I've moved.

Since this blog is now obsolete I've moved to a new one:

bolognalagrassa.blogspot.com

Check in there for Miss Adventure's misadventures in Bologna, sponsored in part by Cafe Zamboni, where they never complain that I'm occupying a table writing email on their wireless network and only buying a coffee.

arrivederci!

vacation from blogging

yes, I haven't posted in a while. I'm back in the US for a bit, until the beginning of September. Getting cavities filled, filing paperwork with the university, seeing my advisor, etc.

I'm officially taking a vacation from blogging until I get back to Bologna. Sorry all. I am listening to a lot of new music, so I may put together some new podcasts for you. If you've subscribed to the first one iTunes will update it for you if I do.

Come back in September!

addio a bologna (for now)

I'm off. wrapping up my computer cables and emptying the fridge. the frigo, rather.

I'm excited to be in Rome again for the next few days. I'll have a chance to get in some beach time, eat some good spicy food, and see my Roman peoples who are already back from vacation. I haven't seen the sun in days, it has been cloudy and ominously dark here.

Then, the long flight home. Get ready New York.

strutto

a correction: I clearly have not fully grasped Romagnol food. When I wrote that piadine must be made with olive oil - a dead giveaway that I am more accustomed to central and southern Italian cuisine. In fact, the griddle cakes typical to the region are full of lard. Hence delicious, and to be consumed sparingly.

cryptofascist gastronomy

At this point in my gastronomic life, I understand well which cheeses I can and cannot eat, thanks to a serious mold allergy. Soft ripened and blue cheeses are perilous for me. I haven't yet suffered any cheese-related symptoms worse than mild asthma from some gorgonzola or an irritated mouth after a camembert. Yet. I usually throw caution to the wind and eat all but the moldiest. The potential reactions are uncomfortable at best but potentially fatal in the case of severe asthma. Who wants to be remembered as "struck down in the prime of her life by a morsel of Roquefort"?
Tonight, we add Taleggio to the list of cheeses I cannot consume without risk. I really know better, I just can't help myself. The stinky fuzzy cheeses are the best. This particular taleggio had at least three discrete colors of fuzz. Deliciously creamy, with a bite, slightly asphixiating. My handy-dandy asthma inhaler saved the day again. sucks to my asthmar. When they invent the gene therapy for my allergies I'm going to throw a party with acres of stinky cheese and kittens.
Apropos noses, why is it that American fragrances are so offensive? This question comes from the pleasant suprise that I like the scent of my Italian fabric softener. In the US I don't use fabric softener because I find it noxious. Here, line-drying and very hard water makes it necessary, but the scents are light and natural. Being an allergic person and also one with a highly developed palate has made me hyper-sensitive to smells. And crypto-fascist about them: the jerk who invented Lush cosmetics should be shot. There is a store here on one of my favorite streets in Bologna that I can hardly stand to walk past, it is so foul. Fake fruit scents and heavy florals, repulsive. I could happily reside near a fish market; I want desperately to develop a taste for durian; I adore the scent of horse manure...but "strawberry" bath gel makes me want to vomit.

This all brings me to the problem of taste. I confess to profound intolerance: it is hard for me not to demote someone who proclaims a dislike for onions to untermenchen. What bothers me the most, I think, is not that people have tastes different from mine, but that they use "taste" without further explanation. How do onions feel in your mouth? What is your experience of the flavor? What memories are linked to the flavor or smell or texture? I dislike chammomile, but I am aware that this is because it became linked in my mind to illness, that the scent recalls for me the feeling of nausea. My friend Maggie can't stand egg whites - she can explain a visceral reaction that I accept without thinking less of her (also because I suspect it is an allergy). Furthermore, "taste" becomes an excuse to not learn and develop and explore. In my Inferno, the ninth circle is inhabited by the non-adventurers and closed-minded of the world.

vitamin news deficiency

I continue to be amazed by the provincialism of Italian news. Watching the telegiornali while reading the NY Times and Guardian online is particularly instructive. There is, of course, plenty on al-Zawahiri, but most of the terrorism news turns on the extradition of Hussein Osman from Rome. We've at last exhausted the details on Italians (and only Italians) killed at Sharm el Sheik that fed the headlines last week. Incredibly, the other dozens of victims went unnoticed, in favor of shmaltzy pieces on young fiancees on vacation and Sicilian girls celebrating graduations.
Lately I'm taking in images of demonstrating soccer fans, endless footage of holiday traffic congestion and weather, and a bewildering amount of cocaine dissolved in the Po River.

neither here nor there

August is an uncomfortable month. I have plans through December, but August is a black hole. Ideally I'd be working hard in the archives or vacationing on a beach somewhere, but the archives are closed and I can't afford a vacation away from BO. When I do leave, it will be to take care of all sorts of obnoxious tasks in New York: dentists and doctors and paperwork for the university and trips to the Italian consulate. I'm looking forward to seeing my people again, but it won't be under the best of circumstances. Reverse culture shock makes me cranky and unsociable. I'll try not to spend the whole time being disgusted by the food and going through real coffee withdrawal...

In the meantime I have a routine of early mornings spent taking care of the house, leisurely breakfast, reading, talking to my plants (they're anglophones, because they're succulents. the rationale: in Italian they're called piante grasse, or fat plants. since Americans are fat, my plants understand American English). My shower is brief; the water heater seems to have a capacity measurable in teaspoons. I watch a little news, check email and the NYTimes, and start out on the goal of the day: writing the Fulbright application.

I might punctuate the day with a pilgrimage to il Gelatauro for almond-orangeblossom gelato, or browse a bookstore. I'm not out much in the evenings lately, since everyone is on vacation.

A quiet life, for now.

bologna is hot and deserted

when will I learn?:
1. You cannot overemphasize "not too short" with hairdressers. I went for my emergency haircut with a photo in hand of a model with the perfect cut for me. I now have no hair, and do not resemble the photo in the least. TOO SHORT! it's cute anyway and I can show off all my dangly earrings. Italian hairdressers have it in for me.
2. You can overdo it with anchovies.
3. When Romans tell you a place is hot, it is very very hot. I was warned about BO.
4. Nothing happens in Italy in August. Disregard any advice that says ferragosto (aug. 15) is the beginning of vacations.
5. The library opens when it opens, not when it is supposed to open.
6. I cannot consume a kilo of apricots. Breakfast, lunch, snacks, dessert...there are still too many to eat before they go bad. They just look so pretty I can't resist getting a sackful.

what have I learned?:
1. I like tube tops. I would never have imaginged it, but I'm skinny enough to pull it off. And there are positive side effects like better deals at the produce market (I'm terrible, I know, don't be so scandalized, mom). Negative side effects: catcalls from 12 year olds.
2. I love bicycles. With my roommates gone I have the run of the household AND the use of their bikes. I'm liberated! pedaling around the city quickly.
3. Buying extra pairs of linen pants on sale is a good idea. I found a great pair that looks good on me and went back to get more in another color. I'm living in them.
4. When Dad made us wake up before dawn on the farm to do work before the sun got too strong, he was right. This makes sense on a farm. He's taken to a ridiculous nth degree. Here, I have trouble sleeping past 6:30 lately; by 10 I have to flee the apartment in search of a cooler place to work.
5. Moms are moms. I had to reassure Marta's that she hasn't been taken hostage by terrorists, she just left her cell phone charger in Rome - so isn't answering.

labor issues

I found this interesting - from the NY Times this morning

Third Union Is Leaving A.F.L.-C.I.O.

Any of my friends in the movement have any thoughts? I'm completely disconnected these days.

random heat-induced observations/delusions

It's been a quiet week, my friends are mostly out of town and I'm in isolation writing fellowship proposals. I'm really happy I didn't plan to be here all of August - things really have closed up in the past weeks.

Over lunch near the (air conditioned!!!) library: I was lured into an alleyway bar by a sign advertising la vera piadina romagnola – I’ve been eying these flat sandwiches and ‘the real thing’ was too tempting. From the list of offerings including il nonno (grilled vegs and brie), bolognese mortadella with cheese, lettuce and mayo, violenta (wurstel, ie. hot dogs with ketchup and mustard – a reference to either Germans or Americans, I suppose, the violent hotdog eaters of the world), I picked the fantasia (prosciutto, brie and arugula). I know, brie doesn’t sound too authentic. I wasn’t expecting much, but I was pleasantly surprised. A piadina resembles a fat tortilla – about a half centimeter thick, pale, with browned patches. It was pleasantly salty and must be made with olive oil on a griddle. Typically Romagnola, which, I’m informed, is very different from Emilian cuisine. My friends couldn’t explain exactly why, but they insist the two regions (politically one region) are very different. They also couldn’t explain why they hate the Modenese, they just do – that’s how Bologna and Modena are. I’ll keep asking – I am sure the history is centuries old.

************************************

There was an American tv commercial a while back in which a woman is jogging entirely in the shade, following truck traffic that blocks the sun, crossing streets at the point at which a tall building casts a shadow. I’ve been trying to do the same only while walking very slowly. A thermometer on the street registered 35 yesterday, that’s 95 Fahrenheit. The sun is unbearable. It is humid. My tan has faded and I feel suffocated. The upside is that there’s an excellent gelateria near my apartment.

*************************************

I’ve been on the lookout for a good salon, since I’m approaching the emergency-haircut stage. Around the corner I found one with the worst name I have ever seen: Slimery. I have no idea what the hell they are thinking that means. I’m tempted to go in and explain how repulsive it sounds in English.

**************************************

Some of the kids in the university quarter give a new meaning to "shady characters". This coming from someone who's been living in New York. My friends call the type panca bestia, because they're all accompanied by a beast - mangy pit bulls or mutts that are underfed and more pathetic than frightening (though a hungry pit bull is pretty frightening). I'm more or less immune to the piercings and tattoos and dreadlocks, it's the squalor I can't get used to. These are filthy people with no flesh left on them and no occupation besides shooting heroin and stealing bicycles. There is apparently a trade circle - bicycles are stolen from students, sold to students for cash, cash purchases heroin, addiction drives further thefts... I've been advised not to buy a bicycle I won't mind being stolen. And my quest to find a non-stolen used bike, as a way of not supporting the panca bestia drug habits, is laughable.
I can't help but wonder if these kids came here straight, ordinary students and got sucked into this world, or if they came here already distrutti. Columbia would look very different if all the drop-outs were still hanging around, begging for money to buy heroin. I'm sure the same thing exists - where do they hide them?

where in the world is miss adventure?

at the festa dell'unita on friday night in Carpi, near Modena:
I went with a group of friends to hear the Bluebeaters, an Italian rocksteady band that they're all fans of, in this little town that inexplicably has the second largest piazza in Europe. We had to stop to ask directions five or six times, but arrived in enough time to sit down at the makeshift osteria and eat fried specialties and drink very cold lambrusco. We had plates of prosciutto and mortadella with gnocco, which is a big flat fritter, various types of fried polenta, tigelle, which look like little pancakes and are not unlike english muffins - griddle cakes. The tigelle came with pesto - but pesto alla Modenese, which is the furthest thing from the pesto from Genoa we know in the States. In Modena, it is a paste of lardo, mortadella, garlic, and other tasty things. Basically, flavored hog fat. Delicious. I was skeptical about lambrusco, but in this context, really really cold and very dry, it was perfect.
the concert was great, it reminded me of going to ska shows in high school. we danced and enjoyed ourselves and passed out in the car on the way home.

Saturday there was a party for Cipio and some others who just graduated. This has been a great time to be in Bologna, seeing the graduates around town wearing laurel wreaths on their heads. Cipio and his friends rented a place in the country, a cottage behind a nursery. It was a little strange to approach a party through the rows of potted plants, past guard dogs, but the outdoor space was lovely. There were animals and gardens and a gorgeous pool under a domed greenhouse, surrounded by tropical plants. I made friends right away with the goat, admired the chickens and geese, sampled the salad greens directly out of the garden. I found a corner where there were black raspberries growing and snuck off periodically during the evening to eat a handful. There was swimming and lots of dancing and throwing people into the pool. The night degenerated fairly quickly and at the end I found myself riding back to town in my friend's car next to a laureate who'd tucked his shirt into his boxer shorts and pulled his black socks up to his kneecaps, improvised a tie out of a strip of plastic ribbon, but had lost his pants at some point. I told him it was very rock and roll.

My archivist is now on vacation. I have to make due with the other libraries in town for a couple of weeks, which gives me time to hassle the people at the Salaborsa to have their wireless network repaired. Although the network tech is probably on vacation.

bologna

I'm beginning to think my choice of blog address wasn't very well thought out. First, I'm not in Rome anymore, and second, I'm settled into Bologna for a long haul.
which makes me very happy.

Knowing that I can buy houseplants or install hooks in the wall or put a print on the wall changes the whole experience of being here. Living here. I have a kitchen, I don't use someone else's kitchen. Right now I have the apartment to myself: one roommate just left and the other doesn't arrive for some weeks.

everyone wants to show me something or teach me something.
Letizia introduced me to a Sicilian gelateria where we had watermelon-jasmine gelato. They also make bergamot-jasmine, fennel seed, pistachio-almond, ginger.... dangerously good stuff.

Zimmi and Jacopo insist that despite my ability to recite the ingredients of a real ragu, and the way to make a good broth, I know nothing about Bolognese cuisine and have to be tutored over dinners.

My archivist gives me big smiles when I arrive in the morning and starts in on a lecture about the Italian left in the late 40's or the pagan origins of Ferragosto.

Enrico taught me the history of the Cassero, the national seat of Arcigay and the most incredible nightclub I've ever seen in the city's historic salt market, the story behind radio kappa centrale, and explained his coffee dependence stems from when he was 3 years old, when he'd make his cappuccino and smoke a cigarette while his mom cooked lunch.

Alvise has introduced me to everyone, gotten me involved in a video project by a collective of artists, taken me out to an agriturismo restaurant in the hills above the city with his friends....

I'm busy and content to be settling here.

today's lesson in Italian expressions

"ogni riccio, un capriccio" -- Every curl, a caprice.

(Let's hope not.)

comments?

I've been hiding from this morning's rain in my room but it has now stopped so I'm off to do real work. When I get back, I'd like to see some feedback - has anyone tried to subscribe to the podcast? Do you like it?

podcast!

I've been playing on the computer this weekend and have surpassed my wildest dreams of technolgical competence. Here is my podcast.

What this means is, I have a little radio show you can download onto your computer and iPod. The latest version of iTunes supports podcasts, so you can subscribe to mine and it will automatically update whenever I make a new podcast. Do this by pasting the following URL into the dialog for "Subscribe to Podcast..." under the "Advanced" menu:
http://feeds.feedburner.com/missadventure

This first attempt is just a series of songs I've been listening to lately, love, and want to share. Let me know what you think! If I enjoy doing this, I can get a microphone and add my voice to the feed.

The playlist:
Kunek, "Good Day"
Sufjan Stevens, "The Lord God Bird"
Regina Spektor, "Samson"
Kunek, "Bright Eyes/The Swell"
Sufjan Stevens, "Sister"

fun with language

a laugh for your sunday morning:
The English idiom "wants to have his cake and eat it too" in Italian is "vuole la botte piena e la moglie ubriaca" translates: "he wants to have the cask full and his wife drunk too".