As the host of the oldest university in the western world, Bologna has been a second home for young people from across Europe for centuries. And with the saturation of young people comes the inevitable nightlife of those who don’t have morning meetings and people depending on them to make breakfast.
I’m one of those students that made my pilgrimage to Bologna, only to be charmed by the nighttime energy of this city. Only in Bologna does coming home at 3am on a Saturday night feel early. After five years of this, I’ve finally learned to prioritize my favorite places, and cut my nights short so I actually come home before sunrise. Sometimes.
The energy of the city is visceral, and therefore photographable. Instead of always wasting my nights away in laughter and Italian wine, I’ve started shooting instead. Or at least, taking a few minutes to shoot on my way home, ha! My new lens is a f/1.8, and the results have been fantastic. I hope you enjoy my meanderings through the streets of Bologna, seen below. And stay tuned for a vlog coming soon, featuring interviews with Bologna’s best bartenders!
Today is a special day in Italy. A holiday from work, a day spent relaxing with family and friends, enjoying the new season of warmer weather, and remembering the close of a dark period in Italian history.
April 25 is known in Italy as the Anniversario della Liberazione d’Italia, or the Anniversario della Resistenza. It was during these last weeks of April, 71 years ago, that one by one the cities of Northern Italy successfully renounced 20 years of fascist dictatorship, and five years of war. A friend of mine equated it to the 4th of July in the United States, as what was happening 71 years ago in Italy created the momentum for what would officially become Italy as we know it today, the Italian Republic, when the constitution was signed in 1948.
As an ex-patriot living in Italy, these holidays always catch me by surprise. Growing up in your own culture, holidays are tied to so many memories and anticipating them is second nature. But when you are living outside of your culture, none of these triggers exist and life from one day to the next is just one huge learning lesson.
Even though I’ve lived in Bologna for several years already, I’m still learning. I just found out from a friend that Bologna is an important destination for Italians celebrating this holiday. The city is full today – it is very exciting.
As an American, it is hard for me to understand the impact of a war happening in someone’s own backyard, and therefore, the significance of a holiday dedicated to the end of such a war.
I’ll never forget the afternoon that my English student, a Bologna police officer and a lover of history, showed me something in Bologna’s central square, Piazza Maggiore, that changed the way I look at this hub of activity and concentration of precious architecture in the center of the city.
We took a familiar path toward the piazza, one that I had walked hundreds of times, and he stopped me just as we were stepping up onto the center walkway.
“See here? Where the stone is missing? Do you know why it looks like this?”
I looked around. Strange, he was totally right. There were chunks of stone missing along this shallow curb that I had never noticed. But it wasn’t like that around the whole walkway, as far as I could see.
“Weird, I never notice,” I responded. “Why is it like that?”
“The tanks,” he responded. “From the war. They would damage the stone when they were rolling up onto the curb to go to the center of the piazza.”
I was flabbergasted. The war seemed so long ago, but this visible damage to the piazza in front of me made it so tangible. “Why didn’t they ever fix it? It has been so long!”
“I don’t know,” he said quietly. “Maybe they want to remember…”
In honor of today, I paid a visit to that curb, and took this picture. Turns out I wasn’t the only one with this idea. The gentlemen on the left side of the photo were doing the same thing. You can see the same clock tower in the background here as is pictured above the tank in the historical shot.
I’m discovering a little bit more every day how rich our pasts are, and how much there is to be found just below our footsteps. And most of all, I’m grateful to be included in today’s important festivities on this day of liberation in Italy. Here’s to many more to come!
After spending most of the last five years of my life in Bologna, Italy, the day after Valentine’s Day will never be the same. With the same pioneering, rule-breaking spirit that the Italians have brought to art, fashion, engineering, architecture, and crime, they’ve also brought to Valentine’s Day by creating their own holiday celebrating singles everywhere (everywhere meaning: the more the merrier) called Saint Faustino’s Day. Happening annually on February 15th, the holiday would more appropriately be described as “clandestine lovers day.” Since today is Saint Faustino’s Day, and you might not find yourself anywhere near Italy, here’s a little story to get you inspired for next year’s party planning.
It was a quiet afternoon in January and my tranquil afternoon was rudely interrupted by my telephone.
“Riiiiiiing!”
“Hello?” I answered from my apartment in Bologna, Italy.
“Yo Peg! What’s up? Can I use your place the day after Valentine’s Day?” comes the voice of my high school friend, also an American living in Bologna, and herein referred to as GF to protect his identity.
“What?! Why?”
“Why do you think? I want to meet girls!”
Sigh. Of course.
“I don’t understand how your constant interest in the opposite sex has anything to do with my place or the day after Valentine’s Day,” I responded with the typical bit of annoyance creeping into my voice, a common occurrence in conversations with GF.
“Peg, what’s your problem? Everyone knows the day after Valentine’s Day is singles day in Italy. I can’t have a party at my place! I’d have to do the cleaning up!”
Obviously my friend GF has a lot of redeeming qualities that outweigh – or at least balance – the less than ideal ones. And, as usual, I fell prey to his obscure charm and agreed to host a February 15th singles party at my apartment, much to the chagrin of my three roommates. I mean, hey, I was single. Why not get into the spirit, right? No sense in languishing in feelings of inadequacy on Valentine’s Day when I can be busy party planning for Saint Faustino’s Day.
Party-planning immediately got underway, meaning I created what turned out to be a fairly robust Facebook invite. GF constantly monitored it to check out how attractive the girls were that had RSVPed “yes.”
But as the big day approached, I got sick. Strep throat. It wasn’t pretty. And I had no insurance to get antibiotics, as my “permission to stay” application had not been finalized yet by the Italian authorities, which meant that I was living in a crack within Italian bureaucracy and had no legitimate access to healthcare (although, to their credit, I could always go to the hospital and would be well taken care of). On February 12th I found myself sitting and crying on the couch in our dining room because my fever was so high. I didn’t know what to do, and things really weren’t looking good for Saint Faustino. My Turkish roommate Zey, who is possibly the nicest person on earth, walked by on the way to the kitchen. She assessed the situation (me) and quickly produced the travel antibiotic she always gets before leaving Istanbul and returning to Bologna.
I started taking them right away. I stayed in bed constantly, abstaining from all social invites and even cancelling teaching English lessons. I was determined: I had to get well for the Saint Faustino party.
Valentine’s Day came and went quickly. Forgettable. And I quickly found myself waking up on Saint Faustino’s Day. I was still really sick. So what did I do? I got out of bed, took a shower, and put on my best pink cocktail dress and a whole lotta makeup. I figured if I wasn’t going to heal the old-fashioned way, I may as well just give it the good old college try.
We decorated our dining-room-with-a-couch with a random assortment of accessories from the 99 cent store (actually, multiple 99 cent stores, since they are practically on every corner in Bologna). Friends started arriving, mostly from my graduate program at the University of Bologna and our extended circle. GF arrived fashionably late with his sidekick and enough liquor for an army. He immediately started complaining about my playlist and anxiously awaiting enough guests to make the party not embarrassingly empty.
And came they did. Very fashionably late. But what would a party be in Italy if the guests arrived before 11pm? Boring, that’s what! 😉 Friends came in groups and trickles of singles that we knew from all over town. People tossed their coats in my room.
Was everyone single? Not even close. But we all had at least one thing in common – we were all indisputably fun-loving. Somebody brought a guitar. Others starting noting my Valentine’s accessories and playing games. People paired up and then mingled again. A couple found my room suitable for making out, which didn’t stop people from grabbing their coats and enjoying the entertainment.
I noticed my project partner in my statistics class was spending a long time in my kitchen talking with the roommate of one of our classmates, a beautiful Italian woman. GF noticed too and wasted no time in swooping in as soon as my statistics partner left early. Hallelujah! The party was officially a success. GF met a beautiful woman that he wouldn’t have met otherwise.
I don’t remember when GF and his Saint Faustino’s Day interest left. But I remember quite distinctly that my last party guests didn’t leave till 4am. And they insisted I join them wherever they were going next. I declined, out of character for me.
I didn’t want to push my luck. It was 4am, I was feeling better than I had in over a week, GF was happy, and I had just thrown a memorably enjoyable party. Life was good.
So I went to bed, and woke up feeling awesome. GF called. No fireworks with his Saint Faustino’s Day catch, but he was happy nonetheless. My statistics partner messaged me. He wanted me to help him get to know this girl better. The same girl.
Never a dull moment.
And now, they are married. My statistics partner and the beautiful Italian girl that made such a splash at my first Saint Faustino’s Day party. I can barely wait to tell their kids the story of how their parents met in my kitchen. And it is all thanks to GF, and the fierce spirit of the Italians in their quest for love. There is no occasion not worthy of pursuing potentially life-changing love, especially the day after Valentine’s Day. Here’s to making the most of every day, especially today. Happy Saint Faustino’s Day!!!
This photo is perhaps the most “illustrious” of my “instants” so far. The photo isn’t meant to demonstrate fabulous composition, color, movement, etc. The photo taking is normal, but the subjects are wonderful.
I took this photo because this relationship – daughter and mother taking a simple afternoon stroll -represents Italy for me in a special way. The unconditional love and family ties that still run deep in this country are a joy to witness.
I am always grateful for the perspective that witnessing moments like these in countries other than my own have given me, and I hope for the same opportunities for you as well!
It was almost exactly one year ago today that this moment was captured, on one of those blissful Sunday afternoons with friends and nothing else on your mind to distract you and keep you from enjoying every second of now. I had nothing on the agenda other than relaxing, eating, and catching up with/getting to know the gals.
It is one of those memories that is still as vibrant as the colors in these photos, and will not soon fade. The restaurant, Fienile Fluo, is in the perfect location, but unfortunately the food isn’t perfect, and the service is even worse. It is the place to go for a day like this: when you have a lot of time, you have great company so you don’t demand a lot of attention, and you aren’t so concerned with the quality of your meal. In the perfect storm when most of these conditions are met, you can’t ask for a better place to be.
Meat and cheese plates are great choices at places like this where food quality is inconsistent.
I broke away from lunch for a bit to take a few pictures. There was lots of action to capture…like the family dog…
A tractor…;)
I couldn’t take a bad shot. Bologna, while unfortunately stuck in a valley that traps bad weather, also reaps the advantages of being surrounded by these gorgeous hills (called “colli” in Italian). After a long winter of bearing the brunt of the cold, emerging into the hills was the perfect way to celebrate the spring. A life full of afternoons like these is certainly a happy life…I wish for more of them for you and me. 🙂
Italians find themselves at the sea nearly every summer weekend, whether they smartly rent or own a whole beach house, or just a few feet of sand under an umbrella. Having lived in Bologna for years and living as any honorable Italian would do, I joined in the weekend beach-side adventures, fleeing as far as Ancona, but mostly sticking directly East of Bologna in Rimini, Riccione and Ravenna. But mostly Rimini, because it was familiar. As soon as the fan came down off the top shelf of my closet and propped up by my bed, the early Saturday morning train rides to Rimini commenced. So it was fitting that I spent my last weekend in Italy before my big return to the United States relaxing at the Italian seaside lifestyle that had defined my summers there. But this time I didn’t have to wake up early and take the train. Instead, my boyfriend at the time preferred to drive. And he was a different sort of character. He didn’t do things the same way everyone else did. Instead, he suggested we go to the tiny town of Cesenatico. I didn’t have the slightest idea what to expect, but as always, I was up for the adventure.
The non-eventful drive and the parking process played out like all of my other beach adventures. The drive east toward the Adriatic Sea is flat with huge green fields broken up by an occasional ancient structure. As you approach the sea, there are lots of trees shading the streets and houses. I was unsuspecting as we parked in an ugly supermarket parking lot until we emerged onto the main walkway of the village. Stretching before me was a long canal that ran to the sea, flanked by colorful buildings and sporting a long line of cleverly named boats. But these weren’t recreational boats, they were fishing boats. And the canal, apparently, is famous because it was once surveyed by Leonardo da Vinci. Only in Italy.
I was surprised by my surroundings. “Where are we again?” I asked him. I’m bad with proper nouns. “Cesenatico,” he replied. “But this place is so cool – why doesn’t everyone come here?” “I don’t know,” he said. “But that’s why I like it. Not everyone comes here.”
He was right. There were definitely other Italian tourists, but they were mostly families. Instead of walking into a tourist trap, it felt instead like we were stepping into the seaside life of these lucky Italians that call Cesenatico home.
We walked down the crowded main stretch along the canal, toward the sea. I almost felt like a voyeur, watching all the families and the family dogs enjoying their Saturday. There was even a funky shaped boat that cost one euro that would take you to the other side of the canal if you so desired.
We drifted until we couldn’t walk anymore, to the point at the end of the boardwalk. Fishermen and teens and couples like us trickled around, but nothing overwhelming. Near the boardwalk was a sprawling restaurant with whitewashed walls and tables. We were led to a table in the sand. A family with a toddler playing in the sand sat at the next table. We sat a bit with our drinks, the sight and sounds of the sea releasing our stress, much of which stemmed from my impending departure. “It seems impossible to believe that in a week you will be in New York. From Cesenatico to New York – I can’t imagine a bigger change,” said my traveling companion. I sat and munched my olive and took a sip of prosecco. He was right. At that moment, New York was absolutely worlds away from Cesenatico.
We eventually found ourselves making our way back up the canal. A pair of sunglasses caught his eye, and as he tried them on I wandered a few steps and discovered a little fair on a tiny side street, so characteristic of Italy. Everywhere I turned this little street was dripping with charm – a candy-cane striped awning and a retro bike, a gelato shop that tempted my traveling companion, and knitted jellyfish hanging from a string tied to streetlights.
I followed the jellyfish hanging from the sky, one by one, to a small, quiet piazza, full of families and a few curious adults, officially stepping over any remaining line between tourist and resident. To my delight, there were nautical-inspired knittings livening up the ancient stone fountain, church, and doorways of the building facing the piazza, to match the hanging jellyfish.
Children played under trees decorated with diamonds and more jellyfish.
With a bit of internet research, I realized I had stumbled upon Cesenatico’s Urban Knitting Group “Il Mare in Conserva,” an installation art exhibit in the Piazzetta delle Conserve.
I was utterly charmed to so unexpectedly wander into this peaceful, simple world. I participated as an outsider, snapping photos of the happy children and cats, until realizing my travel companion had probably finished his gelato by now.
I reluctantly followed the jellyfish back, and found him happy as a clam (no pun intended), taking advantage of his phone’s data plan as the celebrations went on around him.
We made our way back to the car slowly, our departure marking a transition into a much more complicated world, void of knitted jellyfish and children playing jump-rope on the street. It had not been just another beach adventure. It was the end of an era of a naive American girl marveling in the oddities and delights of a beach life so different from my Southern California home. And the beginning of a mysterious something else.
The infatuation for Italy that I arrived here with has been substituted with a real, sincere love based on a foundation of its awesomeness: the tangible, ever-present appreciation for enjoying the best things in life – food, people, traveling, and culture. Bologna’s annual Notte Bianca, a.k.a. Art City White Night, is a great example of this.
Similar events in the US (on a smaller scale) include Ray at Night in San Diego and the monthly Pittsburgh gallery crawl, but due to the infrequency of Art City White Night and the given respect for its sister event, Arte Fiera, Notte Bianca is truly an opportunity to see the beautiful nooks and crannies of Bologna’s heritage that are rarely open to the public. Really, it is kind of tourist’s dream.
My first year in Bologna, Art City White Night was struck by bitter cold and it was all I could do to make it out of the house. Subsequent years I have made the fatal mistake of taking Art City White Night as an opportunity to eat and drink in good company. But I was overwhelmingly mistaken, because bars and restaurants are open every night, and during Art City White Night, they are an overcrowded nightmare.
So, third time’s a charm. This year, my final year, I happened to be on photo assignment for a local contemporary art magazine, Droste Effect Magazine, and I was determined to visit as many participating locations as possible. Alone, and lugging a lot of equipment, I was not anticipating a great evening. But, as what you expect always seems to end up completely opposite, the evening was absolutely marvelous. I was continually floored by what I discovered…a constant grab bag of delights and possibly my best night ever in Bologna. I am no expert on visual art. But I love these events because you don’t have to know anything about art. The city was bursting with people discovering their city and having fun. Not bad.
And, I tell ya, I will not soon forget the beauty I witnessed on Saturday. I stumbled into places I’ve been countless times, like the historic grocery market, that I will never see the same way after following the beautiful sound of an accordion only to discover a man passionately playing amongst the quiet stalls of vegetable merchants.
Or the main piazza, Piazza Maggiore, which I walked through on my way to another gallery, only to find myself surrounded by people flying kites at midnight. I was dumfounded for a moment…kites? Midnight? Winter? Only in Italy… 🙂 It will be forever burned into my memory.
But really, the opportunity to go behind closed doors was the most memorable, from a famously transformed historical church boasting a contemporary art installation on the altar, which was an amazing juxtaposition of contemporary and historical art,
to skipping an art exhibit in favor of just enjoying the staircase leading to the show, which was hidden within city’s administration buildings. This is the most dramatic staircase I have ever encountered, and unfortunately, my photo doesn’t do it justice.
Another highlight was being invited into the city’s more exclusive locations, like The Grand Hotel Majestic, where the likes of Elton John and Princess Diana have stayed while visiting Bologna,
and marveling at the frescos on the ceilings of the beautiful buildings in the city center.
I am trying to compare this evening to a similar evening in my life, but I really can’t think of anything that can compare. I felt like Alice in Wonderland, wandering through Bologna with no idea what marvel or magical character I would find next. And in the end, a powerful reminder of what a gift it has been to live in this beautiful place.
What is it about the sound of the beach…the breeze, the drone of the ocean and the occasional squawk of a seagull that is powerful enough to make (almost) all of your worries melt away? And certainly powerful enough to motivate you to look slightly absurd holding a seashell to your ear once in a while, searching for that sound that can teleport you back to that beach where you can relax worry-less once again…at least for a few seconds.
I mean, certainly we don’t choose our vacations based on sound. But these sounds are rather powerful. Or a least more powerful than I had ever given them credit for.
It was an on an afternoon stroll on a quiet winter day in Venice’s Dorsoduro district on the last day of the Biennale, with not a soul in sight, that the unmistakable sound of small waves lapping against the sides of the canal and the repetitive thud of the boats shifting with the water that it finally hit me: I’m in Venice.
You would think this obvious fact would have hit me when I was walking through Piazza San Marco, watching the pigeons and the tourists (or more precisely, the pigeons playfully attacking the tourists), and perhaps some pretty notable architecture. Or at the very least when I was schlepping across the Grand Canal with motorboats whizzing by and gondolas drifting peacefully along.
Instead, it was on this nondescript canal, alone, that the reality of my environment hit me. And as I was walking along this canal in Venice, listening to these sounds of the boats and the waves, I thought of my second most unmistakable city sound. Waking up in Brooklyn, New York, to the echo of a car driving down narrow 4th St. and the familiar bump of the manhole lid as the tire rolled over it, voices shouting in the distance, and an inevitable car alarm sounding.
And then I thought of Bologna, Italy, and the sound of the rolling suitcases of the students bumping along the cobblestone streets on their way to and from their family homes in villages outside Bologna every weekend.
And then Florence, and the overwhelming sound of American English speakers.
The indescribable and almost soundless sound of fresh snow falling in mass in the Italian Dolomites…
The echoing rolling wheels and clattering fall of a skateboard in San Diego…
And last but not least, in my hometown of El Centro, California, the peaceful receptive chirp of crickets follows you for months during the never-ending summers.
The more I think of these sounds, the more I am transported to these places. More than my usual memories of people or moments on vacations. The memories of these sounds have a way of attaching themselves to all the nuances of these places that you only really observe when you are alone. What are your favorite sounds? I’m curious…
This is my summer of re-love. I have returned to the United States for a mere two months, as I have done each summer since I relocated to Bologna, Italy three years ago. And I have been gifted a unique opportunity to be a tourist in my own country in the places that I once took for granted – places that I visited often for my whole life, and places that I lived. New York, Pittsburgh, Washington DC, and Southern California to be exact.
My father always told me that if I wanted to understand my relationship with a place I lived or a place I loved, I need to leave that place for some time before I can really have a good perspective on that place. Boy, was he right.
Every year that I have returned to America I have had a new perspective on it. But this summer is different. This summer is the summer that I have finally understood and accepted these places into my heart and how my connection to these places is forever embedded into my hard-wiring. And I am returning and truly appreciating everything, even the bad.
My first stop since arriving in America this summer is New York. My father’s side of the family immigrated to New York in the early 1900’s and lived in Brooklyn. My godmother and godfather moved out of the city decades ago to a tiny city along the Hudson River called Ossining.
The snapshot above is my favorite on my trip this far. Taken on the bank of the Hudson river, I am at left with my godmother Suzanne on the right, who is a second mother to me. In the picture below, thirty-three years ago, my godmother is holding me in almost the exact same spot where we are standing above on the bank of the Hudson River.
To think of everything that has happened in the 33 years since this picture was taken is pretty overwhelming. But this beautiful place is the same as it has always been, to me at least. Just an hour’s train ride from Grand Central Terminal, this other world of rolling hills and majestic lake views is sometimes easier to get to than Brooklyn. I realize I am lucky to have this beautifulness in my life, a place my dad has gone back to for decades, and a place my godmother still calls home. But I think we all have these beautiful places in our memories and in our hearts that are part of what makes us who we are. Sometimes it just takes some time to re-love them again.
I think most of us will agree that the word tourist has acquired a bit of a bitter aftertaste. Admittedly, I am as guilty as the next guy for striking down any notion of the idea that I might possibly enjoy being a tourist sometimes. I’d actually probably rather stay home than get caught doing anything that could potentially be labeled as “touristy.” Far be it for anyone to catch me enjoying a nice Mexican lunch in Old Town, San Diego. But why? Where has this anti-tourist phenomenon come from? How have we managed to self-inflict this somewhat silly stigma upon a relatively innocent word?
I opened up my iPad and looked up the definition of the word “tourist” in the dictionary. The definition is short and sweet: “A person who is traveling or visiting a place for pleasure.” A wholesome and respectable definition if I’ve ever heard one. But this makes the negative connotations of “touristy” even more perplexing, as by this definition, rejecting going somewhere touristy is essentially the same thing as rejecting the act of going somewhere for pleasure.
But then I take a moment to think about touristy places, as in places bursting at the seams with tourists. Disneyland calls to mind. Or Venice perhaps? And then my heart drops a little as I forget about the beautiful canals and bridges, and Main Street, and I am instead overwhelmed with images of hoards of people in t-shirts and sneakers. Not romantic.
So ok, I get it now. Lots of tourists – not so great. But going back to the definition again, “…visiting a place for pleasure,” is pretty great. So, why wait until you get to Disneyland to be a tourist, where you do have to join hoards of thousands of other tourists in your pursuit of pleasure, when you can just do that at home?
Once I went two years in San Diego without going to the beach a single time. Shameful, I know. My home is currently Bologna, Italy. Living abroad has bestowed on me an important gift – the opportunity (and excuse) to be a tourist in my own home, when I return to my previous homes in San Diego, Pittsburgh, and New York every summer. In my pursuance of pleasure, I will be a tourist nearly 100% of the time when I return to America this summer. Without a set routine bogging me down anymore, I am free to pursue pleasure by seeking out those activities that not only define the city in the eyes of the world, but also those special activities that I have found that define the cities for me and me alone, like eating most of my meals at The Mission when I’m in San Diego, or having yogurt at the top of Bloomingdales in Manhattan. And I also plan, without shame, to pursue those most stereotypical activities. The first thing I want to do when I get to San Diego is go to the beach. In New York I’m counting the days until I get to go to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. And in Pittsburgh, the incline.
Which brings me to my most important point: what’s life without a little curiosity and fun? Don’t wait till you’re on vacation.