There's an inverse European relationship with the urgency that you need to pay your bill and the speed at which you get said bill. A glass of Prosecco seemed civilized at the time, a quick bubbly before boarding the train to Bologna. Once we were served we were deceased, the mob scene at the food counter ensured patience would be met by the invisible hand, fingers spread. Precious minutes ticked down as anxiety grew, 5 minutes until our train leaves, head-nod acknowledgement that we would get our bill next, 4 minutes until our train leaves, 3 minutes until our train leaves, IL CONTO PER FAVORE, 2 minutes until our train leaves, perhaps our only full-booked chance at getting out of Venice today, keeping the middle fingers holstered, finally we paid and bolted to the very last car on track 8.
Once again, silence. Couples under travel pressure have three ways to handle it - laugh it off (never happens), turn against one another (far too common), or put headphones in and dive deep into respectful distance - knowing that time away from that stressbomb fading into the horizon will bring us back to us.
Some people travel with an exhausting list of must-sees, pressured by friends (OH YOU JUST HAVE TO SEE THIS OR YOU NEVER REALLY WENT), pressured by fomo, pressured by the likelihood that you will never re-visit a city in your life. I actively shun this sort of tourism - eventually the rapid-fire museums will bleed and blur, mimicry of friends and family and Anthony Bourdain are great ways to find your vibes up until the point of fully following someone else's moment, sacred moments that I want to claim and stretch as long as possible, of too much wine and ample people watching and giving ourselves permission to move through time like you would back home.
I wanted something not-guidebook between Venice and Rome, and even though Florence is the typical third I needed ample oxygen while spending 3 weeks above 20,000 feet. Bologna seemed perfect for breathing, and we were delighted to be let out of our taxi in the city square surrounded by street art and punk hair and young Italian energy. Our flat was dead center and top floor, the private balcony a perfect place to sip wine in the evenings, the terror stairs leading up to the loft bed were wooden shelves at a 15˚ incline and a Hitchcockian nightmare for sleepwalkers, frequent WCers, and boozers alike. We opted instead to spend our nights on the sofa bed, paying far too much money for the all-too-familiar metal bar in your back slumber.
Bologna couldn't have been better - outstanding food of both the humane and inhumane varieties (pizza-pasta-pizza-pasta-pizza-pasta), watching the rush hour fashion show while we sit at our judges' table with an Aperol Spritz in hand, the random record store with the squatters' rights propaganda in the window, all of it embraced by a wall twenty feet tall and sprinkled with towers four stories high. When I picture my parallel life in Italy, it's all-too-easy to see the sun rising above Bologna, a young new wave robot bee puking on the side of the oldest college in Europe after a pizza-pasta-discoteca-birra bender.
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