Italian travel memoirs of a hematologist's grandson. I. Bologna
To the editor: So what they say is true. Humans are capable of adapting to just about any new environment. Now I know what you're thinking: ''Is he really about to suggest that adjusting to life in Italy is hard?'' No, that's not quite what I'm saying. Of all the major life adjustments one can make moving temporarily from the United States to Italy is probably among the more pleasant. The food, the wine, and the women, not to mention the utter lack of structure, are all nice things. But it still is an adjustment. However, I feel like I am reaching the end of that adjustment period, and this letter is the result. It is the first in my series of letters that is not the product of travel or adventure. It is just the opposite. Written specifically to all of you who have asked what my daily life is like here in Bologna, this letter is your answer.
A typical day, in Italy-land, begins not with your mother calling you down to a big breakfast of coffee, eggs, bacon, and a stack of glorious pancakes (the true American dream), but rather with a sparse breakfast of toast, Nutella, maybe some cereal, and a slamming jolt of espresso that could make a 90-year-old win a marathon. . . in Kenya. Unfortunately, the Italian breakfast is the result of having poured too many of their cultural food points into the lunch and dinner categories, leaving them with little idea about how to initially fuel their day. Then again, whenever I offer to cook them a proper American breakfast, my roommates shudder in a theatrical horror at my proposed menu.
''You people actually eat eggs? And bacon?? For breakfast???'' And from the side of room I hear, ''Maybe that's why they're all so fat. . .'' Now, you would think that, as a University student, my daily schedule would be filled with classes and seminars and stuff like that. But you would be wrong, because I am studying in the Italian higher education system, one that is vastly and disturbingly different than our own. In a typical semester, lectures at the University of Bologna last just over a month, after which you are on your own until the cumulative exams at the end of the semester. These exams, called the interrogazione, are like something out of a college horror film. They are one-on-one and take place in the professor's office, within earshot of the other students waiting in the hall. In the 30 min in the office, you are at the professor's complete disposal, and can be asked anything. Plenty of time to wet your pants, and it's been known to happen. Therefore, my day usually begins at the public library.
After finishing my coffee, I venture out into the student courtyard and hop on the vessel that has completely transformed my Bologna experience: my bicycle. It may or may not date back to the 1940s, but I don't care at all. Riding my bike through the streets of Bologna is the most liberating feeling in world. Watching the narrow, portico-lined streets stream by, moving along with the chaotic flow of the morning commuters, I feel like I have somehow carved my own niche into this new world, conquered a small part of it for myself. The ride into town takes just 5 min, and I arrive at Sala Borsa, a welcomingly large public library that faces Piazza Nettuno, the main gathering place in Bologna.
Just because I have adapted my life to fit with that of the Italians does not mean I cannot still admire their more quirky qualities. Italians, by nature, are show people. On the street, in the shops, or most noticeably, in the library, Italians work hard to make sure that their outward appearance matches what they are doing at the time. Allow me to explain with this comparison: when American college kids go to the library, they usually dress down for the occasion. Sporting sweat pants, pajamas, or whatever else is clean (or dirty) and most comfortable at the time, American kids will plop down among their friends, snacks and coffee in tow, and work casually-yet diligently-as if they are in their own living rooms.
Italians, on the other hand, go to the library seemingly to show other people that they are going to the library. Whether or not they are actually doing anything I cannot say, but it sure as hell looks like they are. As soon as they arrivedressed to the nines and often sporting Armani sunglasses (for the sun, right?), they prepare their ''work stations.'' No matter how long they intend on working, they always set up a pristine display that makes it seem as if they will be there for days on end: cell phone, turned off, lying flat on the table, a watch propped up to the side, a bottle of fizzy water, and a generous stack of papers that you can't imagine they have any intention of reading.