Blethering in Bologna

Scooters in Italy

The first thing I have noticed is that Bologna is not like Oak Bay. I mentioned this to Leslie and she says that I have keen powers of observation and not to bother her anymore.

The basal metabolic rate of Bologna is much higher than Victoria’s. In fact, Italian paramedics would probably declare Victoria cold but not quite dead. Defibrillator paddles would be quickly slapped on Victoria and energy would be applied in the hopes to revive the youngster. A rapid transfer to Italy’s Intensive Care would follow.

Canadians would be alerted that we should expect the worst but Italian doctors would try their best. Intravenous lines would be thrust into Victoria’s limp extremities with a bolus of Adrenaline, Fashion Sense and Fearlessness. Her Tilley hat, Gortex and practical shoes would be discarded as unrecognizable objects, not necessary for life. Victoria would pull through but she would never be the same again. On discharge she would swivel out to the parking lot in high heels, hop on a scooter and rocket off.

The best and worst features of Bologna are its porticoes, the covered sidewalks. They provide shelter from the scorching sun, now about 35C on average. They also sheltered us from the torrents of daily rain that were present when we first arrived. The thousands of scooters which ply through Bologna streets occasionally take to the sidewalks and dodge through the pedestrians but that isn’t the problem. Unfortunately the porticoes also have an acoustical magnification property. This dials up the already noisy steeds to the upper reaches of human tolerance when a pack of them goes by at breakneck speeds. The scooters tend to show up everywhere – in the piazzas, going the wrong way on a one way street and often sailing through red lights. Easing the pain is the fact that 80% of them are driven by stylish young women wearing miniskirts. Their helmet colour and sunglasses often match their outfits. I have even seen lipstick and helmets of a matching colour. I repeat, this is not Oak Bay.

Bologna has the oldest university in Europe and its buildings are spread throughout one section of the city. The porticoes originally provided a cool place for intellectuals to stroll and think, something we don’t do much of in modern life anymore. I offer this blog as proof.

If Cavalieri, a Bolognese scientist and colleague of Galileo’s, could have time travelled to 2008, he would have been puzzled as to how these two-wheeled, horseless buggies can go so fast in all directions yet never seem to collide with each other. This may have delayed his and Galileo’s work on the solar system as they pondered the puzzles of scooters. The miniskirts would have also provided a significant distraction for them. This would have been a good thing as they were working on the thesis that the sun was central in the universe. Unfortunately, this conflicted with Papal doctrine at the time and Galileo spent the later years of his life under house arrest as a result.

The number of near misses between pedestrians, motorists, scooters and cyclists is amazing. However, after spending nearly two months, I’ve noticed that the Bolognese have a different perception and tolerance of space. We Canadians will protect our space, even to the extreme degree of road rage. In Bologna, they share space much more intimately. A Canadian “road rager” would have a full time job here stressing and shouting his way around town. The Bolognese psychological scaffolding is erected differently from ours.

They have an unfailing belief that you won’t be hit by the vehicle closing fast behind you. I am out there cycling almost every day, leaving the busy historical center for the hills around Bologna. I am not sure as to the Papal position on this issue is but I try to believe I won’t get hit, ”Lordy, I believe, I believe! “

I have seen grandmothers, businessmen and fashionable women on bicycles weave their way alertly through a busy intersection, often passing within inches of scooters, buses and cars, without flinching. The risk levels they assume would have the average Canadian running for cover.

The intimacy of space also extends to walking. Leslie and I were developing an inferiority complex, thinking that nobody gives way for us as we walk. But we realized that the same sensibility on the road applies to the sidewalk. The pedestrians do not give way easily but will budge ever so slightly. They just wait until the last possible microsecond to move. It’s not really a visible motion but a slight shift of weight, much like a boxer slipping a punch. There can be some machismo involved, not wanting to yield lest this reveal a weakness. A couple of polite Canadese like ourselves make little progress. In the passagietta or evening stroll, we apologise and give way constantly, and, as a result, throw off the subtle moves of passersby. A ripple passes through the crowd like a wake off a boat as we make our way.

The porticoes also seem to magnify the amount of people on the sidewalks, like a corral fence concentrating cattle. The passagietta participants are branded with Gucci, Dolce & Gabbana, Prada and knock-offs. There are fashion themes but one doesn’t seem to dominate. The busines men have an eye for style often with a dramatic touch in their eyeglasses.

The women emphasize colour and femininity. They wear impossibly high heels with the ease of a pair of sneakers. Leslie and I were slacked-jawed as we saw one woman run at a full speed sprint for a bus with not the slightest wobble. We cringed expecting the worse, a horrible high speed accident with heels and skid marks everywhere. Predictably, no one else raised an eyebrow and I think, at one point, she actually passed the bus.

The Bolognese remove and put on layers of clothes out of proportion to the slight fluctuations in temperature. Initially, they clung to long pants, jackets and even down vests during the rains we experienced even though it was quite warm at times. As the temperature nudged a bit higher, layers were abandoned with tremendous rapidity. Middle aged men and women in short- shorts were spotted like the last breeding pairs of an otherwise thought extinct species. According to my observations, I have extrapolated the data and calculated that if the temperature ever hits 37C, everyone will be nude. I plan on watching this phenomenon as a scientific observer in Piazza Magiorre if a hotter spell is forecast. I mentioned this to Leslie and she said “Alora, I thought I said not to bother me anymore!”

Arrivederci, ciao!
Pier Francisco

Inglese in Bologna

The following blog contains real or imagined collections of thoughts structured into sentences (hopefully) describing events that may or may not have happened to individuals that may or may not resemble The Warnocks. If any part of the blog resembles someone or some place you know, this happened completely by accident and is not meant to offend any party. This blog does not reflect the opinions of management i.e. Leslie.

Me Tarzan, she Jane. No, Tarzan and Jane, no Africa. We Canadese. No, Tarzan and Jane have no little Tarzans e Janes. Tarzan e Jane fly to aeroporto from Canadese. I gesture with my hand a perfect arc meant to clarify our flight from Victoria to Europe. This seems to confuse them even more.

Tarzan is who I feel like when I try to speak in Italian. A sentence containing all the correct elements is impossible. I feel like I have been raised by apes and suddenly plucked from the jungle and dropped into Bologna as some sort of experiment. Unfortunately, I don’t have Tarzan's confidence, only his lack of command of sentence structure. The thought is there, it just cannot be transferred to my tongue, which should waggle automatically as it does in Victoria and convey the appropriate words to the recipient. Is this what a stroke patient with aphasia feels like?

Leslie and I wander around Bologna, occasionally meeting someone with as little English as we have Italian. The result cannot be called a conversation...more like a phone company trying to explain the hieroglyphics of their unintelligible bill to a frustrated customer. We usually say “goodbye, ciao” to each other, neither party knowing who said what to whom.

Unlike Florence or Rome, you rarely hear English being spoken on the streets of Bologna. This is what we wanted and now we have it. We had hoped the lack of English would push us into the challenge of starting to learn some Italian. We thought this might be fun.

We enquired at several different language companies and settled on a small family run firm called Madrelingua. It is owned by a couple - Daniel is English and Stefania is an Italian from Rimini on the Adriatic coast. Leslie told me I had to take a skill test assessing my level of Italian before we began lessons. I try to tell her this is absurd as other than mamma mia, alora, grazie, prego and scuzi the vessel is empty, bone dry, finito, no Italiano. Fortunately, Stefania agreed and spared me the embarrassment of handing in a blank sheet of paper, something I hadn’t done since an exam in grade 12 quadratic equations that I had not studied for.

One of the rules of the school is to speak as much Italian as possible and preferably no English. This basically means I cannot talk at school. I just stand there in my loin cloth, embarrassed, sounding like Tarzan. Now, I have never been a man of many words but with no outlet other than Leslie, the English is starting to build up. The pressure must be relieved before spontaneous conversation occurs due to excessive verbiage containment ( E.V.C.). Talking to yourself in Canada is considered to be pathological and I am afraid as it is impossible to tell what will come out should my EVC reach a critical level in Bologna.

The Italian language can be beautiful although not as smooth and as sexy as French. It has an expressive rhythm and melody. I want to soar and sing much like Pavarotti as I express myself. I am disappointed to find out in class that instead of soaring, I squeak. Pavarotti never squeaked.

It didn’t take me long to figure out that somebody who tries to teach me Italian must know English. Therefore, the teachers have some English conversations stored up somewhere inside of them. The only problem is that I am paying them a lot of money not to speak English to me.
I start to plot ways to get at the English in them. The teachers are smarter then I think they are. I try to nudge a conversation slowly but surely toward English. I try telling them an “amusing anecdote that I have to explain in English”. Lucia, our teacher, doesn’t laugh. She just says “No! Back to Italia!” This isn’t as fun as I thought it would be.

For people who have studied languages, it may not be a surprise that whoever made the rules decided there should be masculine and feminine nouns. Not only that, but their sexuality affects what precedes and follows in sentence. This was a shock to me and school was getting really confusing. I had no idea that words would eye each other longingly and then want to be rearranged in a sexually appropriate manner. I just wish they would do it themselves without needing my help.

I asked Lucia if there are any homosexual or bisexual words. Again, Lucia didn’t laugh. When I took my first language lessons as a two year old, my mother didn’t tell me about the birds and bees of language. Puberty was difficult the first time through, now it seems like here we go again, alora! I thought I had learned my lessons well. I am maschile and Leslie is femminile, end of discussion.

During class, I find myself staring out the window, dreaming of quadratic equations and the fast approaching happy hour, not a dangling participle in sight. I refocus on Jane (Leslie) to see her sitting bolt upright and focused with her usual enthusiastic expression. I try refocusing again and concentrate on finding my inner Italiano. I know he’s in there somewhere. We are having so much fun.

Yours truly,
Pier Francisco Warnocko

Blogging From Bologna

Buongiorno from Bologna, Italy!

Ok, a few words of warning...this is my first blog so I'm not sure how things will turn out. Will I remember to save it? Will I ever find it again? Will photos be uploaded properly? Labelled? Added where I want them to go? Jane and Rod, I hope I'm able to channel your knowledge! Fingers crossed, here goes! And thanks for reading! Leslie

David and I are well and having fun! We have been in Bologna since the end of May and are here until mid-July when we drive to Nice, France for five weeks.

So, what have we been up to? Well, great times visiting family and friends, lots of amazing sights, delicious food and wine and some hilarious language mix ups.

As this is our first posting (and thanks for your gentle...and not so gentle...nudges to get the damn blog going!), we'll give a quick summary of what we've done so far. We then hope to post more regularly!

We left Canada on March 31, flying into Gatwick, London then onto Manchester. It was the weekend of the huge snafu at Heathrow Airport, where over 20,000 bags went astray! We managed to avoid all that by choosing the right airport, one of the many examples of our travel angels looking out for us.

We decided to spend our first night at the airport hotel in Manchester to try and catch up on our sleep, rather than subject our friend to our sleep-deprived stupours. Struggling to stay awake until 9 pm, we finally fell into bed, not bothering to set the alarm. Fifteen hours later, we awoke dazed and confused! Apologizing profusely to the front desk for missing the check out time, we went around the hotel roundabout a few times before figuring out where we were going. We spent our first few days in Bolton, near Manchester, visiting Kathy, a lively 91 year old family friend.

We then headed up to Glasgow...in sleet and snow. Of course, we Canadians were blamed for the weather! David grew up in Glasgow as a teenager, so at least HE was able to understand people! Most of the time, I didn't have a clue! We stayed with David's Aunt Betty and had a lot of laughs with her and her friend, Pete.

After Glasgow, we took the ferry to Dunoon to stay with Neil and Rhona, David's cousin and his wife. More laughs and much wine. (Not that there is any relation between the two.) We were back in the land of dogs as Neil and Rhona have Molly, who looks a lot like Saturn. David's Aunt Margaret, Neil's mom, was in fine form. She turns 80 in November and is throwing herself a ceilidh. If we're still in Europe, in the land of 10 euro flights, we'll be there!

David holding up Lamont Castle

We flew from Glasgow to Barcelona and then caught a train to Servian, France. We stayed in Servian for two weeks, a small hilltop town with about 3500 residents. I dusted off my high school French from over 25 years ago and we managed fairly well. I did have one major glitch though...when asking a local fellow where he was born, I either asked him if he had a nose or if he was nude! (note to self...clarify glitch with Denise D).

Servian seen from the vineyards.

Swan's House in France, our home in Servian.

We explored the area by bike and bus. David linked up with a local fellow, Frances, (Frances of the nude nose) and they had some great bikes rides in the mountains. I ran on the paths beside the vineyards, enjoying the views and wishing mightily that my running buddies were there to share the views and the post-run coffees and croissants. Kirsten, thanks for your warning about the pastries...you were right! They ARE scrumptious!

Servian has a market in its town square three times a week. As we cooked at the house, we bought most of our food at the markets, becoming addicted to tapenade, baguettes and the cheeses. Oh, and local wine too.

After Servian, we flew to Sicily, the Italian island off of the country's toe. For two weeks, we stayed in Taormina, a fancy schmancy resort town hugging the coastline in the shadow of Mount Etna. And yes, Etna suffered a small eruption while we were there.

Taormina was definitely a popular destination for Italians. We enjoyed watching well-dressed, well-coiffed, well-jewelled and well-heeled people stroll and strut during the passegiata, the lovely Italian custom of an evening stroll.

Leslie and David shopping at the market in Catania, Sicily.


Taormina's Greek Theatre with Mt. Etna in background on right behind clouds and ash!


A university friend, Lisa Bahan, joined us in Taormina for a week. A stage of the Giro d'Italia, Italy's version of the Tour de France, came through town and it was incredible to see it. The huge number of vehicles involved in the event was astounding! Sponsor cars, team cars for people, team cars for equipment, police escorts, ambulances, media cars, VIP vehicles and event organizer cars...they all took about 90 minutes to hurtle past us. And then the racers went by in a 90 second, noisy blur!

Lisa and David enjoying the cafe life and discussing the finer points of espresso.

Leslie at the Greek Theatre in Taormina.


When David left town to do his own version of the Giro, Lisa and I were often found comparing gelati flavours and discussing the merits of Sicilian wines. The three of us then rented a car to drive up to Bologna for a few days before we parted ways. Ciao and grazie, Lisa!


David and I continued by train to Nice, France for five days for the Monaco Formula 1 Grand Prix. Many of you know that David is a HUGE F1 fan and the Monaco event is the jewel in the F1 crown. Set in the streets of Monte Carlo, with the glittering blue of the Mediterranean Sea on one side and the Grimaldi castle perched on other, the race is quite an event. It was fun to people watch, yacht watch and absorb the energy of the masses.

Fashionista Leslie in Monte Carlo. In Nice

Flowers in the street of Old Nice.

Roller blading along the Nice waterfront, trying to minimize the effects of the delicious French food!

After Nice, we settled into life in Bologna. We chose this northern Italian city as the area is known for its incredible food and wine (lasagne, Parma ham, Parmesan cheese, tortellini, balsamic vinegar...even Italians swoon over the food from here!), it's the middle of a train transportation hub so easy access to Florence (55 min), Milan and Venice and it isn't too well known to tourists. This walled city also has the oldest university in Europe. For John Grisham fans, his book, The Broker, is set here.

Asinelli and Garisenda Towers, Bologna








Bologna is also famous for its porticoes, miles of covered sidewalks that provide shelter from rain, sun and snow. Thank goodness for the porticoes! When we first arrived, they sheltered us from the most rain that the area has experienced in 200 years! "Rain" doesn't quite capture the phenomenon. Deluge, downpour, torrents do. Our green plastic ponchos, although not quite the Dolce & Gabbana image we had hoped for, helped somewhat. Now, the porticoes are welcome protection from the searing sun.


There is a 3.5 km portico that leads from one of the ancient city gates up the hill to the Madonna di San Luca Basilica. It's a great place to run as it's scenic and sheltered.






Portico leading up to the San Luca Basilica.











We started Italian lessons as we felt our brains needed a workout too. And, gasp, we have homework! We have quickly learned that we need to do the homework BEFORE the wine.


I am a member of a wonderful book club in Victoria. (David calls us a wine club with a book problem. And his point is?) The first international book club meeting was held in Florence with Donna and Andy Carswell. David and I met up with them for a great afternoon. I think the only thing we read was a menu but we certainly lived up to the wine club reputation!

The first international Book Club meeting, Florence, Italy.

David and Leslie (gripping tightly) on top of the dome of Florence's duomo.

David descending the dome.

David and David, Florence.













So, this first entry is a long one but we wanted to bring you up to date. Although we have our laptop with us, some places we stay in do not have internet access (quelle horreur!) so we try to get to an internet cafe every few days. We love getting news from home.


Ciao!
Leslie and David









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