Bologna: The Fat City

Every year exchange students from all over the world join the pilgrimage to the little, red city of Bologna. They come to study at the world’s oldest university, stuff themselves full of tagliatelle al ragù, explore buzzing underground bars and join a protest – any protest.

I lived in an apartment in a terracotta alleyway that I soon referred to as home. Porticos, cobblestones and castles marked my route into town and espresso and pastry amid the rhythmic flow of Italian chatter became my morning routine. But a year of gorging on pasta, chanting anti-Berlusconi slogans and flirting with Italians was not enough to call myself an honourary Bolognese. The Italians wove a web of stringent rules and customs that seemed designed to capture foreigners, wrap them up and leave them hanging on display to be ridiculed.

As the culinary capital of Italy (and therefore the world), Bologna was the perfect place to soothe homesickness. I arrived in winter when inhaling gelato seemed like a warmer alternative to air and thawed out in cafes where I copped death stares for lingering for an hour over an espresso. I learned that cappuccinos should never be ordered after eleven am and that the steamed milk on a macchiato, if consumed on a full stomach, causes indigestion likely to lead to an untimely death. Aperitivo was the name for the lavish spread of delicious morsels to be sampled at a bar with a drink in the hours before dinner. Like all cash-strapped international students, I survived by regularly abusing the aperitivo system, turning it into an all-you-can-eat buffet.

Summer brought with it oppressive heat and hot Italian men. Marco picked me up on a vespa and wined and dined me at the best pizzeria in Bologna. Giuliano took me on passegiatas in the park and Luciano presented me with a gelato in the shape of a rose. But soon enough Marco took my hand and proclaimed, “You are so much more beautiful than my girlfriend”, Luciano insisted on calling his mamma at half hourly intervals and Giuliano abandoned me mid-date to join a game of soccer.

I didn’t take the rejection personally. Having attended the Bologna vs. Genoa match I was aware of how seriously soccer was taken by the Bolognese. The primary war cry was the chanting of the words, “Genoa – pieces of shit.” After Genoa’s third goal a man stood and shouted, to the best of my translating ability, “Your mother’s a whore! She gives the best blowjobs! Go and fuck yourselves!” Our laughter was silenced by fierce glares from the sea of red and blue.

But no matter the ridicule I suffered from friends, neighbours, professors, bartenders, the green grocer, the bank teller and the woman who sold stamps (per Australia. Austria? No, Awstrahlia. Dove?), the humiliation always faded with a dose of hazelnut gelato, a night of Italian karaoke or a stroll through a cobblestone piazza.