HOW DO YOU SAY

I was going to write a senior project on solitude; one year ago, the proposal was completed and had enthusiastic approval from the department.  But then I went to Italy.  I got on the plane full of solitude, and a semester later I returned home full of love for a lot of people.  That summer I tried to return to the project and found that I'd lost touch with the word, tried to remember my connection to it but could not.  I could focus on little except how badly I needed to return to Italy and undergo more magical transformations.  So I finished college early and I bought a ticket. Here I am.  Funny how thoughts become actions, ain't it? Solitude and I are becoming reacquainted.  We had become strangers, have been strangers for some time now.  I have my host family here, of course, but solitude can flourish just as well admidst company as it does when one is truly alone.  The point is, this time I don't have a group of friends waiting for m...

Election results are in and it looks as though....nothing has changed! How is this possible?  This awesome little op-ed deftly sums it up.  Illusion is the only reality, indeed. I would like to say, though, that this is the country that brought us the Renaissance, and thus a huge part of our own culture and history.  Just about everything it touches is beautiful, and though not always, there is often much depth under that beauty.  Also, it's hardly a country; it's a bunch of loosely cobbled together city-states, and the loose cobbling only happened in 1861.  Many people are born and die in the same city, and some never even travel to many other regions, let alone countries.  Italy is ancient and wise, but it's also a small, small child.  Ya know?  I am on its side. Come on, Italy.  Get it together.

Today (Sunday) and tomorrow: time for Italy to vote.  No one seems very eager about any of it, because it all generally sucks, but it looks like G is going to vote for Beppe Grillo, the comedian.  Which is a vote of protest--an anti-vote. Dinner at family friends' apartment on Saturday, where I consumed a satisfying amount of risotto and took part in a debate about Italian mothers.  A book materialized in the midst of this: "Mamma mia!: La figura della mamma come deterrente nello sviluppo culturale, sociale ed economico dell'Italiana moderna" by Fabrizio Blini.  The men were adamant that clinging, pampering mammas are the cause of Italy's stagnance; the mammas were shaking their heads solemnly.  Later, one of our hosts who is a surgeon treated me to photos of some of his surgeries, including but not limited to a woman who stabbed herself in the chest with a very large knife, and an umbilical hernia.  Cool stuff, man. Walked home late, wine-calmed and co...

I told Vale that I want to learn how to cook, and she said good!  I should join her in the kitchen.  And then she said, in a conspiratorial manner, that it's a "strategy" of Italian women to know how to cook well, because if a man is "goloso" (has lust for, is crazy for a food) and you can cook it well, then, well--you've got him.  So watch out, men :  Julia's about to learn some stuff.  Also, the reason I want to know Italian is that it has words like "goloso." I am golosa for pasta, chocolate, espresso, and salt.  In case you were wondering.  Clearly I am in the right place. English lessons are going swimmingly and our period of shyness is coming to an end.  Some of Ginni's particular favorite language activities are hangman (gioca dell'impiccato) and tongue-twisters (scioglilingua--melt, unravel, release the tongue! I am my own translator...).  "Trentatré Trentini entrarono a Trento, tutti e trentatré, trotterellando." ...

This sign is right outside my front door. It's a joke, right? I don't know whether to feel stupid for thinking it's a joke or for thinking that it could be real. Either way I will not be venturing past that fence. Vale's cousin Roberto came over for dinner last night. He's a photographer and very cool person, teaches photography at the university here and also in New York. We had wine and good food--Roberto said this is the best kitchen in Bologna and I have no reason to doubt him--and then for the first time I got to hear a real, heated conversation about Italian politics. I was so happy that I was smiling widely despite their evident distress. G explained to me that Bersani, who's still leading in the polls, would be bad for his pharmacy because Bersani essentially wants to turn Italy into the U.S.--turn everything into shopping malls instead of Italy's traditional small family businesses. Any way you cut it though, his pharmacy is in danger like th...

Saying yes to a dinner invitation on Saturday night took me on a long drive through the old city and into the hills above, to a beautiful house owned by some kind people who know how to eat.  After the initial pleasantries and meeting their pet squirrel (that's what I said), we got to feasting--all sitting or standing around the kitchen island with paper plates, helping ourselves to awesome formaggio and focaccia.  There was a fireplace casting soft light on everyone, lots of laughter, and rapid torrents of Italian coming from every direction all at once.  There was wine--oho, was there wine.  For primo we had pasta alla bolognese, and then more wine.  For secondo, wild boar, more wine.  For dessert, cake, cannoli, gelato on a stick.  (More wine.)  For a digestivo, the man of the house offered up amaro, whiskey, or grappa, and I jumped at the chance to have some grappa.  That stuff is seriously good and seriously strong.  I figure, ok, I...

Was on my way to San Luca again, camera in hand, with the intention of taking a walk and getting some photos of the spectacular evening light; instead, ended up sipping a macchiato in a cafe with a factory worker.  Welp. I mean, free espresso is almost never a bad thing.  And it was good language practice.  And I guess there's always tomorrow for a walk. Ginni and I are becoming buds.  Same with the dog. Progress.

Finalmente, I procured all the necessary keys (3) to go in and out of the apartment as I please.  This morning I joyfully took advantage of my freedom. The Via di San Luca takes you up and up and up to the Santuario della Beata Vergine di San Luca.  It's a covered path, and you pass under 666 arches (methinks this is significant) on your way to the top.  I didn't notice any other non-natives; there were plenty of locals exercising, cell phone talking, dog walking, and church going.  Not too many though.  G warned me that it's a different story on weekend mornings.  It's supposed to take about 40 minutes to get to the top, and I didn't time myself but I did break a sweat and find myself breathing rather heavily because the path is relentlessly up and occasionally steep.  I'd love to be able to run it.  Every so often, there are painted domes with perching pigeons, and the walls are covered with decades worth of the fierce carvings of sentimental...

Nonna shows up at quarter to eleven.  She greets me and asks how it's going; I address her informally, which is probably a faux pas, but I haven't yet figured out how to navigate the vast world of formality and informality in the Italian language.  She does her cooking and bustles around the house, and by 11:30 we're out the door, on our way to the city center.  Nonna speaks no English, so this is full immersion.  I smile and nod as she insists that I tell her when I don't understand her (foreshadowing, folks).  Oh and by the way, no pictures yet, guys.  Spend 15 minutes with Nonna and you'll understand why that was impossible. Bologna is a warm city, full of reds and oranges.  You'd think that all those shady portici would make it dark and gloomy, but it ain't so; light filters through the arches, Piazza Maggiore is awash in sun and students, and someone's playing lively jazz nearby.  Our first stop is the Palazzo d'Accursio, which holds the Ci...

I would just like to say that Italians buy pasta in the correct quantity.

So Vale took me into the center of town yesterday evening.  It was snowing like crazy so we took the bus, but it's about a 30 minute walk, I'm told.  From the bus stop we walked arm-in-arm through the slippery streets.  Bologna has about 40 km of porticos (the Italian plural is portici), or arcades.  I believe the first time I encountered this architectural phenomenon in Torino I referred to it as "walkways under arched-roof thingies."  They're not walkways under arched-roof thingies.  They're portici.  The more you know.  Portici are both beautiful and useful, especially on a snowy evening like this one.  Vale took me to the main piazza, with the Fountain of Neptune, and we stopped in the tourist office to get me a map, and then we went into the Basilica di Santa Stefano, which was dark, ancient, and quiet, with lovely snowy courtyards.  More strolling, more slipping, then we hit the panetteria for bread, the salumeria for meat, and the...

I am here.  It's snowing.  I slept for 14 hours last night, after pizza with my new Italian family.  Pizza was delivered, and it was late, and they had to call the place--some things don't change.  Franci gave the pizza a "7."  In America it would have been about an "11," assuming this is a 10 pt scale. I had the apartment to myself for a couple hours after my good sleep.  Everyone came home from work/school for lunch: pasta alla bolognese.  Delicious, delicious calories.  There was also salami and formaggio on offer.  The bambini (to whom I shall refer by their nicknames: Franci, the 12 year old boy, and Ginni, the 10 year old girl) and the mama (I shall make up a nickname for her: Vale) wolfed down their food, then kids bolted from the table and were promptly called back.  I said, apologetically, "mangio lentamente."  I eat slowly.  Vale said good, that's good for the digestion.  The dog got the leftover pasta. TV ne...