What I did not expect to find was family, but it was family that I ultimately found.

Though it took me a while to meet Riccardo’s mother and a bit longer to see her on a regular basis, it didn’t take long for Giordana to take me under her wing.  I was a little terrified at first, having never met a boyfriend’s mother, but after several Sunday lunches, I grew to feel very much at home in Via della Pietra.  It was something that fundamentally changed my experience in Italy.

Since leaving home at 18, I was used to creating my own home wherever I was, but it’s not quite the same as having a home base nearby.  It meant getting fussed over when I had a cough, having leftovers sent home to our fridge, someone to consult over how to properly cook an oven frittata, and countless other details that you don’t realize you’ve missed until you see how much they enrich your life.

I grew exceedingly fond of Riccardo’s brother, Matteo, and his girlfriend Margherita.  It was exciting to be there for Margherita’s pregnancy and to watch my new nephew Giacomo grow from newborn to a chubby chuckling 6-month-old.  I also got to know Riccardo’s uncle and aunt, his cousin and cousin’s wife and toddler Arturo (now a little boy), and enjoyed spending holidays and special events with them.

In essence, I was adopted.  This isn’t necessarily the case with all in-laws, so I’m well aware that this relationship is special, and I cherish them all the more for it.  Saying goodbye to Giordana, Matteo, Margherita, and Giacomo was perhaps the hardest part of all.  I will miss them so much.

I’m also going to soon have the pleasure of the presence of my sister Narisa and nephew–even more exciting!

I’ve always had good friends wherever I’ve gone, but never before had I had such a large network of such good friends.  Friends made that first evening at Giulio’s house and thereafter.  The architect crowd.  Riccardo’s high school friends, Davide and Umberto and Stefano and Elisa, whom I became so fond of these past two years.  Co-workers from Anglo American, both new ones and old ones.  Even students–one of my last classes, an upper-intermediate one, was made up of four girls with whom I had so much fun with that I’m sure they could have become good friends had I stayed longer.

In a way, that’s the saddest part of all–leaving friends whom you’re sure you would have become even closer to over time.

On Monday night I had a lovely evening with some co-workers from Anglo American.  And on Tuesday night there was a party at Giulio’s house, where it all began.  It’s too bad that I was hardly able to enjoy it for the knots in my stomach and the lump in my throat (part of which may have been anxiety for the upcoming “Cat on a Plane!” adventure).  But it was so nice to see everyone one last time, to hug them goodbye and to simply realize that they’re there.

1400 days ago, nearly to the day, a new friend-acquaintance of mine said that he was invited by a Bolognese guy he barely knew to a dinner party of his friend way out in the countryside, and did we want to come along?  We were highly skeptical, and not particularly hungry.  But I said, “You know, I bet if we go, we’ll be really glad we did.”

And how.

I couldn’t be more excited to reunite with all of my Stateside friends again.  Some of these friends are ones I’ve stayed in touch with and will be able to see again on a regular basis.  Soon I’ll be reuniting also with Thea, Natalie, and Emily in DC–exciting event!  My extended stay in Maryland will also mean I’ll get to touch base with high school friends whom I haven’t seen for years.  And a recent post on Facebook clued me in that several of my Middlebury friends whom I’ve been out of touch with are living in New York City, and I’m thrilled at the prospect of being able to hang out with them again soon. It’s times like those that make you realize how valuable Facebook is–it makes getting back in touch effortless and natural.  I love making new friends, but reconnecting with old ones is in many ways even better.

I had five classes that year–Intermediate, Upper Intermediate, Pre-Advanced, Advanced, and Elementary.  I learned to teach with those classes.  Sometimes I had no idea what I was talking about (when do you say “I will” and when do you say “I’m going to” anyway?), but together we figured it out.  They were splendid, those students, and I learned a lot with them.  I was sad to say goodbye when I changed schools.

But my second year I was to learn that students are great everywhere.  I love teaching Italians.  They’re just so game for anything you throw at them.  They’re not particularly proud or inhibited, they don’t mind making mistakes (not too much), and they love asking questions.

Now I’m more of a mountain man trail guide when it comes to teaching English (Adam and Eric, on the other hand, are Cherokee trackers), but I still learn so much from my students.  I’ve gotten to know students of all ages from all walks of life.  I’ve had more doctors, lawyers, students, engineers, and businesspeople to count, but also factory workers, nurses, musicians, artists, actors, industrial chemists, waiters, bartenders, haircutters, directors, fashion designers, university professors.  I’ve had students from nearly every region in Italy (just missing Piedmont, Liguria, and Val d’Aosta!), but I’ve also had a lot of Bolognese students.  It’s been a rare opportunity to get to know a cross-section of Bologna’s population, both natives and transplants alike.

Some I’ve befriended, some I would only faintly recognize when we passed on the streets.  But each student, each class has made a mark on me.  I will truly miss them all so much.

I have come to love teaching more than I had ever expected.  But I never intended to make a career out of teaching English.  There are so many other things I want to try my hand at doing, and some of these things I might not even know about yet.  But here, there is very little for me to do but to be an English teacher.

People ask why we’re moving to the States, and sometimes I have trouble remembering why, but the bottom line is this.  Italy, for now, doesn’t have much in the way of opportunity.  Unemployment for young people is sky high, and not just because of the recession.  Meritocracy here is strangled at best; in some fields it is near non-existent.  In Riccardo’s field there are far too many architects and draftspeople and very little real architectural work available, as most of Italy resists architectural innovation.  The economy is leaching down the toilet, and has been for years, with no sign of recovery.  In America things are a bit grim, but it’s the trough of a swinging pendulum.  Here it’s been slow and steady erosion.

America is still the land of opportunity, and that’s why we’re going.

It’s been a tradition of Riccardo’s and mine in the last two years to have Saturday and sometimes Sunday lunch at his mother’s house.  I finish my Saturday morning class in Casalecchio at 12:15, and we go to his mom’s house nearby immediately after.

Some people pay serious money for a decent Italian lunch.  I got it nearly weekly as a matter of fact.  Tortellini al brodo, lasagne verdi, tagliatelle al ragù, cotoletta, polpette, polenta al ragù, passatelli–I could go on.  Long story short, she is a wonderful cook, a lovely hostess, and one of my favorite people.

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Brunch.  I miss brunch.  I have problems eating too much simple sugar for breakfast (thanks, genetic hypoglycemia), and unfortunately the typical Italian breakfast is coffee and a pastry.  It’s delicious, but it sends me into a seriously grumpy and kooky state by mid-morning.  I’m looking forward to egg sandwiches on the menu again, and to people not considering me strange for wanting a little protein for breakfast.  Also, a true Sunday brunch is a wonderful, particularly American tradition.  If there were ever an aspect of truly American cuisine, brunch would be it, and well worthy of its place amongst the culinary traditions of the world.

In order in which they occur to me:

- L’Infedele: One of my absolute favorite bars in Bologna.  It’s tiny, so it can sometimes be hard to find seating, but in the winter it’s cozy inside with long wooden tables, and in the summer there are tables outside in tiny and picturesque Via Gerusalemme, just off Piazza Santo Stefano.  And it has really good prices per bottle for its location.

- Celtic Druid: My favorite pub, and the most “authentic” one according to at least one English co-worker and one Irish co-worker, as it’s tiny, dark, and cozy.  Perfect place for a pint in the winter.  It also keeps its music volume to a minimum, something which I appreciate greatly in any bar.

- La Cirenaica: The neighborhood just behind my apartment!  I haven’t spent enough time in it because it’s in the opposite direction from the city center, so I rarely pass through.  But it’s a lovely little neighborhood, with tall trees shading the streets and butcher shops, bakeries, cafes with old men sitting outside sipping their grappas, and a charming little covered market that I’ve almost never been to.  Sigh.  There’s also a big block of social housing (for low-income families),  which for some reason is designed ten times better than our hideous new development–they’re made up of simple, nice-looking apartment buildings with nice gardens and footpaths beneath, and even a little piazza with glass displays of Etruscan artifacts found there.  If we ever moved back to Bologna, I’d like to move back to that neighborhood (albeit not the social housing as we’d probably be ineligible).

Pizzeria Due Torri: They sell pizza by the the big, hot, aromatic, oily slice at only $1.50 each, and it’s always packed because it’s amazingly delicous.  The salame piccante is best.

Parco Talon: Even though I’ve been there every Saturday for the past two years, as Anglo American’s Casalecchio branch is situated right beside it, I only started exploring it with recently, when Riccardo would bring me lunch after work and we would eat and explore.  It’s gorgeous and enormous–I suppose it doesn’t really even have boundaries, as it melts right into the Apennines beyond.  You can take the low path along the river Reno, or you can take the high path uphill and see the beautiful old crumbling houses that are just begging to be restored.  There’s also an organic community farm there, with goats.  Or you can go even further uphill and arrive at San Luca by the long, twisting trail–an alternative route.

- Cicileo: I haven’t been back very often since I moved away from Via Parigi, but it’s a truly wonderful little bar.  Crazy, kooky decor, really friendly bartenders, and a delectable aperitivo.  Riccardo and I used to get coffee every day after lunch there.

- Queoaka: The first shop was in the Cirenaica behind my house (I think Mom discovered it!) but then another opened just beside Piazza Maggiore, and now there’s a third in San Felice.  It’s a simple little store that sells sandwiches, salads, sushi, soups, and “wok” boxes (little Chinese-style boxes of rice, cous-cous, or the like).  Everything I’ve had there has been delicious–chicken salad sandwiches, Tandoori chicken and pumpkin seeds in rice, barley with pesto, lemon cous-cous.  It uses almost entirely local ingredients.  It was founded by a locally famous chef Marco Fadiga, who has his own bistrot in Via Rialto and has very specific ideas about design and cuisine.  You can have the food delivered, take it away with you, or eat it right there (they have little microwaves to heat things up if you choose).  I thought Queoaka was some South American, possibly Incan, word, but it turns out it’s just Bolognese–”que o a ca’” (here or at home).

- Stickhouse: Popsicle shop in Via degli Orefici!  I prefer the fruit popsicles–strawberry, melon, red orange, passion fruit–but Riccardo always gets banana dipped in white chocolate.  Delicious.

- Il Geletauro in Via San Vitale and La Funivia in Piazza Cavour: My favorite gelaterie.  Both feature a delectable fior di panna.

- Bar Farini/Sostarbene: The little cafè-bar at the corner of Via Farini, Via Santo Stefano, and Piazza San Giovanni in Monte.  I enjoyed it when it was your classic bare-bones bar with Lorenzo, who was curmudgeonly but kind, and I like it now that the two new guys have spruced it up and made it into a hip, attractive little bar.

- Bar Morandi: The cafè-bar that I discovered when Bar Farini was undergoing its change of management.  Friendly bartenders, good coffee, and they give you a whole glass of sparkling water with your coffee instead of just a shot glass.

- La Tua Piadina: Hole in the wall with the best piadinas made to order.  Best thing to do is to take it to nearby Piazza Santo Stefano and eat it there.

There are so many others, but I’m running out of time (hence no pictures yet) so I’ll move on.

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There is one thing that America has that Italy doesn’t–wilderness.  Pure, simple, wilderness.  There are many areas in Italy that are extremely rural.  There are several national parks where people don’t live.  But as Riccardo pointed out once, it’s nearly impossible to be anywhere in Italy without seeing signs of human civilization–deforested, cultivated fields, at least.  It’s one of the things I love about Italy–the ancient history, the fact that underneath your feet at any given spot are thousands of years of human history.

America has some of the most beautiful wilderness areas in the world, in my opinion, and such a variety.  Of course Yellowstone, Yosemite, and the Grand Canyon come to mind, but there’s also the Shenandoah, the Ozarks, the Green Mountains in Vermont, the great plains and steppes of the west, the deserts and mesas of the southwest…there’s so much wild, raw beauty to be found in every corner.  For me, this is one of the things that’s so incredibly special about America.  I’m looking forward to seeing it, some places for the first time, and some places again but with new eyes.

To begin with, the commute there from my house is splendid.  No rush-hour highways or crowded subways for me–nearly every day for the past few years, I’ve gotten to walk the length of via Zamboni (still a sublime medieval street despite its “punk e bestia” loiterers), beneath the two towers, and through the marvelous Piazza Santo Stefano.  It’s about two kilometers (so I get exercise as well!) and takes twenty minutes.  I want to post a video, or at least of my slideshow, of my walk before I leave.

For another thing, the co-workers are wonderful.  The atmosphere has always been friendly, easy-going, and collaborative.  Our didactic director has always made himself more than available to help out or give advice.  And every year it’s given me the opportunity to meet a variety of interesting expats drawn to Bologna for all their various reasons (though most of them involve an Italian significant other).  Many of them remain good friends to this day.

By every June I’m exhausted and ready to quit, but by September I meet the new teachers, reunite with those from the previous year who have chosen to stick around, and am ready to go again.  This year new co-workers have arrived early, and they seem like so much fun.  I’m sorry that I won’t be able to get to know them better, and I know I’ll miss my friends and co-workers great deal.

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This is another seasonal complaint, but here in Italy, it gets so hot in June.  So.  Hot.  In reality it doesn’t get much hotter than it does on the East Coast, but it sure feels like it because there’s no escape.  Italians tend to be deeply suspicious of air-conditioning and fans.  Fans are sometimes unavoidable, but when I turn on the fan for my benefit while teaching the students frequently request that I turn it off or solely towards me.  Air conditioning, on the other hand, is known to make you sick with pneumonia or bronchitis, or at the very least a sore neck. 

By last summer I was finally getting a little bit used to the heat and making lofty statements about how at least it’s nice to feel seasons instead of just hiding out from them all the time.  Which is true.  But then I spent the summer at home and re-discovered the wonders of sleeping well at night, not having to close the shutters against the sun all day, and not constantly pouring sweat even while sitting.  It was an illuminating experience and re-converted me to my old American ways.

I may not always enjoy the arctic temperatures of certain movie theaters or certain houses (ahem), but I insist that a little bit of air conditioning never hurt anyone and am very much looking forward to escaping this heat.

Crescentine and salumi platter

Crescentine (the Bolognese kind) are a kind of puffy fried dough (made with that omnipresent strutto), often called gnocchi fritti in other zones.  Tigelle (confusingly called crescentinein Modena, their city of origin) are discs of flat bread that are baked in a special pan on a stove.  To find the best kind you have to go to a trattoria outside Bologna in the countryside–my favorite is Le Ganzole in the Apennines between Pieve di Pino and Sasso Marconi.  There, the crescentine and tigelle arrive in big baskets accompanied by platters of salumi–prosciutto crudo, mortadella, pancetta, coppa–along with stracchino or sqacquerone, pickled onions and finger peppers, and pesto Modenese.  Pesto modenese bears almost no resemblence to the pesto genovese

Tigelle

that you’re probably thinking of–it’s a mash of garlic, rosemary, and (of course) lard.  You take any desired combination of the aforementioned ingredients and shove them into crescentine or make sandwiches out of the tigelle.  Repeat until bursting.

For some reason, this culinary tradition has never really made it out of Italy.  I don’t understand why.  It is simple and brilliant.

This might be the thing that breaks my heart the most, gastronomically speaking.  You can make ragù at home.  You can find a lot of the foods I have previously listed.  But crescentine and tigelle are slightly challenging to make (for the tigelle you need a special pan and crescentine require deep frying), the prosciutto crudo is expensive, and the squacquerone is near impossible to find.  Maybe this means that we can open a crescentine-tigelle bar in New York and make a million.  Or maybe it just means that we’ll have to learn how to make them ourselves (and steal a cow to make squacquerone to go with it).

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On the other hand, I do miss bagels.  Bagels have never made it to Italy; I have never been able to locate even one.  They have every other kind of flour product that you can think of, but not bagels.  I miss bagels, particularly when they’re just really good egg bagels toasted lightly and eaten plain,* but I like them as sandwiches too.  I’m particularly looking forward to New York in this respect, as I remember the bagels there being a cut above the rest.

(I’ve never been a fan of cream cheese.)

(I bet they’d be good with stracchino.  Just saying.)