Well hey there!
This,
ladies and gentlemen, is the voice of a girl who has been keeping up with the
late-night Italian lifestyle for almost three weeks now and is finally at a
breaking point. Today is a day filled with homework, finally braving the laundry
room (it really does look like a
morgue), catching up with people back home, and writing this blog post. I’ve
been so tired from the past two weeks of non-stop adventure that today, I’m
just taking it easy.
This
week has been a week of settling in: we’ve been getting into a rhythm of going
to the gym, buying groceries, doing homework, and fighting with the Italian
post office in the process of wiring money to help fellow Americans in distress
who have lost their debit card. I’ve started to watch Italian tv rather than
listen to music when going to the gym, which makes episodes of White Collar very amusing, but not
nearly as fun with the lack of Matt Bomer’s voice. The good news is, I can
successfully describe how to rob a bank in Italian now—who says you can’t learn
stuff at the gym? Our daily visits to Café Max have now become so essential to
my existence in Bologna that on those rare mornings when I wake up too late to
stop for coffee, the rest of my day seems completely unbalanced. Max now greets
us through the glass panes of his door each time we stroll by on our way back
to Forni in the afternoon, which often ends up being the highlight of my day.
In
class, we’ve continued our study of the opera and Ivan’s extreme passion for
the tragic love story of Turiddu and Santuzza in the Sicilian-based opera Cavalleria Rusticana has kept me
entertained despite the seemingly-dry subject. It’s been a long time since I’ve
had this amount of love for a professor. He somehow manages to get us all
interested in whatever he teaches us and I’m not afraid to make grammatical
mistakes when speaking Italian, because the worst reaction I get from him is a
slightly scrunched-up face—like a child who is being forced to eat bitter broccoli—and
a quick shake of the head, before he corrects me.
We
went to our second cooking class with Rita! This time, we were in a much
smaller group, as ECCO had divided us up. Rather than our entire program packed
into Rita’s kitchen, it was just the six of us in our Intensive Italian course,
so we had many more opportunities to get hands-on experience. First, Rita gave
us a course on table manners and place settings; everything was very formal and
elegant and I felt like I was receiving princess lessons (yes, thank you, I’m
ready to assume the throne of Genovia now). Of course, a lot of the rules were
also extremely archaic and sexist and Rita’s suggestions on general table
decorum were occasionally frustrating for an American girl living in the
twenty-first century. But at least I know what fork to use with my salad.
After
princess lessons, we went into the kitchen (with matching aprons, I might add)
and began making our meal: GNOCCHI. Yeah, you heard me. Gnocchi—from scratch. We made two different
kinds: one regular type, with flour, eggs, potatoes, etc.; and then another kind,
which included fresh spinach, which we mashed up in a blender and molded into
our dough, to make bright green gnocchi. We then rolled it out and cut out our
little gnocchi to be boiled on the stove (you know they’re done cooking when
they float to the surface of the water), but not before Rita attempted to teach
us this snazzy way of rolling the gnocchi with the tips of your fingers so that
you make a sort of hybrid-tube-gnocchi to absorb the sauce. I utterly failed at
this tube-creation-process, so I stuck to cutting out the little squares of
pasta and passing them along to more dexterous people to roll. So…
Gnocchi plate #1: plain gnocchi with
arugula pesto
Gnocchi
plate #2: spinach gnocchi with a gorgonzola cream sauce
And then we had a plate of raw
vegetables to dip into olive oil, along with a chocolate pudding we made from
scratch (which we let cool off on the windowsill of Rita’s apartment after
cooking) and everything was so delicious.
The
dinner itself was really fun. Rita and her husband, Giovanni, were wonderful
hosts. I was sitting closer to Giovanni’s end of the table, which ended up
working out perfectly because while Rita was teaching us typical Bolognese
dialect words of the north, Giovanni was instructing us on how to speak
Sicilian, of the south. I tend to have a soft spot for southern Italy, on the
whole, so it became even more amusing when the couple began to jokingly yell at
each other in different dialects and Giovanni proclaimed that his end of the
table was the southern side of Italy. Giovanni then made a face and waved his
hands, saying: “It is one thing for the north and south to be forced together.
But for the two to be joined as husband and wife?” He closed his eyes
dramatically and threw his arms up in the air. “It is a very terrible thing!”
Rita
then promptly insulted him in an Italian dialect we were not familiar with, and
we all laughed along even though we didn’t understand a word of it. I’m pretty
sure this was Rita’s intention.
The
conversation soon moved to politics, as most conversations with Italians do,
and we had a really interesting talk on Obama and the elections and the
possibility for next term’s president. Seeing the American Presidency from an
outsider’s view is fascinating, but what got even more interesting was when we
moved to Italian politics. My knowledge of Italian politics is currently
limited to the basics, so it was surprising to hear all of the different
problems within Italy’s political system, occasionally corrupt as it is, from
the mouths of two intelligent, successful adults who claimed there was nothing
to do to stop or change it. Giovanni hated Berlusconi in particular, and was very
eager to tell us so. Inevitably, he told us, Berlusconi would probably win the
election again this year, despite his somewhat-recent scandal and the
slightly-less-than-honorable policies. We left Rita’s that night with full
stomachs and an explicably excited feeling, knowing that we had essentially
just been adopted by new Italian parents and had had an intelligent
conversation in Italian. There may even have been a group cheer at the end of
the night, beyond earshot of Rita’s apartment, but that’s debatable.
Yesterday
we took a class trip to Modena, which is just about 30 minutes away from
Bologna by train. For those of you who don’t know, Modena is home to balsamic
vinegar, a military academy, Ferrari’s, Lamborghini’s, Maserati’s, and Luciano
Pavarotti. It’s a relatively small town, with lots of wide, cobblestone streets
and surprisingly kind and patient people (having lived in Bologna for almost
three weeks has prepared me for immediate rejection from local Italians upon my
first grammatical mistake, if you remember). Modena is also home to the famous
Professor Ivan Tassi, which only made the day better. He met us at the train
station and from there, began to walk us through the city. He was constantly
reminding us to be careful when crossing the streets because people drive very
fast here in Modena (as opposed to everywhere else in Italy, where they abide
by all traffic rules and drive at a normal, safe speed?).
We
received a tour of the duomo of Modena, which was incredibly beautiful. Ivan
kept reiterating the fact that you could “read the duomo like a book” because
the outside walls have carvings in them that tell biblical stories, which you
can read from left to right. The inside was very much like every other grand,
Catholic Church in Italy, but very impressive all the same. I heard a few of my
classmates whispering, “Oh well this
is a cheerful religion” as they looked at all the paintings of an anguished Jesus
being stabbed to death. Welcome to Catholicism in Italy, folks. It’s slightly
different than the twelve years of Catholic education I’ve received throughout
my life, certainly, but I’ve seen my fair share of death-by-sword-paintings. The
nice thing about being Catholic and having had so many Catholic religion
classes is that the Churches in Italy actually mean something to me, and I
understand a lot of the symbolism carved into the walls.
The wonderful Ivan Tassi!
But
really, the Church was beautiful. There were alcoves painted with reflective
gold, so that when the sun came through the windows, everything glittered. Down
below, in the crypt, was the skeleton of the patron saint of Modena, dressed in
nice, saintly garb. The devout old lady praying her rosary in front of the tomb
was not happy when almost twenty Americans surrounded her to gawk at San
Geminiano in the middle of her Holy Mary.
After
our tour of the Church, we were set free into Modena with a train ticket that
would get us back to Bologna at whatever time we wanted. We had the entire
afternoon and we immediately began searching for the Trattoria Aldina that Ivan had suggested we go to. We were
unfortunately moving in a pack of approximately twelve girls, which is never
good for eating out in Italy. It’s always better to go out in small groups, so
that you’re less conspicuous as Americans (A.K.A., not as loud) and also it
makes it easier to pay the bill (like England, Italy does not like to split
checks—so frustrating). A few people broke off and four of us somehow managed
to wander away from the rest of the group, getting slightly lost in back
alleyways. We ended up returning to the same street we had started looking on
and were extremely perplexed as to why the restaurant was not on the street
that the map told us it was on, when a girl named Michelle pointed to an
unremarkably small sign on the wall and said: “Oh look. The restaurant is on
the second floor of this apartment building.”
Of
course it is. Where else would you put a restaurant?
Because
we’re American, we arrived precisely when they opened (12 pm) and felt slightly
awkward about going in so early (obviously, in Italy, lunch is eaten around 1
or 2 pm). So we stood next to someone’s apartment door for about ten minutes
until we felt it was appropriately past 12 pm and then entered. The room was as
unremarkable as the sign outside the building, but let me tell you something:
this meal was the best meal I have had since coming to Italy. This meal had the
type of food that made you want to cry while you ate it. Each time I put my
fork to my plate, I felt like I was dying a little inside, knowing that with
each bite, there would be less food for me to eat.
You
think I’m being dramatic? I’m not. I’m completely serious.
As
I said before, Modena is known for balsamic vinegar. So when I ordered pumpkin
risotto, with parmigiano reggiano melted through it and balsamic vinegar
drizzled on top…I knew that I had just had a near-religious experience. That
plate of risotto was life-changing. I am in love. We are already planning
weekly day-trips to Modena just to eat at that restaurant which, combined with
a heavenly desert of mascarpone and chocolate cake (imagine eating sweet,
fluffy clouds with bursts of chocolate) and a liter of water and the cover
charge…it all cost twelve euro each. TWELVE EURO for one of the best meals of
my life. I need to live here forever.
I'M IN LOVE
Anyways,
after our fabulous meal, we strolled around the covered market, which was an
assault on the senses. The rank smell of raw meat and fresh fish, blooms of
vegetables, rows of cheese and people yelling, all combined in an explosion of
sights and smells and sounds. I was really determined to find some good
balsamic vinegar. I approached a place that was selling meat and pasta along
with what I knew to be little dark bottles of vinegar and I asked the woman how
much they cost. The lady, with bright red hair and a laugh that made you jump
about a foot in the air, pointed to the bottles on the shelves beside me and I
noticed that they were all about ten euro. Never a good sign. Ten euro vinegar
was about the equivalent of Wish Bone salad dressing. I told her I was looking
for something a little more, well…real. She then reached back in the shelves
behind her and pulled out what looked like an ancient potions bottle, filled
with a liquid so dark that it almost looked purple.
“This
is mine,” She told me. “My family has been making balsamic vinegar for years
and years and years.” I asked her how old the aged vinegar in her hands was.
She squinted at it for a moment before shrugging and saying, “About fifty
years.”
FIFTY
YEAR-OLD BALSAMIC VINEGAR.
The
food-fanatic in me is squealing with joy and when the woman starts to uncork the
bottle and pull out a little spoon, doling out a small taste of the vinegar for
me to try, it’s taking all my self-control not to start jumping up and down. After
fifty years, that vinegar was extremely
strong, but so good, and the woman seemed pleased when I told her so and then
passed what was left on the spoon for the other girls who were waiting for me
to try it. Of course, fifty years does not come cheap: a euro for every year,
the woman told me. And as much as I would have loved to spend fifty euro on a
bottle of balsamic vinegar from a woman who has been making vinegar since she
was a child, and her mother before her…I really actually could not spend that
much money. But I thanked her profusely and gave her a wave as we walked out of
the food market towards the antique market.
There,
we found old maps and advertisement posters from Italy, which were great. I
picked up an old Nutella print from the 1950’s, which I plan on framing someday
and hanging in a kitchen. Some of the other girls managed to charm a man into
giving them two maps from the 1800’s for 35 euro, rather than the 80 euro they
were originally priced at. We’re professional hagglers.
Saturday
was just…great. As we got back on the train to Bologna, we couldn’t stop
talking about everything we had done and the fact that there was finally sunshine.
As I write this right now, I can even see sun streaming in through my window,
despite Bologna’s unique geographical position that usually guarantees clouds
and fog. I’m hoping this sunshine will continue? At least for a little while.
The Market
Last
night I hung out with Viola-Uno (my roommate) for a while. She cooked me and
Viola-Due an Albanian dinner, which consisted of a sort of very spicy stew of
potatoes, carrots, beans, and tomatoes. She was very proud of herself and was
very excited to share Albanian food with me, since most of the emphasis on
cultural exchange in the apartment is with Italian customs. And then Viola was
determined to make this molten chocolate cake, so she made me help her and I’m glad
I did. Not only did I get cake, but I also got to spend even more time with my
wonderful roommate. I could not be happier about my housing arrangement.
Although Letizia (the housemate from Cameroon) is still occasionally difficult
to get along with (for everyone, not just me), Marta and Viola-Uno (and
Viola-Due, since she basically lives here anyways) are just amazing. A few of
the other American girls actually come to my apartment to hang out around my
roommates, because they love them almost as much as I do. As Viola-Uno and I
cooked and ate together, she gave me a little history lesson on Albania, and I
just feel so incredibly lucky sometimes to be sitting in my kitchen in Italy,
listening to my roommate tell me about their national hero, George Kastrioti Skanderbeg, and how he helped hold
off the Ottoman Empire from completely dominating her country. These are the
stories we tell our children about George Washington and Abraham Lincoln, but
while our heroes are out in the woods chopping down cherry trees, Albania’s
hero is charging into battle against the same people who kidnapped him as a
child and forced him into their military service. As Viola recounted his entire
life story, I felt like I was watching some sort of Russell Crowe movie, except
it’s real history, not a critic
review of Gladiator.
And
now it’s already the afternoon here and I have a paper to write and courses to
figure out and professors to email. I occasionally forget to keep up with the
business-side of things here, since I feel like I’m living in a perpetual
dream. At the end of this week, a group of us will be going to Venice to
celebrate Carnevale, but hopefully I’ll be able to squeeze in one more blog
post before then. I hope that whoever is reading this, you’re having a
spectacular day. Thanks for stopping by and keeping up with me! And if you have
a free moment today, check out George Kastrioti Skanderbeg. He led a pretty
interesting life.
A dopo!
Danielle
© Copyright Danielle DeSimone. 2013.
© Copyright Danielle DeSimone. 2013.
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