Whoa
"Fuck them off," says Beppe, about communists. "Fuck them off," he says, about fascists, capitalists, the police, H&M. There used to be an ancient, cool old bar where H&M now stands, flashing sparkly mannequins in its prominent windows. Beppe (to whom I've been referring as G--now he's Beppe) takes a drag on his fourth cigarette of the afternoon as we wind through the Saturday crowd, everyone carrying dripping umbrellas. What started as a sunny spring day morphed into a drizzly afternoon and then transformed into a mesmerizing, watercolor evening.
I'll start with the morning, though: was so balmy that I could have my floor-to-ceiling windows open. Doing that got me into my running clothes and out the door pronto. I found a running path, I found the river, AND I found a running path ALONG the river. (I am always either searching for or finding running paths and rivers...it's what I do.) So that was a major score.
Lunch was pasta con fagioli with the electrician/family friend. There's always someone coming over for lunch or dinner, and it's always people like the electrician or the guy from Costa Rica called Mr. Black who had the most impressive eyebrow/facial hair situation I've ever seen in real life.
OK, back to Beppe. Beppe tells me he wants to "fare un giro," or take a turn around the city, and I'm so there. So we're off, first with the dog and without an umbrella, and then a second more successful try without the dog and with an umbrella. This guy's the ultimate tour guide. He's lived here for 50+ years, and though he takes pride in the fact that he was born in a small town just outside of Bologna and not in the city itself (when speaking about Bologna's situation he tends to whistle and plunge his hand in a downward direction), he's got intimate knowledge, man. I'm talking the coolest bars and back streets and stories about prostitutes and communists and the Via Senzanome (Street Without A Name), where he used to live. Is that not the best address ever? 18 Street Without A Name?
Our first destination is the university area, where the best bars/places to get drunk and meet young people are. We duck into a bar which Beppe says is classic Bologna and shoot an espresso in what is truly the most Italian place I've ever been. I don't want to leave--the music! the pictures on the walls! the caffeine!--but now I know where it is and I can go back. Then it's on to Beppe's favorite piazza in the city, Piazza San Francesco. He smokes another cigarette on the steps of the church and we watch the clouds racing along and the tree-line just visible above the gleaming rooves, and then we go into the church. The anti-everything Beppe can't help but cross himself as we enter.
Then on to the INCREDIBLE photography exhibit of Nino Migliori. Oh, and yeah, Beppe the pharmacist just happens to be an awesome photographer. Like, he taught Vale's cousin--the one who now teaches photography at the university. I have never been happier looking at photography, and I really like photography. I could've spent 15 minutes looking at each one, and there were many. We bond over mutual glee at exquisite contrast, lovely shadows. We find that we both believe the ease and ubiquity of digital photography means that people no longer see, no longer look. Down the stone staircases, again under the portici, back into the day.
In Piazza Maggiore, we come upon a crowd gathered in a circle, colorful umbrellas unfurled in a sea of dark winter coats, around a man who's standing on a chair, wearing a white theatrical mask on the back of his head, and yelling things--presumably about Italy and probably along the lines of "fuck them off," but it's hard to hear. The way it goes is anyone can say something if he has the magic chair. I feel like I'm in a Fellini movie. Granted, the more I live, the more I get that feeling.
Our last, best stop is the hole-in-the-wall osteria that's been here forever. Like literally ever. Best in the city. 2 euro gets you a glass of decent-for-Italy/damn-good-for-America red wine. You take your little glass that's full to the lip with ruby red vino, and (oh so carefully) find a place to sit or stand. We find our spot in the little room that's actually a courtyard--I can see a patch of violet sky when I lift my chin. Standing there with Beppe, talking about photography amongst a bunch of plastic chairs full of lounging 20somethings and some recycling bins, I am fast approaching bliss. Perhaps I can attribute some of that bliss to the potent mix of cigarette smoke, caffeine, and alcohol that has been this day. But only some.
I left a lot out. That's how much of a day this was.
I'll start with the morning, though: was so balmy that I could have my floor-to-ceiling windows open. Doing that got me into my running clothes and out the door pronto. I found a running path, I found the river, AND I found a running path ALONG the river. (I am always either searching for or finding running paths and rivers...it's what I do.) So that was a major score.
Lunch was pasta con fagioli with the electrician/family friend. There's always someone coming over for lunch or dinner, and it's always people like the electrician or the guy from Costa Rica called Mr. Black who had the most impressive eyebrow/facial hair situation I've ever seen in real life.
OK, back to Beppe. Beppe tells me he wants to "fare un giro," or take a turn around the city, and I'm so there. So we're off, first with the dog and without an umbrella, and then a second more successful try without the dog and with an umbrella. This guy's the ultimate tour guide. He's lived here for 50+ years, and though he takes pride in the fact that he was born in a small town just outside of Bologna and not in the city itself (when speaking about Bologna's situation he tends to whistle and plunge his hand in a downward direction), he's got intimate knowledge, man. I'm talking the coolest bars and back streets and stories about prostitutes and communists and the Via Senzanome (Street Without A Name), where he used to live. Is that not the best address ever? 18 Street Without A Name?
Our first destination is the university area, where the best bars/places to get drunk and meet young people are. We duck into a bar which Beppe says is classic Bologna and shoot an espresso in what is truly the most Italian place I've ever been. I don't want to leave--the music! the pictures on the walls! the caffeine!--but now I know where it is and I can go back. Then it's on to Beppe's favorite piazza in the city, Piazza San Francesco. He smokes another cigarette on the steps of the church and we watch the clouds racing along and the tree-line just visible above the gleaming rooves, and then we go into the church. The anti-everything Beppe can't help but cross himself as we enter.
Then on to the INCREDIBLE photography exhibit of Nino Migliori. Oh, and yeah, Beppe the pharmacist just happens to be an awesome photographer. Like, he taught Vale's cousin--the one who now teaches photography at the university. I have never been happier looking at photography, and I really like photography. I could've spent 15 minutes looking at each one, and there were many. We bond over mutual glee at exquisite contrast, lovely shadows. We find that we both believe the ease and ubiquity of digital photography means that people no longer see, no longer look. Down the stone staircases, again under the portici, back into the day.
In Piazza Maggiore, we come upon a crowd gathered in a circle, colorful umbrellas unfurled in a sea of dark winter coats, around a man who's standing on a chair, wearing a white theatrical mask on the back of his head, and yelling things--presumably about Italy and probably along the lines of "fuck them off," but it's hard to hear. The way it goes is anyone can say something if he has the magic chair. I feel like I'm in a Fellini movie. Granted, the more I live, the more I get that feeling.
Our last, best stop is the hole-in-the-wall osteria that's been here forever. Like literally ever. Best in the city. 2 euro gets you a glass of decent-for-Italy/damn-good-for-America red wine. You take your little glass that's full to the lip with ruby red vino, and (oh so carefully) find a place to sit or stand. We find our spot in the little room that's actually a courtyard--I can see a patch of violet sky when I lift my chin. Standing there with Beppe, talking about photography amongst a bunch of plastic chairs full of lounging 20somethings and some recycling bins, I am fast approaching bliss. Perhaps I can attribute some of that bliss to the potent mix of cigarette smoke, caffeine, and alcohol that has been this day. But only some.
I left a lot out. That's how much of a day this was.
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| This pic is a non sequitur. Her name is Apple. Mela, in Italian. |
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