Working the rust out

Occassionally moments occur in life that wake you up. Whatever dull, half-gray day that was happening will be over and you realize that now you are who you really are. Those are the moments in my life that I live for. They are the experiences when all of my senses are alert and my body absorbs every detail. My mind will race, bombarded with too much to realize. Not enough of the details become solidified memories, just that it happened and the feeling that came with. Those types of things I try and write about, but even moments after they happen seem to begin to lose their color. Pulling each sense back to the light from my memory, it is still exciting.
So this time, I was on the bike. The fam and I had discussed already that I would use Saverio's bike, if I wanted, on Thursday's when I need to leave vulcano class early to pick up Leti from school. On campus, I always bike everywhere. Here, I don't. Especially when Saverio's bike was a 30y.r. model of something that probably never saw the inside of a garage, but about 30 winters. It is blue and rust colored with a bell that rings when you ride over bumps and a brake that half works. Before I replaced the other brake, dismounting and foot braking was absolutely necessary. So perhaps you can understand my hesitation in taking such a bike into the wild, unregulated streets of Bologna. People have told me that Bologna is tame compared to Napoli and other Italian cities, but perhaps they don't understand that the fiercest riding I have faced was down Mathew's, east of the quad, after 10am lecture. With a sunny day and my favorite green pants, I filled the tires and hit the streets with time to spare. My excitement may simply have come from riding a bike again, but it all became way more fun when I turned onto the cobbled street (making my bell ring) and away from the heavier traffic. Balanced on the thin, paved portion of the cobbled street, I sped up through the narrow streets, lit by the low sun. Scooters parked on the side partially blocked the path while pedestrians meandered in and out of the street. Pidgeons, without deciding where to go, would wait until the last moment to fly...into my bike. On the busier, paved streets, I could go as fast as my half-polluted breath could take me. It was a tango between buses and scooters dodging J-walkers. In Bologna there is a lot to see and especially on these roads that I have walked so many times I have seen a lot of it. However, on the back of a rickety bike, speeding through the city all of it became vivid. Not because I noticed anything new, but because it all came at me at once. Flying down the middle of the road, through the center of Bologna, uncertain where a sudden turn or absent-minded scooter-er might leave me, I looked ahead and saw the remnants of what makes Bologna a medieval city, the two towers. They seemed like ancient lighthouses hanging over the city, but warning bikers, not boats. The voyage continued until I arrived at the other side of the center. Too many details will make this too heavy (as if it isn't already), but the whole trip had my mind racing from start to finish. In all, not so bad either, ending with chain-ripped pants and hands greasy from holding my chain lock from falling into the gears of the bike. I don't think I will ride a whole lot in Bologna, out of fear for my life, but it will happen again, at least when I need to wake up.

Chatterboxes

Italians sure seem to like to talk. Having only the need to send a fax to my new landlord, I went to the nearest copy and fax place. Like usual, my broken Italian resulted in a mostly english/italian conversation where neither of us were speaking our native language. Fortunately, unlike most of these types of encounters, the conversation became completely Italian after he learned that I was 1. Not from Australia 2. Studying at the university 3. that I haven't been speaking english the whole time I have been here. He was a really nice guy and apparently graduated in geology way back when. He might have said he actually had a PhD as well. After he said that, he also told me not to try and find a job in Italy...makes sense if he is working a printing and fax store. All the same, he was a great guy who felt no need to end the conversation too early. We discussed (or I listened) to his wisdoms of the corrupt government, the need for geologists to work and study in Italy, how pasta is intrinsicaly better here and where there are good places to view pillow lavas in Tuscany. Really a cool guy...maybe he can help me with my homework. It is great when you meet a fellow geology lover who understands that vacations are great excuses to go see new geology and that it is totally worthwhile to visit a town named Gabbro.

Over the weekend we celebrated the birthday of one of Paola's brothers. Like most occassions here, we celebrated with lots of food and lots of talk. The pizza we had was take-out, but still extraordinary. The pizza conversation was quite good, and especially hilarious when I explained to Paola that a popular establishment on Green St. sold pizza that had tortellini as its toppings. She nearly fell out of her chair. I hadn't realized how scared tortellini are and that there is an unwritten rule in Italy that strictly forbids the use of tortellini as pizza toppings. As is standard, after the load of pizza we had some tea and sweets. There was still a bit of my Irish soda bread left so it shared the table with the cake Paola had made for the occassion. It was quite a compliment that the uncles nearly finished my bread before opting for a slice of Paola's cake. I suggested to her that perhaps next time she should throw a few tortellini into the batter before she bakes the next one (all in good fun of course). At about 11 30 we finally wrapped up after nearly 3 hours of talking. By then, I was about exhausted from concentrating for so long, but very happy to have shared the table with the family.

video

I made a video of the acetaia tour. It is now nestled into a corner booth in the restaurant of YouTube.

il secondo

Quickie day trip that really happened to be one of the better ones. Erik's dad's birthdat was today and apparently he really loves balsamic vinegar. For his dad, Erick decided to visit La Ca' dal Non (the house of grandparents?) an acataia (vinegar maker place) near Bologna. It really was a great idea. From now on, when someone I love has a birthday, I will also just go someplace cool "for them". Anyways, we went to this place that we found at the end of a dinky road, home to only grape vines, cows, chickens, and old stone homes. At the door we were met by this really dapper man (compared to our tennis shoes and hoodies). He welcomed us in and sat us down, beginning the explanation of how balsamic vinegar is created. After, we progressed into the acataia itself. This man certainly had has priorities set. While we were not asked to remove our shoes into his house, we could not take a step into the acataia without putting un surgical booties. Booties in place, we continued. The building was profumed by the decades-old wooden barrels and their savory contents. We could easily see the whole process right before our eyes (mind you, the process takes 12 or 25 years, so don't wait up). The barrels were in order from largest to smallest, as a progression for their evaporating contents. The smaller the barrel, the older and more pungent the vinegar. Try putting your nose to one of these barrels, I think it cleared out my cold with one sniff. But anyway, the place was beautiful. This man was the grandson of the man who started the whole place and their were pictures of him with his grandparents when he was only one year old, at the same door that we were standing at now. So many of the tools were exactly the same ones as the originals. The barrels, scrapers, stoppers, testers, whatchamacallits and others. It was really beautiful and certainly interesting. Not the least of which was the clear joy this man had in displaying his life's work. Let it be known, that I was also very pleased to be able to partake, especially in the tasting. With only a few drops on a plastic spoon, the flavors from the vinegar shocked my tongue and got my mouth to water like a faucet. The sweetness of the wood was rich the texture smooth. It was all very complex, especially to my tastebuds accustumed to Schnuck's brand products.

So content with that tour, the day could have ended there and I would have been happy, but we cooled our heals at a restaurant that may have appreciated pork fat more than McDonalds before they switched to vegetable oil. In the name of travel and cuisine, we opted to forget our arteries and our wallets (not always so willingly) for a really good and really rich lunch. Afterwards, we traveled to the nearby city of Modena to walk off our food coma if for nothing else. The new town and clear sky was entirely welcoming and ultimately very beautiful. After a pass through, we called it quits. Follow that with a game of Guess Who with the family, and that is a good weekend.

American culture, alle Bolognese

I never have liked Queen more than after watching a Queen tribute band in The American Bar of Rock and Roll.

Indeed, it was also the only english I heard all night. A few evenings prior, the BCSP office had a party for all the American students as well as the students traveling to the states next year. It was a fantastic opportunity to get to know a few Italian students who would be attending U of I next year. They were all very congenial, and in fact I had met one of them prior which was pretty amazing. So when one of them suggested that we go see a Queen cover band, it seemed like a ripe chance to get to know a future Illinois student better. So we drove to the American Bar at about 11- past my bedtime, but still awake. Surprisingly, I understood and was able to respond for the car ride as well as when we met his few friends (about 20) at the club. Even though the extreme number of strangers who didn't speak my native language was overwhelming, the hanging American flag, hamburgers and banana splits on the table made me feel right at home. Surprisingly enough, that was not even the best part. Imagine this...long-haired, Queen-shirted, air-guitar playing fans in the front row and surrounding the stage; fog machine; screaming for the one that everyone was wating for - Freddie Mercury. The real Freddie Mercury could pass for Italian and this one was amazingly similar, perhaps only with a bit bigger nose. Costumes, the same. Microphone air-guitaring, the same. He really was quite a showman as was the rest of the band and you can sure bet that I felt like a superstar when I could sing all the words to Bohemian Rhapsody. Really, Americans and Italians are not all the different. Every so often, we all have to let lose and surround a stage to watch a true rock spectacle after eating taglietelle e ragu Bolognese with french fries and ketchup.

Dinner conversation

Mother, I hope you don't mind me sharing this story.

We received your letters today, sent from across the Atlantic. Because I was not expecting your handwriting to be written to anybody but me, I opened the one addressed to Mrs. Paola and family. Let me simply say that Paola, Saverio and Francesco all read it separately and all commented that you had written "safe". "She thinks you are safe here?" According to them, you must be misguided as to what is actually going on in this house. It was also pretty funny to hear Francesco read, "Clear Paola,..". Your handwriting is hard for me sometimes, but then give it to Francesco and it just becomes comedic. Other than Saverio, who had to be convinced that "Paola and family" on the front of the envelope was because mothers need to write to mothers and not because he wasn't the head of the family, everyone appreciated the gesture and found it to be a very nice letter.

Another oops today...

"I decided" is not "ho deciduto" in Italian. That means "I died".

Monday morning

There is a certain advantage to living in Bologna over Rockford. Wherever you live stops becoming a novelty after a while when you stop looking up and noticing new things. It doesn't take too long, maybe a few weeks. There is certainly plenty to do in Bologna that I haven't done but now it is my home base so I don't consider it so much when I decide to take a bit of time to explore. Rockford, similarly, has things to do. That list of things has been exhausted over my years of teenage wanderings. Using Bologna as a home base serves as an excelent hub to travel elsewhere without much effort. Rockford could do this as well, if you were interested in traveling to Freeport, Roscoe, DeKalb, Shirland, Belvidere...
This Friday a friend and I took a day trip to Ravenna. It isn't anything super special, but Dante is camped there and there are lots of mosaics. Mostly it is a good opportunity to spend the time somewhere else and just walk for a day. The detail is really astounding and the rocks are great. Those old Italians really had a taste for the beauty of rocks. These little excursions are not geology field trips, but I can't help but notice and I tend to take pictures of columns with maybe a pencil for scale.
Yesterday I spent most of my time in my room trying to read this history book in Italian. That stuff is hard enough to read in english. After all that sitting, I am really craving to do something so I might make a plan for Sicily. Pipe dreams maybe, but it should be warmer down there and I heard they are predicting snow here for tomorrow.

More pictures on Photobucket and a new video for youtube as well :)