Via Nicolò Machiavelli 1

Mum asked for pictures. Ergo, pictures. And you'd all better be pumped about it, because due to a slow connection this post took me pretty much all day.

This is where I live, relative to the city, on Via Nicolò Machiavelli 1. It's about a 20-minute bus ride into the centre of the city, or a 40 minute walk, depending on where you're going. San Donnino is the name of the park that is close by.

 

San Donnino is in the top right corner, marked by the "A" arrow. My map's colours are prettier than Google Maps colours.

On Life in Bologna

This is called a monster post, and there's no escaping it. It’s been hectic in that jam-packed, sluggish sort of way; I have language class three hours a day, plus homework, plus about an hour’s total transit, which with two long meals a day plus hygiene works out to not very much truly free time. I have been taking pictures more or less diligently, so the time seems ripe for a post-bomb. Here are my collected sentiments and anecdotes on everyday life here.

I shall pacify you with James Bond in Italian! 

Welcome to Hotel Holiday

Okay, okay, okay! I really, truly meant to show you my hotel room before I moved out, and I tried equally hard to never apologise for late posts, but I’m breaking both those resolutions in one fell swoop. It’s Sunday, and I’m feeling indulgent.

Right, then, on we go. Let me introduce you to Hotel Holiday.

All the BCSP students were assigned to stay in this hotel, which the Italians pronounce like “OH-tell OLL-ee-day.” It’s a three-star hotel on Via Bertiera, one of Bologna’s many side streets, which one student’s Bolognese friend described as un po’ sketch (a little sketchy!). The hotel itself is actually quite nice inside, with free wifi, awesome breakfasts, and nice views (which you have already seen).
Like all European hotels, Hotel Holiday’s first floor is actually floor #0, so my supposedly third-floor room is deceptively four flights of stairs to get to, not three. False advertising! This also is unfortunate news for my wifi connection, which often isn’t quite strong enough to get internet in the room—unless you tilt your laptop just so in just the right place.

Tutti Noi

All the BCSP students on tour. I'm on the right, with the lion-hair. ;P

Hard Day Today

Today was the first day in a long time in which I was truly frustrated and angry. Do you ever have those days where all the small things go wrong? The program director put me into the lower-level class without bothering to administer the placement exam, and while I can’t gauge the level of the other class, I felt out of place for the whole three hour duration. I had trouble with the exercises because I know the gist but not the nit-picky grammar. I made a social faux pas in class and felt jittery all morning from having too much espresso. Two Italian women snickered at a group of us for putting extra cheese on our pizza. My friend ditched me to meet someone else. The cell phone store was closed, and when I found one, my Italian was so bad that the shopkeeper was forced to switch to English so I even understood what I was buying.

This Is What I Wake Up To...

When I woke up the first morning, I realised that I hadn’t so much as looked out the window when I got in, because it was dark and I assumed I would only be looking out on a nasty side-street. Instead, here was the view that greeted me to the sound of medieval bells ringing out in a brassy, deep chorus of ringing:



You win this one, Bologna.



The view from my window at home, for comparison. A bit of a contrast.

The Arrival

I am here:

It was a long, long road to get there. After the three-day flight delay I already mentioned, the fun started anew once we got to the airport. British Airways had rerouted us to Virgin Atlantic because they couldn’t fit all the passengers, which would have been fine, except British Airways does not have a weight restriction for carry-on, while Virgin Atlantic limits you to one 6kg bag. After wheedling our way out of that one (and another argument with Mum over my hairdryer), I was on the plane to Heathrow Airport in London.

For the brief moments that I saw it, London was wonderful. It was grey and white and black from all the melted snow, and there was nothing not to love about it: red buses, mossy roofs, little garden plots, tiny houses, chimneypots, and windy tumbling streets. I discovered how difficult it is to take pictures out a tram window, even with a high shutter speed.

Pre-trip Delays, Shopping, etc.

It’s day two in Italy, and the people are gorgeous, the food delicious, the views stunning—except, no. I’m not in Italy, I’m still in New York. It’s ten below zero Celsius. The view is snowy and dark. It so happens that my flight to Heathrow was cancelled because London is buried under 10 inches of snow—that’s the same grey, rainy London that generally gets four days of snow per annum, and usually not more than 2-3 inches at a time. Then things managed to get even stranger, with the rare condition of Spontaneous Giant Self-Rolling Snowballs appearing out of the blue. What!? That’s what I said too.

New Years Day

I began the New Year the same way I spent its eve: quietly, and at home. Several friends had invited me to parties, but with my face still slightly swollen from wisdom teeth surgery (okay, okay—I look like I have a bad case of gout in one cheek). Plus, Twizzlers go badly with stitches, and I’m told a mixture of alcohol and Vicodin is even worse. So, home it was.