Still breathing.

Hi again . . . this time from Bologna!

I made it here safely, with everything intact (well, at least the airline found my suitcases after it lost them). Bologna is a beautiful city: lots of cobblestones, old buildings, and fashionable people. It's in a valley, which means that there are big dark green hills on each side and deep pink sunsets at night. And, because of the big university, this place is literally full of students. Cambridge can't compete. About half the city is sort of like the NYU area - it's not technically a campus, but everyone you see there is somehow connected to the school.

Before leaving I read that Bologna is called the "red city" because the buildings are all made out of reddish stone (true) and because of its political history. And, after five days, this has to be the most liberal city I've ever seen. There are signs in the elevators telling you to take the stairs; everyone rides a bike (which you can rent for free from the city center); in much of the city center, only buses are allowed; every morning I see a new protest (Darfur, Iraq, workers' rights) being set up; at work, people grow potted plants in the stairwells of my office building. An added bonus is the cooperative where I work - because it runs a series of supermarkets, and my office-mate is in charge of dairy products, there's a huge fridge in the corner that's full of yogurt, tiramisu, and other yummy things - just help yourself (actually, as I write this, I'm eating tiramisu out of a plastic cup). My mouth dropped when I saw it. Something like that could make anyone love his or her job.

I've also had the fortune of meeting a translator here, named Lara, who has taken me under her wing a bit over the past few days. On Monday I went to her parents' 40th wedding anniversary party, which was an adventure. Lots of eating and toasting of the happy couple! Her whole extended family was extremely warm and welcoming, and fascinated by my height (as is everyone else here). Lara's cousin, Giusi, is 8 and 9/10 months pregnant with a boy, and this resulted in a long conversation about gender behavior in children (Lara and Giusi think girls are better older siblings, I remembered attempts to flush Rosa down the toilet and wasn't so sure).

This morning, I got my first on-site taste of Italian bureaucracy. As a foreigner, I have to have both a visa and a residency permit in order to live in Italy for more than 3 months. This morning I went to the Questura, the police division that does all the immigration stuff, at 8 am and waited in line with lots of impatient non-Italians for an hour and a half. And wow - that office was like a scene in a childrens' book . . . Or a cartoon. Stacks of papers to the ceiling, people yelling (both Questura agents and waiting people, since there's a huge slab of thick glass that cuts the room in half and makes it difficult to hear), babies running around crying (lots and lots of babies, because immigrant parents have to register their Italian-born children there). Naturally, since the office deals with foreigners, none of the agents speak anything but Italian, and nobody in line speaks enough Italian to communicate what they need. For about half an hour I stood behind an unfortunate Bangladeshi couple as they tried to register their newborn twins as Italian citizens. The father handed his documents through the window, the agent yelled through the glass that they were the wrong birth certificates, the twins started crying in their enormous stroller, which the mother started to roll back and forth in order to calm them down. In such a crowded room, a moving stroller can do some damage. Anyway, the whole cycle was repeated four or five times until the poor couple dragged themselves out of there to get the rest of the papers they needed. Needless to say, by the time I got to the head of the line I seriously doubted that my application would be accepted. And . . . it wasn't! Next week I'll experience the whole thing again.

Work so far hasn't been very work-related. Lots of introductions. Everyone wants to know if I have any Italian heritage, and when I say I have a grandfather from the Abruzzo, it's like a revelation. Today a man whom I barely remember meeting started telling me all kinds of facts about "my region" - there's a regional park for the preservation of bears, the capital is the name for an eagle (Aquila), etc. I gave him a blank look (Massachusetts has a bear park?) until he told me that my region was the Abruzzo. Apparently the whole American thing is forgettable.

Okay - last thing - my Italian. Improving very slowly. It's frustrating that comprehension comes so much more quickly than the ability to speak. But immersion (especially by myself) is a strange thing - for the first time in my life, I have not spoken face-to-face with an American for five days.

Finally: I have a cell phone! Here's the number: (011 39) 348-106-6245. Of course, it's not cheap to call it from the States, and it's not cheap for me to call either (it's about 70 cents a minute). But, feel free to call anytime! My incoming calls are free!

Address forthcoming . . . I hope . . .

I'd love any and all news about the elections. And I miss you all SO much.
Lots of love.