Never look down*

Monday morning dawned bright and clear and I was able to potter around the apartment in Bologna sorting myself out in a relaxed manner, having a light breakfast of fruit and redbush tea before showering and heading out to Madrelingua. As lessons start at the civilised time of 9.30, I was able to make a stop to carbohydrate pack with a brioche and cappuccino at a small bar near the apartment. This became my regular stopping off point for breakfast on the way out but also for a sandwich for lunch on the way back, and the jolly patron would show off his English by throwing in random phrases as he was serving me, though I’m not sure being able to say Queen Elizabeth and Manchester would be enough to get him by should he ever visit Britain.

When I got to Madrelingua, there was, at first, a comfortable feeling of being back somewhere familiar. Unfortunately that didn’t manage to last till the end of the morning. There were only two new people, myself and an American lady, Alisha, and we were both put into a group one up from the one I was in last year, as shown by the book I was given being Level 3 rather then Level 2; and this is where the downside to this system manifests itself.

Being newcomers, we had to fit in to the existing group, which was partway through studying the passive and we joined it in the middle of the topic. This was not such a problem as I had a bit of an understanding of it anyway, but what was a little disconcerting was the dynamic of the group, which was all made up of youngsters (at least they were to me) who had been together for three or four weeks, and whilst they were quite pleasant (apart from one very dour looking chap whose mouth seemed chronically unable to form a smile) I couldn’t help feeling something of an outsider.

I coped ok with the grammar before the break, but wasn’t feeling overly happy, partly because I couldn’t help thinking that there might be other topics more useful to me on a Friday morning in downtown MSP than being able to form the passive with venire instead of essere, but it was after the break, in the conversation session, that things started to melt. First we had to read an article about a job with the New York Times as a roving reporter, and then we had to fill in a chart with our suitability for the job. Whilst I understood the article well enough, I wasn’t totally clear on what the chart was asking for, nor did I seem to have very much to put that seemed relevant. We were then supposed to run the interview with a partner. It was at this point that I had to leave the room, partly because I was finding the whole situation confusing and partly because I couldn’t really see what benefit this was to me. It seemed much more to do with preparing people for passing an exam, which may be what the other ones needed, but as a semi-retired ex-pat with no intention whatsoever of applying for a job ever again it was not going to be much use chatting with my fellow cittadini over a cappuccino in Pina.

Stefania, the lady who runs Madrelingua, was very understanding and suggested I sit in on the lower group, who were doing a much more cosy exercise about expressing interest and using various responses to offers and suggestions, just the thing for complimenting Pina’s ciambellone. To cut to the chase and move on to happier topics, the following day I spent the first part in the upper group then moved to the lower group for the conversation, to where Alisha, the American lady, had also decamped, and I took some comfort in the fact that she had also found the previous day bewildering.

By Wednesday I had moved to the lower group totally, but not without some concern from the teachers that it would be too easy. Well no, because what I wanted was to practise speaking Italian in a relaxed environment, and not to feel that I was preparing for an exam in a competitive atmosphere. The upshot of this was that when I got my certificate on Friday morning I was the same level as last year because, I presume, I hadn’t studied the higher-level work. Oh well, I just hope no future employer will hold it against me…

On to the good things.

As I was only taking morning lessons and not the afternoon intensive ones like last year, I was able to join in the various activities offered by the school. These started on Monday with the customary get to know each other lunch for new arrivals, and anyone else interested. This was at the very charming Va Ma Là, which was a bit of a warren of rooms, each one book-lined and with the feel more of a library than a restaurant – that is, if you ignore all the tables set with cutlery and glasses. Being in Bologna, I felt obliged to try their tortellini in brodo, which was very acceptable indeed.

The following afternoon I joined a select few for a visit to Santa Maria della Vita, a small church on a street of Piazza Maggiore, which was originally founded in the latter part of the 13thcentury by the Congregation of Flagellati, named from their custom of flagellating themselves for penitence. I’m relieved to say nothing like this was in evidence on our visit, and after being rebuilt at the end of the 17thcentury, the church is now known as the home of Niccolò dell’Arca’s series of sculptures forming his Compianto del Cristo Morto (or Lamentation over the Dead Christ) dating from the 1400s. This was truly wonderful, especially the harrowing figure of Mary Magdalene at Christ’s feet.

It was also on Tuesday, in the evening, that I presented myself at Laura’s door to help her take some items down to the communal garden area for the aperitivo get-together as mentioned last week. This was very well attended and I did get some opportunity to speak Italian, especially as Laura kept drawing me into conversations with various of the residents, These were resplendent in a sea of linen and loops of beads (well, the women were) and I have a strong feeling that there was not a Salvini voter amongst them.

Wednesday was a cultural trip of a different sort when a minibus took myself and five other students to the outskirts of Modena to visit Acetaia Malpighi’s taste and tour centre where I found out all about the production of tra-diz-i-on-al-e (as the nice lady who gave us the talk insisted on drumming into our heads) balsamic vinegar and tasted a range of their products – before, of course, parting with my hard-earned cash to buy a couple of bottles. To summarise what I learnt for your benefit, gentle reader, tra-diz-i-on-al-e balsamic vinegar is only made from cooked grape must, is aged for at least 12 years in a series of five barrels, each made from a different wood, and has to be kept at a constant, natural temperature, be it warm or cold depending on the season. We fully appreciated this latter point when we moved from the downstairs air-conditioned area to the stuffily humid area upstairs where a hundred or so barrels of vinegar were maturing.

You didn’t need to be shut in an acetaia the next day to feel the full force of the heat when the temperature in Bologna edged towards the 40C mark. This did not, however, put me off the last trip of the week, which was back in the old centre of the city, though again it was only a handful of keenies who turned up for the mini excursion. This time we went to the Basilica di Santo Stefano, located, appropriately enough, on Piazza Santo Stefano. This is, actually, a complex of seven churches, hence its local name of Sette Chiese, of which Saint Stephen’s church, originating in the 8thCentury, is only the third oldest part. The seven buildings link together in a quiet random way, which only added to the charm of the complex and which also offered a refreshing sanctuary from the outside temperature. There was something incredibly calming about wandering from one building into another, with each radiating an almost physical serenity befitting their great age.

I had earmarked the evening for my visit to the Cinema Beneath the Stars in the main piazza as they were showing Charlie Chaplin’s The Circus. I don’t want you to think that it being only 75 minutes long so I could be home and in bed before midnight was the reason I chose it, nor that being a silent film so there wouldn’t be a language barrier swayed me unduly. I was more attracted by the fact that the film was accompanied by a live orchestra playing the score Chaplin composed for it, and the feeling that there would be something magical about watching an old black and white classic in the dark, balmy square – and I was right.

Mind you, it was touch and go whether I would actually see the film as I made the mistake of ordering a cotoletta alla Bolognese when I decided to treat myself to a ‘proper’ meal in a restaurant recommended by Stephen. What I thought might turn out to be a bit of veal with a bit of a tomato sauce turned out to be something that would keep a family of four going for whole week – or so it seemed as I ploughed my way through a substantial wedge of meat topped with a generous slice of prosciutto and covered in melted cheese. Yes, your right, it was just the thing to eat on the hottest day of the year so far, but in my defence I did order fresh vegetables as a side dish, thinking they were something that had been missing from my diet. It might not have been so much of a gastronomic hill to die on if I hadn’t compounded the issue by ordering a Caprese salad as a starter, expecting a modest plate of a few slices of tomatoes and mozzarella, and not a whole cheese cut into three wedges with enough tomatoes to match.

You will not be surprised that though I had, in my ignorance, allowed the right amount of time for my pre-film dinner, I was still finishing it off when The Circus was due to start at 9.45. It was 30 minutes later when I entered Piazza Maggiore, thinking I might still take a look even though I had missed almost half of the film, but I was forgetting the golden rule that in Italy nothing starts till at least half an hour after it should. In the event, thanks to the cotoletta alla Bolognese, I actually arrived with perfect timing, taking up position just as the film was starting. I was, admittedly, much too late to get a seat and there was standing room only, but considering the amount of digestion required by my internal workings, that was probably a good thing. And the moral of this little anecdote? Never order anything in a restaurant unless you know exactly what you are going to get.

And that was about it, bar the shouting. As there was no school outing on Friday afternoon, I took the opportunity of visiting the exhibition, Warhol & Friends: New York in the 80’s, at the Palazzo Albergati, which was most interesting and not just because there was a print of his featuring a lot of shoes. In the evening I took an aperitivo at Caffè Zanarini, one of Bologna’s chicest spots, which more than satisfied me as I was still full from the cotoletta. Yesterday morning I said my farewells and thanks to Laura and Giovanni and was able to take my time packing as my train didn’t leave till just past midday.

The journey back was as pleasantly uneventful as the one going and the train pulled into Civitanova station more or less on time. Stephen met me and I arrived home about 4 o’clock, much, I’m pleased to say, to the delight of Harry and Bella. Then it has been back to normal today, with walking on Porto San Giorgio beach this morning and homegrown tomatoes for tea. You may recall that earlier in the year we bought some bargain tomato plants that were going cheap because they were deemed to have grown too big. Various experts, including Stephen’s gardening guru Mr Carelli, scoffed at the idea and avowed that no good would come of them. Seeing as Stephen has been harvesting from them for the best part of a week with plenty more to come, it seems they were wrong – and I have just the vinegar needed to bring out their flavour in the best tra-diz-i-on-al-e way.

* If this doesn't seem to make sense, watch the video!