Tuesday, October 23, 2007
That's Bologna!
I spent an obscene, disgusting, American style amount of euros in Bologna: the type of money that could feed a family of eight tagliatelle with bolognese sauce for an entire month. I just hit week five of being in Europe and with The Sox two games away from the World Series, homesickness is brewing in the bottom of my stomach. In order to cure my ailments, I turned to an age-old American remedy: I went shopping.
I kept the consumer urges at bay for just two hours while I lit a candle for the Red Sox, took in the Host, and saw the world’s largest zodiac sundial at St. Pietro’s Basilica. There are two great things about attending mass in a different language. The first is it is OK to not know all the words to the prayers. It is not my fault that I American in an Italian Church. It is my fault that I can NEVER remember the Act of Contrition at St. Christine’s, and my penance always represents that. The second is the feeling you get when you shake hands with the people occupying the space around you and confidently chime “peace be with you”. I have always loved this phrase. Peace be with you.
The downward spiral started small; there was a strip of H&M style shops lining the street leading to my hotel. I passed these shops an average of four times during the first two days in Bologna without a blink. Enthralled by a European university, a stunning statue of Neptune and his member, and more vegan restaurants than a lesbian from JP knew what to do with, shopping was not high on my list. Until day three. It stormed the night before and the damp city was cloaked in wool hats, and leather boots. I thought about calling the states in order to fill the hole my small intestine seemed to be missing. No luck, it was 4:30 am on a Saturday. I could think of a few friends that would most definitely still be awake and would answer with drunk enthusiasm and continue to yell and pass the phone: “It’s ELLE, from EATALLY!! She has salmonELLLLA in her phELLLLEophian tube.” but none of these warm ideas materialized, as I had no numbers stored in my head for such an event.
The first purchase was just a warm up, a small purchase in which all three items were on sale. I walked out of store number one with a small change purse to house my camera, some running pants for the imaginary runs I will be taking on the last leg of my trip, and a tank top that reads: There are no more punk rock heroes. The latter of the three purchases is a lie: There certainly are existing real life punk rock heroes and I wish I could name three to prove it, but I can only come to one, a real life example of a real life punk rock hero: Nate Stearns. Although his music isn’t exactly defined as ‘punk rock’ he owns (and wears) more arm jewelry than I, so he is in fact, far more punk rock than me, not to mention one of my heroes.
By this time, a gray cloud rolled through and settled right over downtown Bologna. A chill? Hmm, I must need a heavier jacket. The 45 euros I spent the day earlier on Thinsulate wool mittens weren’t keeping me quite warm enough. In the states you can walk into any Wal-Mart, Bob’s, or Sports Depot and buy a pair of these wool mittens, the kind that have finger slits, and Velcro, and double as a glove and a mitten, a glitten if you will, for no more than 20 bucks. In Italy, these glittens are trendy, hence the cost more than tripling. I can understand the inflation of price due to shipping, but good lord we are not talking about buying an ’01 Brunello di Montalcino in a Boston Enoteca, it is a sporking pair of wool gloves!! Regardless, I needed a new jacket seeing as the one I purchased in Montevarchi two weeks earlier was in the back of my former co-guides economy Fiat named after Picasso somewhere in Florence. Another H&M knock-off, another purchase. Walking out of the second store I said to myself, out loud, “I can’t believe you just spent 60 bucks on a polyester jacket from FRANCE.” It wasn’t the 40 euros I could use to house or feed myself that I was worried about, I think it was more the thought of wearing the brown polyester jacket in Boston wishing I had that cash to go to the real H&M in downtown crossing and buy leggings, and big cheap sunglasses on a cold January afternoon after feeding myself at the Buttery on Union Park with Michael.
My heart and soul, along with my love for not having credit card debt all went missing when The Bank of America plastic was thrown on a glass counter top the third time. Remember the leather boots that I mentioned earlier, somewhere between a slice of pizza and two scoops of gelato I convinced myself that I could not possibly get on a train to Ferrara without some. I knew exactly what I wanted. My love affair with these boots started in the very first hour that I first arrived in Florence. I visited these brown boots three times before I started my bike trips. At first, I just flirted with the idea of having the boots, where I would wear them, who they would be allowed to meet, and which city streets they would be allowed to see. The second time I was in Florence, I actually tried to convince the boots, through a glass window pane that had a film of city grime on it, that they would love Boston as much as I did, and that even though Florence was nice and all, it didn’t have a large enough gay community to fully be appreciated. No dice, these boots were not budging from their 300-euro price tag, and certainly would not be traveling across an entire ocean to reside in Boston. The boots that will be traveling with me to Boston are a close cousin to my long lost loves in Florence. I will never love them as much as the original; one never loves another as they do their first. The only thing I have to remember is not to get too attached: I might have to sell these boots on EBay come January to feed myself at the Buttery with Michael one afternoon.
