In Which I Meet Bologna

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 produce stand for lettuce.  I asked about wine and she showed me the oldest, bestest osteria in the city, where they only serve wine and you can bring your own cheese/bread/whatever.  And then there was a new store, COS, that Vale wanted to see, so see we did. There were very pretty clothes.  They were very dear (expensive).  I don't think I showed the proper enthusiasm, but what is a poor college grad to do when faced with designer clothes?  We took the bus back and I heard a woman say "come sardine!"  She was right: we were packed like sardines.

Johns Hopkins has a campus here--another thing I did not know.  But as far as I can tell, it's a research-oriented masters program, so if I'd wanted to get on that train, I would've needed to do it a while back.  However, Bologna also has the oldest university in Italy/Europe/the World.  Definitely Italy.  Probably Europe.  Maybe the World, I dunno.  It IS about a thousand years old.  Nbd.

Oh, and I met Nonna, the grandmother!  Or matriarch as the case may be.  She is friendly but slightly intimidating with her grandmotherliness.  She cooks the food, though, and the food is Good.

The dad, who I'll call G, is kinda awesome.  In her initial letter to me, Vale described him as "buono come il pane," or "good like bread."  For real.  He is good and generous, like bread.  In addition to being intelligent, funny, and familiar with English, he loaned me a bunch of books about Bologna--its art, its history (Bologna used to have a canal system much like that of Venice), and lots of photographs.  So I have all that waiting by my bed.  My Bologna education.

G turned on the TV while home for lunch and there was the usual parade of the political candidates: Mario Monti, Beppe Grillo, Silvio Berlusconi, PierLuigi Bersani.  G had his face in his hands and sighed each time a new guy came on.  He said it's a mess and he doesn't know what to do because all the candidates have been involved in scandals.  G is a smart guy, and he might not vote.

Ginni and Franci are shy, and I guess it'll take us a little time to warm up.  Actually, I should clarify that the shyness only extends to the matter of English-speaking, because Franci plays guitar loudly and skillfully, and Ginni does handstands all over the place and shouts "MaMA! Madonna santa!" during the inevitable homework frustrations.  Which I believe translates roughly to "Bloody hell, Mom."

And finally, a note on Italian men, just to get that out of the way: I have a dear friend who believes that all Italian men look like Mario.  He is correct.  That is exactly what they look like.