Tipsy
This afternoon Beppe asked if I wanted to go see some "Buddha relics" that were on display downtown. I said sure, not knowing what that entailed but sticking to my "yes" policy. We go by bike, he said. Be careful, because I don't have insurance for you, and it's dangerous. Yup, I said, attempting to suppress the death-visions that popped into my head at the thought of riding one of his vintage bikes over Roman-era cobblestones alongside Italian drivers.
I got the bright red bike from Amsterdam which I'd date around 1975--a single-speed with questionable brakes, complete with red basket and a bell that rings like a church. It rattled and groaned as we careened through throngs of people. I was holding on to the handlebars for dear life. Think my bones are still faintly vibrating, actually. I was already lightheaded from a long run this morning, so I still don't understand how I didn't hit anyone, or how that bus didn't hit me, but we're all okay so I'm not complaining. Almost all of us, that is...
Didn't get the specifics, but Beppe said it was imperative that I careen around Piazza Maggiore for a minute. Maybe something along the lines of: if you haven't made yourself ridiculous and chased pigeons around in the center of Bologna, you haven't really lived. I'll take it. Felt like I was eight years old again, doing giddy circles around the piazza and getting plenty of amused stares on our second and third runs through. Was very proud of my clattering, badass bike.
Found ourselves in the piazza of San Stefano, where there's a market on Saturdays. Beppe bought a John Coltrane record from a guy who was selling his collection, and they reminisced about the demise of old technology while I worried about the records melting in the hot sun. There were all kinds of old trinkets. A gold plated Madonna from Russia was going for over a thousand euro, just sitting there with the other odds and ends. Definitely want to go back with some money, or at least a camera.
The weather here has finally arrived at perfect, and is there to stay. 70 degrees, abundant sun, air full of blossoms and food aromas and coffee. Late-afternoon light in Italy is one of my favorite things. And in a city already so yellow and orange and red, it's spectacular.
We stopped for wine at another ancient osteria on Via Altabella, the street where the Archbishop lives and thus the portici are super high, signifying wealth. Beppe knew the woman working at the osteria. I did briefly question the wisdom of consuming wine in my precarious situation, but I stopped questioning pretty fast and soon had a glass in my hand. We sat outside at a teensy table for two, drinking and smoking and watching the people go by and the light on the huge columns of the portici. Beppe said he likes the warm weather because women begin to take their clothes off. I had no argument.
Remounted our wobbly steeds, wine-fortified. I finally decided that Bike was a tough old gal and we'd make it through all right. Was now tipsily following Beppe down the center of the busy street at top speed, feeling rather invincible, charging through intersections protected only by a hazy right-of-way confidence. And that's when Bike broke. Walked her the rest of the way home, alone, as Beppe had disappeared into the distance by the time I dismounted. Fortunately I knew where I was. We sure made a racket, Bike and I, thumping and squeaking along the sidewalk.
I got the bright red bike from Amsterdam which I'd date around 1975--a single-speed with questionable brakes, complete with red basket and a bell that rings like a church. It rattled and groaned as we careened through throngs of people. I was holding on to the handlebars for dear life. Think my bones are still faintly vibrating, actually. I was already lightheaded from a long run this morning, so I still don't understand how I didn't hit anyone, or how that bus didn't hit me, but we're all okay so I'm not complaining. Almost all of us, that is...
Didn't get the specifics, but Beppe said it was imperative that I careen around Piazza Maggiore for a minute. Maybe something along the lines of: if you haven't made yourself ridiculous and chased pigeons around in the center of Bologna, you haven't really lived. I'll take it. Felt like I was eight years old again, doing giddy circles around the piazza and getting plenty of amused stares on our second and third runs through. Was very proud of my clattering, badass bike.
Found ourselves in the piazza of San Stefano, where there's a market on Saturdays. Beppe bought a John Coltrane record from a guy who was selling his collection, and they reminisced about the demise of old technology while I worried about the records melting in the hot sun. There were all kinds of old trinkets. A gold plated Madonna from Russia was going for over a thousand euro, just sitting there with the other odds and ends. Definitely want to go back with some money, or at least a camera.
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| San Stefano, on non-market day |
The Buddha relics were pretty silly, all told. There was just a room with cheesy music playing and a Buddha shrine surrounded by less-than-fascinating artifacts. Was vaguely troubled by the posters detailing the lives of hundreds of "maestri"--all men. Funny how that works out, huh? Ah, patriarchy. Whatever. I liked the incense. And there was a female monk blessing people by placing a gold thingy on their heads as they knelt before her.
The weather here has finally arrived at perfect, and is there to stay. 70 degrees, abundant sun, air full of blossoms and food aromas and coffee. Late-afternoon light in Italy is one of my favorite things. And in a city already so yellow and orange and red, it's spectacular.
We stopped for wine at another ancient osteria on Via Altabella, the street where the Archbishop lives and thus the portici are super high, signifying wealth. Beppe knew the woman working at the osteria. I did briefly question the wisdom of consuming wine in my precarious situation, but I stopped questioning pretty fast and soon had a glass in my hand. We sat outside at a teensy table for two, drinking and smoking and watching the people go by and the light on the huge columns of the portici. Beppe said he likes the warm weather because women begin to take their clothes off. I had no argument.
Remounted our wobbly steeds, wine-fortified. I finally decided that Bike was a tough old gal and we'd make it through all right. Was now tipsily following Beppe down the center of the busy street at top speed, feeling rather invincible, charging through intersections protected only by a hazy right-of-way confidence. And that's when Bike broke. Walked her the rest of the way home, alone, as Beppe had disappeared into the distance by the time I dismounted. Fortunately I knew where I was. We sure made a racket, Bike and I, thumping and squeaking along the sidewalk.
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