A city baked by the sun, peach and tangerine buildings surround, cocooning me in warmth. A humid haze, the belly of the city is always moving. Buzzing, a moped nips through the traffic, buses rev and wheeze to a stop. I am welcomed with a hug and a kiss on each cheek from the Italian sun, and as the sun sets across the terracotta roof tops, I’m reminded of one of the cities names, ‘la rossa’. While rows of restaurants, gelaterias, and cafés remind me of their other affectionate name, ‘la grassa’ – the fat.
Up Via Dell’Indipendenza and through the lit porticos, I walk these veins which pulse through the heart of the city. My nostrils twitch at the smell of roasted coffee beans. A waitress, thick curly hair tumbling, crosses my path carrying a tray of espresso and soda water shots. The smell of toasted piadina, pancetta and rocket tease my aching stomach.
So I find myself in Bologna, capital of Emilia-Romagna. Mazes of medieval cobbled streets swallow me whole. A city to digest, I walk on, my tummy eager. I’m here and I’m hungry.
The rumble from within is released as a door swings open. I swoon over the bountiful platters of food in the aperitivo at 051 in Piazza Maggiore. I’m passed a plate of glazed hard crust pastry nibbles, crumbling sweet and salty. Steamed vegetables glisten. Flushed pinks, salmon so moist it falls of the bone and slips happily onto my plate. Penne pasta, smothered in rich tomato reds, slices of meat, mozzarella balls and cherry tomatoes. My stomach roars. Zest of orange and a bitter sharp swallow - a cocktail that stirs my taste buds. Buon appetito, my friend sings.
‘Expect me to come back two stone heavier’, I told my hairdresser the weekend before I left. This is a year that will change your life, so everyone told me, and a year that would more than likely change my waist line, so I told myself. Platters of delights refilled whenever empty, this is aperitivo. I happily sit down and join la grassa.
