La Rossa

Bologna has three nicknames:

• La Dotta - the learned, as it's home to the "oldest" university in the world (debatable, but let's go with it)
• La Grassa - the fat, due to the Emilian cuisine: rich in butter and absolutely wonderful
• La Rossa - the red, said to be a reference to the color of the city, but there are naturally tongue-in-cheek implications around her politics

I've never really understood the latter from the physical sense - Bologna is red, but it's also tangerine and rose and salmon and cantaloupe. I tried to search for the red this trip with little success, but enjoyed the thrill of the hunt.

Un po' d'Africa in giardino.

“Cerco un po’ d’Africa in giardino
Tra l’oleandro e il baobab”

— Paolo Conte & Vito Pallavicini, "Azzurro"

(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.