and whatever time I have outside of the libraries is mine to discover! This time it took me 2 hours to find my library.  Partly because I made the mistake to go to the library on my first day in Rome… I was completely overwhelmed.  Rome, as I found out after taking a single step outside of my hotel is in a class all to its own.  It’s incredibly grand, and I just feel cliché saying how amazing it is, but it is true!  I couldn’t even imagine the scale to which this city stupefies until I got out and tried to make my way to Biblioteca Casatense.  On the way I passed more churches than hairs on my head, I saw Piazza Navona, The Pantheon, The Castel Sant’Angelo… I just had to stop at each point and let my jaw hang.  I calculated my trip to the library as 20 minutes, but with sites and navigating Roman streets, that took me to 2 hours.  So when I finally arrived to Casatense their distribution was closed!  Well, I was there and I wasn’t about to leave without accomplishing something.  I befriended a couple of the librarians, asked them how someone gets access to the Vatican Library (the answer is: nobody, it’s closed, and it’s the Vatican…), and checked my email. 

I spent the rest of the day exploring the area around Piazza Navona.  I found a caffé that I am in love with.  There Simonetta, a Roman tried and true, made me a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice and a 3 day itinerary “this is what you have to see in Rome” according to a local.  After checking up on my email I explored a little bit more.  I found myself on the singular street in Rome that sells only items for ladies, because many years ago that’s where the women’s rights movement was strongest.  I finally went into a boutique, after resisting all of the past fifty on the grounds of “I’m here for research not for retail.”  That’s were I met Julia, a fashion photographer who splits her time between Rome and Milan.  We spent a while talking about how much she loves America but has never been.  She also told me all the hip spots to go to in Rome: Campo dei Fiori and Trastevere.  She had a way of speaking Italian that I had never heard before.  It was almost valley girl, vowels really open, exaggerated rolls of the eye after every sentence.   And as much as I would have loved to continue to chat I needed to get a move on.  And instead of going back to my hotel I found myself magnetized back to Piazza Navona.  There I found a seat amidst a school of German sketching students.  I let out a sigh and took in the bustle of the Piazza.

As the sun dropped behind the museum, Bernini’s fontana dei Quattri Fiumi still dominated the energy in the Roman circle that is Piazza Novana.  It’s mythical and gravity defying sculpture reminds you that although the information age we live in now is remarkable, what they were doing a few hundred years ago is mind blowing.  Tourists weary and ready to eat bustled around the Piazza lined with white umbrella outdoor patios.  I was also tired from a day research and roaming under the Roman sun, so I was relieved to find a vacant spot on a cool marble bench.  Around the Piazza street are acts and musicians of all sorts strumming away.  An elderly man at the bench next to mine sat with a boombox playing “Nesun dorma”.  He sat there holding a microphone in one hand, conducting with the other hand, eyes closed, and mouth singing to Pavarotti.  Then came the famous La Traviatta duet, and mouthed both the soprano and the tenor.  Across from the fountain a young man was playing tenor and alto recorder with his nose.  Alto out the left nostril, tenor out the right. Just a few meters away was a man playing the fiddle.  I think it was something like “presto in furioso in A” because there was a lot of bow and only one note.  But he played with heart and conviction! Oh, I do love Italy.

Sunday is my Roman Holiday.  The libraries are closed and I need not one more reason to get out and enjoy il sole.

It was like seeing an old friend

I’m sitting on my top of my little roller in the load/unload section at the end of one of the train cabins.  Seat or no seat I am going to Rome today.  All trains this friday afternoon were booked, so I’m in standing room only, but no discount like you get at the opera.  And this is what I’m learning as I am traveling.  Going to Rome on a weekend?  Book ahead.  On the other hand this is a little more memorable.  Feeling like a stowaway, having to get out of people’s way as they go back and forth between cabins. I don’t really need a cushioned seat with an outlet for my computer.  That’s just modern day comfort that I can live without for the next hour and half.  Besides, I’m going to Rome .

For the past 48 hours I have been in Florence.  Indeed it has been short, and to indulge in the phrase, very very sweet.  The last and also the first time I was in Italy was this past March. After doing Middlebury’s Italian Language School I have felt extremely compelled to actually go to the land of pasta and Patria. Florence in March was remarkable.  With hardly any tourists I didn’t have to wait to see the David, and I only waited maybe 5 minutes in line to walk the steps to the top of the Duomo and the same to enter the Uffizzi museum. It was a delight to be in Florence, a tourist Mecca, in the off season. 

It happened to be a lot like Seattle in March while I was there.  Grey, drizzly, fresh crisp air.  And even in the “dreary” winter Florence was a gem.  As soon as I stepped out side, I was that person that took a picture of every street I walked down because every street was more charming than the last.  But this time I let my shutter sleep for a while, I had already made an entire photo album dedicated to the Duomo, and was happy not to feel rushed to capture every moment.  And in the sunshine of summer, Florence was illuminated in a way that I hadn’t seen before back in March.  Piazza della Repubblica gleamed a different kind of yellow.  The shutters were a riper green.  The Arno was a little muckier.  The gelato was drippier and much more satisfying.  It was like seeing a really great friend again after a long time apart.  Florence, even with the tourists, was still enchanting

In my two days in Florence I managed to run into my friend Antonio who has been studying in Ferrara and was visiting Florence the same day I was.  On my way to the train station I ran into Tyler and Andrew, also students of Middlebury’s Italian School. Since my train was leaving within minutes, we couldn’t really catch up.  But in 30 seconds I got two great big hugs, tons of “We’re doing great!  Couldn’t be happier!”  Then we said ‘see ya later’ and laughed at what were the chances…  I also made a point to go to my two favorite places for conversation.  They are right next door on Via Santa Margarita near Dante’s house.  The first is were I met Christiano who works at and owns this panino restaurant, just a tiny little whole in the wall, but with so much character.  Meats hang from the ceiling.  The walls are lined with wine.  Christiano hoots and hollers about how hot it is, and always comes back to his favorite topic: why Florence the best city in Italy.   I happened upon this panino place (and although I’ve been there a sack of times I can’t remember the name for the life of me) when I was with my best friend Emily.  We were meandering around the city when we realized we were both starving and that Emily had to catch her plane back to Paris in an hour.  Yikes!  So we jumped to the nearest place.  We got a “Dante e Beatrice” which was pecorino+prosciutto+balsamico and hailed a cab.  Not having any plans for the rest of the day I went back to the panino place, grabbed a stool, and talked with Christiano and his helper Bianca for an hour or two.  For the rest of the week that was my lunchtime routine.  So this time around, the Panino place by Dante’s House was first on my list. 

Then I headed to my second favorite place, to the best leather artisan in Florence.  Simone makes the finest quality leather boxes, trinket holders, picture frames, book ends, each one of a kind and emanate the craftsmanship of Simone’s extremely perfect work.  I only went to Simone’s store a couple of times.  The first time he told me all about how he made his boxes.  Some out of calf skin, others out of thicker leather.  He has a jewelry box in the shape of a seashell about the size of two footballs, that takes him about a month to make.  The second time I walked into the store was to buy a present for my brother.  This time instead of talking about his craft we talked about Obama.  This past Thursday Simone and I talked about music, talked about why American students are other “giovani” are always running around at night inebriated.  He said his business was going well.  He told me he had been published in the New York Times magazine as one of the 7 things to do in Florence.  On page 36 was a 3 x 5 of Simone varnishing leather.  Simone didn’t like how they called his workshop a whole in the wall, but I think he was just trying to modestly detract from the great press.  I had to run and meet a friend for gelato so said see ya later and told me to come back and actually stay in Florence for longer than just a couple of days… we will see.

And Florence ended with a lovely dinner with three really great gals that I met at Middlebury.  Over wine, delicious pasta, and a limoncello to boot, we covered all the bases. School, family, boys, and plans for next year.  I can’t even begin to explain how honderful it is to be in Florence, in that warmth of evening, eating food that feeds your soul, and having conversation with people you love and have missed.

Now to the last leg, 5 more days, not enough to see Rome, but enough time to accomplish what I need to.  Maybe I’ll meet another Christiano, or run into a Stefano and be told once again to go to Sicilia to eat, be happy and make babies.  And now, in my 6^th city in the past 3 and a half weeks I am equally overwhelmed and content that I am departing from Rome.  So tonight I’ll raise a glass, “cin – cin, a Roma!”

Bologna, ci sentiamo!

Today wasn’t what I had in mind for my last morning.  I planned to be up at 8, then finish putting my luggage together, have a brioche and tea, and see the churches that I haven’t been able to get inside yet. Check, check, and check. By 11 am I completed everything, crossing my final tee’s, dotting the last i’s on the postcards I bought, when I remembered I needed to stop by the ATM to get funds for the next leg of the trip.  That’s when my day started to take an unexpected turn.  When I attempted the withdrawal I received a message “you are not authorized to make international withdrawals.” Oh brother.  So I tried another ATM.  No good, again I received the same message.  I returned to my hotel to cool down, collect my thoughts, and call  Bank of America.  They informed me that somewhere along the road in the past month my number was swiped.  If I want to make any withdrawals I have to open a new account and have the card shipped to me in Rome, where I will be on Friday.  Mamma mia.  The representative told me that the only thing he can do is open up the card for 30 min. for me to make a withdrawal.  The whole way I was walking back and forth from hotel to ATM to hotel, then not having any cell phone minutes left and needing to go to Vodaphone, which was closed because everything shuts down from 12:30-3!! I am sure that the man outside of Trattoria d’Orsa smoking his cigar was extremely entertained at just how many times I walked past that restaurant between 11:30 and 1.  It was actually quite remarkable.  Two hours later than expected I am on a train to Florence. So really, I’m still not doing too badly. I imagined traveling by myself would present me with certain challenges and an abundance of growing opportunities:   speaking the language, traveling frequently, adapting to a whole different culture.  Also, figuring out what to do when your bank has closed down your card for your own protection.

Despite the recent developments, there is no damper on my trip thus far.  It is indeed bittersweet to leave Bologna, but what remains are only good memories step outside my boundaries and in the meantime learn how to not step in front of a vespa.  My limited time here encouraged me to take advantage of the city and to eat tortellini until I can’t move.  Bologna also became my point of reference.  My home base from where I traveled to Modena, Ferrara, Milan and Venice.  I recognize faces now.  I know that one particular Signore always eats at my favorite restaurant at 8pm, I see the kids that were studying at the Archiginnasio around town.  I’ve seen GP and Bianco twice since our first encounter – the first time next to my hotel at “pizza casa” and the second time on his way to apperativi (drinks+mingling italian style).  I know where to go for the best cappucino, where to not go to get a panino, where to listen to jazz.  By stepping out of my comfort zone to get to know the city I have grown incredibly comfortable here and in a way sort of attached.  Certain personalities have also made it incredibly easy to love Bologna.

There are the Bologna Boys, or that’s the name I’ve given the five boys that frequent the Archiginnasio, pretending to study hard from 9 in the morning to 6:45 when it closes.  They are always dressed in Burberry or Polo or Diesel.  They are all studying law or engineering.  They take breaks every few hours to grab a caffé, smoke, or not study.  Thomas, the snow boarder from northern Italy, told me he studies at the Archi because that’s where the girls are… Oh the Bologna Boys.  And then there is Serena who works at the Biblioteca Universitaria.  On my way out of the library we always have great conversations.  She was very interested in Hurricane Katrina and how Texas and New Orleans are doing.  We talk about politics and why, as she puts it, a lack of objectivity just ruins everything.  There is Lisa, the darling elderly Italian Signora, who for a half an hour told me the entire history of the Church of Bentivoglio, all about its 34 chapels, and that it was only opened for the public 11 years ago.  Cieki, who works at Lime, a bar near my hotel, and when I walk by he says, “Ehh-oh Shelley! Come stai!”  He’s a dred-locked hippy who spent a month in California and can’t wait to go back.  Then there is Fabio who is obsessed with Rachmaninoff and Schubert.  I was in an internet cafe and paying for my half hour when I noticed he was looking at one of Rachmaninoff’s etude-tableaus.  So I asked him if he ever played for singers.  He said no, but why not.  Since then we’ve meet a couple time at 8 am (the only time the practice rooms are open at the Conservatory) to sing some Mendelssohn and Schumann.  And then there’s the team at Cafe Rosso, who always treat me well and tell me what I have to eat before I leave Bologna.

Within the first few nights after my arrival in Bologna I walked into Hotel Accademia late in evening after one of my nightly dinner + a stroll I met Stefano.  Stefano I like to describe as the younger, designer wearing, 100% Italian brother of Babbo Natale (aka Santa Clause).  Leaving the whole beard, and velvet suit aside, Stefano has all the qualities.  He has a smile from ear to ear, he has that heart-felt chuckle, and the belly to boot.  When I walked in he said, “Ciao bella!”  and asked me where I was from and then, with the biggest smile, arms stretched out wide he said, “Ma com’è bella America!” After that point, every time I came home from dinner and my nightly walks, he gives me the loudest and warmest greeting, “Ciao bella!  Come stai!?!”  He asks me how I am doing, and before I can even answer he says with the biggest smile on his face, “Ma sicuramente stai bene, c’è Italia!”  You got it Stefano, how could I not be happy in Italy.  Stefano likes to tell me about all the places I need to visit.  He tells me I need to go to Calabria, do nothing but eat and lay by the beach, meet an Calabrian and have 10 babies.  Another time he told me I need to go to Sardinia to eat, lay of the beach, and have 12 babies.  Then he told me I needed to go to Sicily.  If I go to Sicily I will eat so well, and I will be so happy, and that I will never-ever-ever leave because I will meet a Sicilian and have 15 babies… Ok Stefano, I will never-ever-ever go to those places!  Stefano is also like Babbo Natale because he just takes likes to take care.  When I was working in the hotel lobby around midnight he walked in with two apples, a tall glass of orange juice and a handful of candy, “Here’s some sugar. It helps you study!”  Stefano’s philosophy on life is that we are always moving forward to where we are happiest.  His phrase is “si mangia bene, si crede bene, si vive bene,”  so as long as you are in Italy, you eat well, you believe, and you live the best you ever have.  Stefano may actually love Italy more than the whole population of Italy put together.  He shows me Youtubes on the Pope, videos of panoramas of Calabria with some cheesy Italian sentimental music in the background. And everynight before I head upstairs to go home he asks if Italy has found me well and if I will return.  And I say, of course.

lazy Sunday

I can’t think of a better place to be on a Monday evening than in Piazza Maggiore.  In front of the Cathedral (that is only half finished.  The bottom part is in elegant coral pink and gray marble, the upper is in gnarly brick.  But I think it fits perfectly with Bologna – beautiful, grand and stately but just a little bit different from the rest.)  The summer is coming to Bologna quickly.  The past days here the sun has been that noticeable heat, the kind that makes you say, “dang, it’s hot!” instead of, “awww don’t you love Italy on sunny days like this?”  Today was no exception.  I spent the whole day in the library from 9 until 6, and everyone in the Archiginnasio was sitting by the windows, fanning themselves, trying to focus as the temperature kept rising.  Now at 8 pm its still sunny, but the breeze has picked up, and it is just lovely.  And where better to be than at Piazza Maggiore where all the crazies gather telling you they are the communist solution to Berlusconi, where all the pigeons waddle and wait for potato chips, where people meet for a Spritz or a glass of wine, to shop, to relax, to strum a guitar.  We sit under the watch of castles, cathedrals, and government buildings from as early as 1200 and catch up over an espresso.  This life is not hard to enjoy.

I had to play catch-up today in the library.  I’m feeling a little down to the wire.  I have discovered more libretti than I had planned in my preliminary research.  What’s more is these musical drammas are also longer than I expected.  So little by little I type away and slim the list down.  Today I checked one libretti off the list, some twenty to go.  And why I was productive today was because I took the “weekend Italiano.” Friday evening I went out with a few friends I’ve made hear in Bologna to a pub near Piazza Maggiore.  Then when that closed we went to a very hip very chic bar and mingled with Italy’s young and fabulously dressed.  After that what did we do?  We went to a birthday party at a villa up in the hills of Bologna, of course. It smelled divine, rose bushes, and other delicious aromas made the villa even more like a fairytale.  But for the birthday boy it’s just home.  Sometimes I forget that it’s no big deal living in a villa with a fantastic view of the city below… Then Saturday night I joined my friends at Andrea’s house, also looking over Bologna and all the hills surrounding for an evening dinner.  Then it was to a fantastic club in the park for drinks, and dopo to a discoteca.  I found myself struggling to keep up in those wee hours when my amici italiani seemed on top of their game.  I don’t know how they manage to have all this fun all the time.  Anyways, when Sunday rolled around, I had no choice but to take a lazy Sunday in the spirit of my weekend italiano.

Yesterday was my first Sunday in Bologna.  Instead of flying the coup on Sundays and seeing more of the country, my inner voice told me to stay put, I only have three more days here, what’s the rush?!  So I woke up late, ate two too many pastries, and took a walk.  I have made a deal with myself to walk a different way every time I go somewhere.  I started this to get to know the city a little bit better. One time this deal of mine led me to the heat of an Italian lovers’ quarrel.  Therefore on Sunday I decided to take a completely new street I had never walked before – Via Casteglione – which to my contentment led me to the Giardini Margherita. There is a lake with fountains, where an abundance of turtles swim, cafes an icecream stands, places to play basketball or tennis, and great big green spaces.  I only staid a bit, my tummy started to demand gelato.  And as if I was going to resist.

Staying true to my “every way’s a new way”  I took Via delle Poeti from Via Casteglione which surprisingly led me to a Via that I had been to the day before.  Saturday I took a “giro” (not to be confused with a gyro…) with my friend Francesco who showed me every important site on the east side of the city (the oldest wall in the city built in 1000, a castle, an important church, the best gelato in Bologna… yatta yatta yatta).  On our giro we came to this Via where a very holy tradition was about to take place.  From all the windows hung red and gold banners or displayed white lilies.  Over loud speakers a priest gave a blessing, which as Francesco told me, all the Italians learn in the womb.  And outside of a church sat the most adorable Italian ladies and gentlemen, reverently awaiting the march of the Madonna from San Luca to this Church where the crowd was gathered.  This is a very important day for Bolognesi, or for practicing Catholics – and those who want to know the weather.  Let me explain.  The legend has it that every year they parade the Madonna it rains either the day of, the day before, or the day after.  Saturday happened to be rather pleasant, but infact it did sprinkle for about 5 minutes the day before, so I guess the legend still stands.  We didn’t stay to actually see the Madonna being paraded, but none the less it is always puts a smile on my face to see culture and traditions living and breathing here in Bologna.

… My lazy Sunday finished in Piazza Maggiore where an Italian in his 50’s was wearing acid wash, skin tight jeans, and a muscle tee playing karaoke guitar to something poppy spin on ACDC.  His electric guitar was hooked up to his motorcycle, which supported his mixer and stereos, and behind the motorcycle was his posse, another 50 something Italian rocker head banging and grooving.  Just a few meters away was the Grandfather of Peace.  He wore a white visor with words of peace written on the brim.  He also wore a white cape, which also posted his words of peace.  On his tiny itty-bitty white Fiat there was a giant paper mache globe and dove, the sides hung signs saying “I am a 87 grandfather traveling around Italy for peace.”  On the hood rested a cornucopia.  This grandfather came up to me, waving a corn cob, chuckled and mumbled something like, “la musica e’ fantastica” … was he talking about those motorcycle rockers?! Then he mumled somem more Italian through a giant grin, waved his corn cob high, and bellowed, “Pace!” And just a few meters into the piazza was a Turkish family playing the electric fiddle.  There a guy danced with a sign that side “Find me on Youtube, Zion Music” haven’t followed that one up yet… and meanwhile the Turkish ladies shimmied and shaked to the fiddle.  And just a few meters from that an elderly gentleman was setting up his puppet show stand.  It was a Sunday evening variety show, something for all ages!

And I am holding these memories dearly as the thought of leaving Bologna Wednesday morning is something I don’t really want to think about.

Bartleby

The end of week 2 means one thing: laundry.  I remember spotting a lavandaria a couple hundred meters from my hotel, and yesterday, after making the trek from Venice back to Bologna in the heat and the bags (that seem to weigh more than I do now) I didn’t want anything more than I wanted clean clothes.  We’ve all been there, getting down to that last pair of socks, not willing to turn them inside out… Anways.  This laundry place had Bologna written all over it.  There was a funky mural of a man resembling George Washington going through the steps, buying his “Gettone” (token for the machine), putting the clothes in, founding some colonies, and after 25 minutes having clean clothes.  There was witty Italian text to accompany but my attempt to recreate it would not come close.  So I rang the bell a few times to alert the man who gives you a token, as the mural told me to do, but he was out, probably for a smoke and a café.  Still determined to do laundry I contemplated my options.  Then suddenly a rugged mountain man with his giant white as snow dog walked in.  He had his backpacking rucksack on and was also determined to have clean clothes.  He seemed to know his way around the joint, and when he saw the man in charge was out he gave him a ring on the telefonino.  The mountain man took me around the corner to a photocopying center in Piazza Verdi where all the students copy their textbooks, then return them for a full refund.  That’s where we bought our laundry tokens.  Who would have guessed? As we loaded our loads the mountain man introduced himself as GianPier and his dog is Bianco.

GianPier is as free of a spirit as they come.  He lives out of a camper, hasn’t had a real job in 12 years, makes just enough money to pay his cell phone bill, buy some gas and then he hits the road.  But he always returns to Bologna where his friends are and to Sicilia where he comes from.  GP has a grizzly beard, the reason why I call him the mountain man, and one giant dreadlock reaching down to about his knee.  His manner was calm, like nothing really makes him stir, and it seems to me that he is well known around these parts.  As we stand outside the lavandaria talking about why he likes his lifestyle, why he doesn’t believe in anything, why he always comes back to Bologna, and why I have come to Bologna, GP greets students and passerbys, everyone is excited to see him.  One guy wearing pj bottoms walked by and was ecstatic to see GP.  “Whoa, GianPier! Come stai?!!!” “Bene, sto bene” And GP introduced Giovanni to his new friend, me, that came all the way from the United States. Giovanni was even more ecstatic, “Whoa! Gli Stati Uniti! Evuh-ree buhd-eez gone surfin! Surfin OO ES AY! Whoa, yeah, Beach Boys!!”  Haha, bravo Giovanni!  Then Giovanni skedaddled. 

The lavandaria is right next to Piazza Verdi in the heart of the University.  This afternoon, as GP explained, was a student manifestation of Bartleby. What? It is the name for a student organization where they collaborate to put on concerts, art shows, forums, and such.  Today they are occupying a public space, hundreds of students, to symbolize their efforts for a more positive a more unified University that gives students more liberties and a louder voice. Then at seven they were starting their Bartleby parade up via Zamboni to the Due Torre, down to Via Indipendenza and ending on Via Molline, making a giant square on the city’s most traveled streets. A truck about the size of a standard U-Haul was decked out in Bartleby, the back was packed with loud speakers, and students marched behind holding a giant sign, “Vostra crisi non la paghiamo”  meaning they aren’t going to pay for everyone else’s problems.  In a way it was standing up for their rights as students, not letting their education suffer because Bologna has been governed by a less than satisfactory Sindaco for the last 5 years.  “Riprendiamoci Bartleby” said the other sign – they were taking back what is rightfully theirs.  There was a great energy amongst the crowd.  Everyone was wearing Bartleby masks – hard to describe, a white face, stoic, a black futuristic helmet shielding its forehead- strapped to their arms, legs, hats.  People were chanting, whistling, dancing, laughing, marching, joining together to say what they couldn’t keep silent any longer.  Once and a while the truck would stop.  The hundreds in the parade stopped to listen to one of the leaders infuse the crowd with energy through words of “libertà” demanding peace and unification.  

As I walked with the students, I found myself clapping my hands, laughing, dancing, it was contagious, and I couldn’t help but admire the students for their passion and courage.  GP met up with me, bringing his dog Bianco and a couple of his colorful friends.  Soon the dance music began, all politically themed, and the crowd really let loose.  Fits pumping, heads banging, beer flying, smoke puffin… Everyone from 3 blocks around stopped what they were doing.  Servers stopped serving, girls in HM stopped redressing the manikins, everybody was engrossed.  Whether or whether not you were a part of the manifestation, for that hour when those students peacefully demonstrated their demands for more respect, equality, and all the police in Bologna stood by to make sure no hoodlum got out of line, nothing could stop Bartleby.

And so, I am back “home” back to Bologna, back to where my journey started.  I am meeting up with a pianist in a short bit to sing some Lieder.  Then, who knows….

I haven’t missed a train… yet.  I was 5 minutes away from missing mine today at Stazione San Lucia in Venice.  The train to Bologna departs everyday at 13:57, so says the printed arrival and departure schedules.  Both the printed schedule and the digital “frequently updated” schedule say that my train leaves from platform 11.  What was waiting to depart at platform 11 was not my train, but another leaving for Balssano at the same time.  So I asked a lady in a Train Italia uniform what the scoop was, she said that this was not the train I wanted.  Yeah, I know.  Then she said that my train will come after this one leaves around 2pm.  Huh?  That doesn’t make sense!  So I waited some more, but around 13:50 I wasn’t feeling so sure, so double checked the digitally updated schedule: Platform 11.  Oh brother… Thank goodness I happened to look to my right where the old school rotating schedule posted my train as leaving from platform 2, at the other side of the station.  So I hurried on over, got on my train 4 minutes before it left.  Enough time to get myself and my bags on board, find an empty seat, exhale and eat lunch.

While pondering whether I was at the correct Platform or not, a little girl in a polka dot dress and bedazzled flipflops began to talk to me.  I had sat down on the only bench in sight across from where she sat next to her parents (I’m assuming) who were very busy canoodeling.  I took out a plastic bag which contained my lunch for the journey.  She asked me, “do you have a present for me?”  I replied, “No, I’m sorry.” She smiled, “Why not?” I didn’t have a witty come back, “because this is my lunch.” She laughed, then asked “Are you getting on this train,” and I replied honestly, “I don’t think so.” Then she got up, walked in front of me and said, “I am going to draw a circle around your head.”  Then with her two index fingers she drew an imaginary circle around my face. “Ha! There’s a circle around your head!” “Where?!” “Around your head, there is, there is, uh-huh, there is a circle around your head!”  Then she knocked the 2 Lr water bottle next to her off the bench, laughed, picked it up, and knocked it over again.

I have been spending my mornings at the library inside the Cini Foundation, which is only accessible by boat, and is currently closed to the general public as they are reorganizing their entire collection.  I have been emailing with Lucia Sardo, about how I could consult the libretti despite the website publicizing the Foundations temporary closure.  Thanks to our discourse, I was admitted into the library no problem and when I entered Lucia was there to kindly show me around and introduce me to the staff.  The Foundation has been such an incredible chapter in my journey.  It is so calm there, it used to be a monastery, and there is a courtyard inside the foundation that smells like gardenias, although I didn’t see any, and the walls are pink and the columns are white, and there are beautifully manicured green bushes in the style of 19^th century Italian gardens. Just outside there is a giant marble entrance way that ends where the tide laps against it, and you can see all of Venice proper.  In the library I worked across from an Italian PhD candidate from Berlin.  His doctorate, still somewhat unclear to me, was tracing the influence of one very important Italian opera librettist/translator living during the 18^th century on all other translators that followed him in all of Europe.  He came to the Cini foundation because he says they treat you the best here, you get certain privileges that you can’t get at other libraries. Hearing this fellow talk about his research – about his escapades to libraries pestering the librarians for free reproductions until they almost call the authorities – and how I need to study in Germany, probably Berlin (though I can’t imagine there was any bias), our conversation was a hoot, but I only half understood it all because his vocab was a little over my head.  I took a break at lunch to follow a gravel path shaded by cottonwoods.  In the grassy areas beyond the row of trees the cotton gathered maybe 2 inches thick, creating the impression we were still in the middle of winter.  The path ended on the other side of the island.  It was just me, the water, and Venice.

Last night I had a very wonderful time hanging out with Venetian music students.  Around 6 oclock I was wondering around Santa Margarita, which is packed with the funky youth of Venice.  Their style was reminiscent of what you would see at Oberlin, and being a new-be I wanted to talk to some of these hipsters.  So I bought myself a Spritz and walked up to a girl who had the same dog as I do, “Come si chiama il tuo canino?”  I asked her what her dog’s name was and that I had the same one.  She gave a squeal of joy, and said that Jack Russels are her favorite dogs in the world. She was leaving for Rome in less than 24 hours for good and had to say goodbye to her puppy and that her heart will be forever broken.  She was also heading to dinner with her friends so we said goodbye, she gave me her name and told me find her on facebook.

It was turning dark and I had it in my mind to get some more work done, even though I worked 6 hours straight this morning.  As I headed back towards the boat stop I passed a cafe where some Italian students were sitting singing U2.  I paused for a second and their voices bounced off the walls of the piazza, over and under the bridge of the canal and told me to join in.  So I headed backwards and asked if I could join them.  PG, or Pier Giuseppe, energetically pulled up a chair with me and started strumming, “Ms Robinson.”  We were all singing, laughing, and making up words.  They all happened to be musicians at the conservatory here.  PG, the only true venetian there majored in Philosophy and is getting his masters in piano.  Sara and Celi are both piano students and Adrianna is mastering in violin. Then Roberta and Ricardo joined us. They accepted me into their impromptu soiree and it was so much fun to just hang out with them, talk about whatever, laugh and joke around.  It got late and the cafe was closing down. PG, Celi, Sara, Adrianna, and I carried our conversation into a stroll across Piazza Santa Margarita.  Then we decided we all were hungry, so they were kind enough to invite me to their home for dinner.  I joined them and it was just a blast.  Making pasta with Celi, who is about 5”1’ and full of energy was just so much fun.  They were all so welcoming and treated me as part of their group.  Adrianna helped show me to the boat stop as it was on her way to her house.  And as we parted ways we both wished each other the best and to fai brava nella musica.

And that’s what I remember of Venice.  The warmth of the people, the generosity, the charisma and character.

Leave your car at home

They aren’t allowed in Venice

 

I wish you could have been with me when I had to find my hotel in Venice.  You would have laughed at how many times I crossed the same bridge in the time span on 20 minutes.  I think people at the restaurant by the bridge were placing bets on how many more times I would cross it.  Now, I swore I packed light.  Two small bags: one small roller and one garment over-the-shoulder.  But yesterday in the heat, with the tourists everywhere, and being terribly enchanted by the architecture and incredibly lost by the fact that each of my maps seemed to point me in a different direction, my bags seemed to weigh double.  That made the whole process of finding my place just that much, um, adventurous… And in the hopes of facilitating the process by booking a hotel near the boat taxi stop and near Piazza San Marco for reference points, my hotel just wasn’t revealing itself to me.  And so I have already checked one thing off my list of things to do in Venice: getting lost.  After asking a very kind lady at the tourist info desk for directions to my hotel and not finding it.  Then Eventually I found Hotel Tiepolo.  It was in a teeny-tiny itty bitty super easy to miss Calle (the Venetian equivalent to an alley, although much more charming than what you would see in Houston). I walked past this particular “side-street” (that’s being generous) a few times and thought, hm, don’t you love how Venice has these little understated secrets?  Well secret no more, sure enough I had completely missed the sign for my hotel, which seemed like pencil scratched onto a piece of cardboard dangling in the wind.  But in that little dead end alley way was where I staid.  It was a truly lovely place, lovely stuff, delicious breakfast (right outside my room! Literally all I had to do was open my door and I could grab a handful of croissants). Boy was I happy to have a place to rest my tired puppies. 

Venice is fifth city I have been to in the past week and a half, and all this traveling, though completely fantastic, has taken a little toll.  The running nose and scratchy throat is creeping up on me.  That coupled with my fervent appetite to gulp as much of Italy down as I can has led me to ignore some of my body’s requests, like sleep.  So last night, although just arriving in Venice, I figured that in the process of getting lost I incidentally did a lot of sightseeing and reasoned that getting into bed at 7pm and not waking up until 13 hours later at 8 in the morning was a good idea.  And oh boy was it ever! I woke up so rested and so ready to do some work and get a little bit more lost.

Right now I am sitting in the Giardini Benniale, the public gardens on the Eastern end of the Island, a 15 minute walk from my hotel.  I’m sitting on a read park bench, sheltered by  a deliciously fragrant flower bush and in front of me is a view of the canale and Isola di San Giorgio Maggiore.  Sounds too picturesque.  That’s because it is Venice.  Upon my arrival I felt like I was in Disney Land.  “Remember the magic” was Disney’s campaign slogan for a while, and still might be, and I feel like that is what Disney was trying to create, that which Venice has always had and still has today.  Even with all the tourists, all the pigeons, all the over-priced gondolier rides, Venice is still enchanting.  I gladly let myself fall into the tourist traps, taking pictures of everything in site, browsing over the hundreds of windows dripping in Venetian glass, and costumes for Carnavale.

Red velvet

I’ve found my place.  This is not a life epiphany, this is just the best cafe I have been to, and I am meant to spend all morning here, writing, working, reading, and being happy.  The cafe is warm, eclectic, artistic and modern.  It’s a really classy feel for a morning breakfast, but you can tell where to go by how many Italians there are, and right now the bar is full.  On the corner of the bar are pots overflowing with tomatoes, strawberries, and oranges that the signore used to make my fresh squeezed orange juice this morning.  The music is jazzy, mixed with the intimateness of Brazilian artist Pahlino Moska.  It was my plan to go out exploring today, but when you find something that works, why not go with it? 

I am in Milano.  The majority of the Italians I have talked to about being in Milano have given me this grimace, saying that it isn’t as nice as Florence, as Bologna, as Roma.  Whatever, I like it here.  I like the over-the-top fluffy architecture, I like that I was on a busy road, turned the corner to get away from the noise, and found this wonderful cafe.  I like that the Braidense library where I worked yesterday is in the conservatory of fine arts.  I like how accessible the public transportation is.  This city is just as wonderful as any other in Italy, for its own unique reasons, and for all of its novelty and Milanese consumerism, if you turn that corner and get away from the bustle, it’s suddenly a marvelous place.

Fortunately my friend Benno, who also attended Middlebury’s summer Italian program

… interjection.  Italian toddlers are adorable.  Hearing them speak Italian is like hearing someone sing a nursery rhyme.  It is nothing short than heart warming.  And they are rather agile with a wine glass.  A little girl maybe 4 years old just grabbed her mothers water, with her fist wrapping around the stem, and didn’t spill a drop.  Italian toddlers are just too refined for sippy cups…

Anyways, it has been such a blessing having friends in Italy.  Benno put me up in his super chic super fabulous Milan apartment for two nights.  Tonight I will stay in a hotel in the Buenos Aires district, known for its shopping and off-beatness.  It’s a little close to the train station so I’ll keep an eye out for any seedy characters. 

Milan is also a marvelous place for the wonderful memory that is yesterday.  It started with a half hour morning walk across the city to Biblioteca Braidense.  This happens to be a lot like the university library in Bologna.  Beautiful wooden book cases, tall ceilings frescoed with muses and cherubs praising the sciences and philosophy.  A really great thing about this library is that it converted a lot of its manuscritti/rari books onto PDF, available to the public at any hour of the day.  What a wonderful idea!  So I’ve decided to down load the PDF and take the opportunity to run around Milan all day. This library, like so many of them, was founded hundreds of years ago, and to enter you have to go through a beautiful piazza where a big bronze statue stands and beautiful marble pillars line your way.  It is located on Via Brera, a very Soho, Fremont kind of area, but a little more adorable and of course, very Italian (cappuccino and shoe stores galore).  Then at 1230 prompt I headed to La Scala to try my luck.  The show that night was Viaggio a Reims by Rossini.  It was completely sold out, so naturally a scalper approached me wanted 80 euros for one ticket.  No way giuseppe, I want the full experience, the excitement of having to stop everything mid day to put your name on a list, then to come back at 530 to hear your name called, push through the 200 other people trying to get a seat, and get your blue ticket with a number.  Then at 6 they call the numbers and you buy your 12 euro galleria seat.  So at 730 I went to the La Scala.  I didn’t have time for a proper sit down dinner so I had the most expensive, and the most delicious panino I’ve had in Italy at il Marchesino: Il Ristorante alla Scala.  Then at quarter till I headed up the 5 flights of stairs to sit in my seat in Galery I.  You couldn’t see anything on stage.  But I was completely overwhelmed by the giant chandelier, the red velvet chairs, the golden detail, the grand velvet curtain, the buzz seeing Rossini at La Scala.  It was magical.  I get goose bumps just remembering the twinkle of the lights.  Then the curtain rose and I heard some of the best singing I have ever heard live.  Since from my seat I couldn’t see anything except for the 6 tiers of opera boxes accross from me, I got up, walked to the back of the horse-shoe shaped theater and stood, in awe and in sheer joy.  For the second act, 3 people did not return to their first row seats on the 5th tier, so I grabbed on of them and leaned onto the red velvet arm rests, feeling the history in the touch of the velvet, the brass bars, the acoustics, the characters that have been booed and bravoed… The singers were lively, livelier than the audience (every time I laughed one Italian lady turned around and scowled at me.  Whatever lady, it’s ok to enjoy opera.)  There comedic timing was perfect, the staging was minimalistic, yet intriguing.  In a scene in Act II a giant puppet stage lowered from the ceiling above, and beautiful marionettes in long elegant white tutus danced on point.  It was so charming.

So far Milan has been really wonderful.  I am going to head to the Braidense again, just to make sure I know exactly how to access those PDFs from my computer, and then I will probably come back to this cafe, do some transcribing, and then go explore some castles.

Cheers!  Miss you all!

It’s snowing in Italy

Marvelous little white cotton balls. It’s springtime in Bologna.  As I walk into la Bibliotheca Universitaria I pass a small piazza inside the library, where the sun caresses a statue of Neptune and weightless flakes of cotton dizzily dance around him.  I reach the entrance and walk through grand oak doors and present my id, then I place my purse and valuables in a locker (this is customary to put your things in a locker and carry the necessary computer or notebook into the library in a clear plastic bag.)  The manuscritti and rari (rare and manuscripts) are all help in the grand Aula Magna. Established by the Pope at the beginning of the 18^th century, open to the public in 1756, this space is a luscious yet tastefull accumulation of the then Pope’s private collection.  Over the years, dukes and priests and other aristocrats have given their collection to this library.  A few decades later it became the place where students studied.  It looks like a beautiful ballroom for books.  The walls are covered with tall handcrafted wooden bookshelves.  There is just something about these books, that lived through the years of Napoleon, touched by Dukes, Cardinals and the Pope, and you can’t help but lose your words and smile in wonder and reverence of the space and the history.  And it happens that the nicest librarians work here. Signora Miani, a most elegant and eloquent lady explained the history of the library, along with helping me find the 3 libretti on my list.  I told her that next week I will be in Modena.  She tells me to salute her friend Signora Ricci there, and that hopefully Signora Ricci can lend me a hand. 

Today is also my last day in Bologna.  For now at least.  I have 4 hours until my train leaves for Milano.  I am feeling a little bit frantic.  Not only is there still more work to be done here, but I don’t want to leave.  Bologna has made an impression on me, its stamp grows more prominent, more ornate, and more personal.  At first Bologna seemed a little overwhelming.  Over 200,000 students roam these streets, groups of students meander in the piazzas, joking, laughing, eating piadine and gelato.  After a week I have met some students and feel less like the new kid in town, the stranger, the black sheep, whatever you want to call it, that feeling has passed and I am happy to be amidst the happy-go-lucky youth of Italia.

That’s another wonderful thing about Bologna: the culture of the young 20 somethings that live here is so dynamic.  There is a bar called Transylvania where you find ladies with those spikey black leather dog collars and spiked punk mohawks.  Just around the corner is the Irish pub where you find diehard soccer lovers sporting their teams t-shirt.  a little bit down the road is Piazza Verdi where the hippies hang out, smoking, drinking beer, relaxing in the sun.  In the other direction on Via Zamboni near the Two Towers are some really classy cafés where the Prada, Gucci, and Mont Blanc frequent.  Everyone wears sneakers, and if not sneakers then true Italian leather boots.  Here a pair of converse costs 96 Euros.  I told my friend Luca that I could get them in the states for 40 bucks if he wanted me to…  The kids are also very vocal about politics.  Down the street from the opera house in Piazza Verdi there is graffiti “la nostra crisi non si pagano: viva il communismo” basically remarking that life isn’t good enough and we need a change in the political scene. Last night there was a rally inside the piazza of the school of law where a punk band plaid, cigarette smoke hung like smog, and students shared a beer in the name of communism.  I didn’t attend because at the time I passed the rally it was already late and I could barely keep my eyes open, but it seemed like it would have been a very interesting experience at the very least…  And here in Bologna all of Italy is represented.  The other night I met some students from Sardinia, Calabria, Rome, Venezia, Rimini, and of course Bologna.  Therefore it’s a great opportunity to test your Italian.  You hear slang, a sack of different dialects and everywhere you turn students are taking a pause for a caffé and a conversation.

And a great conversation is what I had yesterday.  It wasn’t with a student or a Bolognese, but rather an American. This young and very very bright young scholar from Yale who was pursueing his passion of off the wall seventeenth century Italian literature has been working in the same library as I have been for the past three mornings.  Since we were both studying the seventeenth century, though different subjects, I thought it could be a great to do dinner.  Eric is a fellow through an American Institute similar to the Rome prize, where he lives with 20 other scholars, artists, and musicians on a commune looking overlooking Rome.  There they have a sustainable garden and live in serenity and stimulation.  Over tortellini floating in butter, and veal Bolognese we talked about the wonder of the seventeenth century.  The wonders of Italy.  Why in a time transitioning between the Renaissance and Enlightenment, a point that some scholars felt produced works of bad taste, really produced some of the Italy’s best contributions to music, literature, science and philosophy.  Today we are constantly reviving plays, celebrating the music of our past, and I think that it is great we have such a rich well of history to delve into.  Yet in the 1600s you wouldn’t dream of performing something that had already been performed. So every social happening, every marriage, birthday, new cardinals and such was an opportunity for a new play or a new opera.  Wouldn’t that be cool if a friend of yours wrote you an opera complete with a ballet of knights on horses in celebration of your matrimony?

And now I need to sign off, this installment is already way too long, but as always I find myself wandering around with my eyes poised on the buildings, the colors, the smells, the sounds of the vespas, and all the while trying not to wander into Italians hoping to be able to capture everything I experience so I can share it with you.  Buona notte.

Only in Italy…

do you have an espresso vending machine.  Put in your euro.  Wait a few minutes, and into a perfectly positioned puny plasctic cup pours your esspresso.  Ok, I’ve seen espresso machines before, in libraries and various other places, but this is the real stuff.  They take their esspresso very seriously here.  They also take their vending machines seriously here.  You have your gelato vending machine.  You have your water vending machine (fizzy or flat).  And don’t forget your cigarette machine!  But if you are craving nutella over nicotine, then you have your supermarket vending machine where you can easily get anything from chocolate, to nutella bars, to panino (panino with tuna, chicken, salami, prusciutto, you name it!), twenty different kinds of teeth rotting fruit nectar, and gum.  I wouldn’t go for the gum.  The flavor lasts about 5 minutes, so an hour later and 1.5 Euro’s down the drain you are out of gum and have a sore jaw.  Ya, I’d go for the questionabe panino with tuna, at least you are getting some protein.  Or I would take a little break, step outside, sit in a 1000 year old piazza and have glass of wine.  mmmmm.

The stats for the day are 2 libraries, 9 hours, 12 libretti visited (4 documented by photographs; 3 onloan, the others ordered for photocopies), and 300 photos… ooo man, that I can call work, spending time in a frescoed library ! Bring on the lasagna!!  I started off at the Museo Comunale Musicale because it is only open 4 hours 9-13:00.  They also happen to have the most libretti, so naturally it was the best place to begin.  I started there also on Thursday morning when I first arrived.  I got possibly 100 photos that day of the pages of the libretti (I am transcribing them, and just don’t have the hours to complete it all in the library, plus if I ever want to consult something curious then I have the reproductions with me.) Anyways, apparently that was not ok, because halfway through my second libretti the very helpful librian asked me how many pictures I had taken… I told him truthfully and he said that we were just going to keep that our little secret. but from here on out I couldn’t take any pictures.  So the next day they were open, 3 days later, I went right to the capo in charge and told him how essential these photographs are my project.  He was really nice and was very interested in my project.  Unfortunately is answer was what I had feared: helpful, they don’t feel any photographs I take are  of professional quality  which means they don’t see my photos serving them in anykind of way.  Purtroppo.  So I spent the next 3 hours calculating which libretti I needed to see, which ones are worth paying a handsome sum for a 2 week reproduction process, and which ones that have already been photocopied. I worked fast, made my notes, and left tutto al posto just as they were closing down for lunch. 

After pranzo I headed down town.  My luck was a lot better at the Archiginnasio.  There the librarians and I are already on great terms.  They love talking to you, helping you fill out the requests for materials.  It was an interesting parallel to Italy in a way.  The archiginassio is so much larger than the Civico museo, like Bologna to Lucca, and when you are working in a larger biblioteca, like in a larger city, there is just more possibilities and more liberties.  And my hopes were realized when I asked if I could make reproductions of the libretti with my own camera, “Ma certo!”  But of course! Allright!  I had to fill out a quick an easy form with information from my passport, what libretti I wanted to photograph and what my intentions were.  The librian that helped me said the director is always a little hesitant, but the librian told the director that I was his friend so there was no fuss.  Oh yeeeaaaah, I have an in in the Archiginnasio.  But that has been my experience here.  The Italians are eager to help others, to share their personal happiness, to make life a little less complicated… Three and a half hours later, 300 ish pages, I hadn’t even gotten through the thick of it yet and my pointer finger was spent.  It was just me and my trusty pocket canon camera here, “ok Shelley, steady steady, get the page in the margins, get closer to the page, don’t shake now, you don’t want it to turn out blurry…”  These were thoughts going through my head.  By page 145 of the fourth libretto I was thinking, “ok memory card, can’t you just be full right now so I can go eat some gelato?!”  But it only takes a fraction of a second to remember how much I love this.  So there are no complaints, only observations, steps forward, steps backwards, and turns of the page… Day 5 down, 23 to go.