“Cerco un po’ d’Africa in giardino
Tra l’oleandro e il baobab”
(I'm looking for a bit of Africa in the garden, between the oleander and the baobab.)
They say you can't go home again, and – maybe – they're right. I'm finishing the last of a three day stint (to be fair, 36 hours or so) in Bologna, an 8 minute walk from where I lived ten years ago. There are waves of nostalgia, a million familiar sights, an unshakeable feeling of the unceasing march of time, and a song in my heart so strong I feel ready to burst. This city made my life so much richer, and I will forever be grateful for the gifts it gave.
There is, however, something to be said for no longer being on a student budget.
The apartment has one of those sun-drenched, terra cotta wonderland terraces that you only hear about, but I seem to have found. Being nestled in the heart of the university district, you can hear opera singers warming up, piano lessons in flight, and the constant warm hum of student conversation. It's a little slice of heaven and respite in the ever churning energy of this gorgeous city, and I am beyond loath to leave it behind.
