Notes from Bologna.

I’ve taken a break. From writing and recording. I’ll feel sorry for not having words and pictures, I know, it will be so hard, remembering how the streets of Bologna looked like the first days in which I had to double check at every corner that I was walking in the right direction. But living those same moments is more important, I guess.
It’s a month and a half since I’m here. Days keep losing themselves, somewhere, but I don’t know where. I planned to have a night out with some schoolmates, but we already came back home after 3 am last night, we and our Neapolitan taxi driver. So instead I’m home, drinking hot tea from my Badass Feminist mug and finishing a book I have to read for class. I’m also planning a hypothetical trip to London for the LIMUN next February with M. and P. I miss the city. And the idea that I will be in the UK in less than a year does not win over my desire to flight as soon as I can. It actually feeds it.
It’s a month and a half since I’m here and I’m doing more than what I expected, but still, it doesn’t seem enough. Maybe I am not fair with myself. I need time to adjust, to find my rhythm. 

I find so hard, living in the present. To not wonder and worry about what will happen next. To plan and feel exited and feel guilty. 

Few stupid rhymes by a bored student

Throwback to high school
and it's not Thursday yet.
I feel treated as a mule,
around other mules I just met.

She is speaking, speaking, speaking,
but nothing is actually said.
Outside it's still raining,
but it's not something that I dread.

My hopes where high above the sky,
too high for my own good.
I'd prefer to be a simple passer-by,
oh, yes, how much I would!

List for Bologna

Toothpaste, brush, deodorant. 
Three gray skirts. Two pairs of jeans (blue and black.
Shirts: the black one, the white one, the one with the dogs, the jeans one, the one with the pink roses I haven't wore yet.
The new pink shirts with the leopards, the white and black cotton ones, the white and black short sleeves ones. 
The black, the mustard yellow and the cherry red shoes, the old white converse.
Two pairs of sheets for all the hours I’ll spend on my bed with the computer. 
Enough books to travel on busses and trains without having to talk to strangers.
The gray coat for when it is cold, the trench I brought on sale for when it rains, the denim jacket for when the spring will be back.
Earphones to watch films until late night with the head on the pillow. Headphones to cut out all the voices while walking. 
Bathrobe and towels. 
Shampoo, soap, conditioner. Shavers for when I’ll feel like shaving.
A couple of cameras and more films then the ones I could use, especially in the first weeks when I won’t be comfortable in taking photos of people I don’t know well enough. 
My Kanken backpack, the black bag, the red pocket, the teal and black bag my mother hates. A couple of cloth ones for the grocery.
My perfume.

The taste of defeat

I wake up with a taste of defeat in my mouth as during the night my body has given up from the inside and then do you still wonder why as a child I never wanted to go to bed and denied that my eyes were almost closed and my breath was getting
s l o w e r
c  a  l  m  e  r
d   e   a   p   e   r
and why I starred at my computer until two three four in the morning now, until my eyes burn and my body is numbed and I simply cannot stand being conscious not even a minute longer.
I pretended of being afraid of the dark because that's waht you are suppose to be afraid of, but I didn't know that I will have been for real, not much later. Dark means night means sleeping means waking up means a new day. And the new day scares the hell out of me. More than spiders and car crashes and loneliness and bad grammar and salespersons.


When things get hard and time starts running faster and faster, the first activity that I sacrifice is writing. I still do it, in my head. Behind the wheel, in the shower, the usual. I compose letters and poetries that will never see light. Please, a minute of silence for all those pretentious posts you won’t ever read.

What did happen in the last weeks?

Frida is taller and stronger and I love her.
My grandma had a surgery and she is getting better.
My best friend couldn’t come visit as planned and it broke my heart (but she had all the reasons to do so).
I started my master’s degree few days ago and I moved to Bologna. Kind of. I have an apartment and I have two housemates, but no gas nor electricity at the moment.

I will write again? Maybe. 

A Dutch Travel Diary #4

10 am 7.19.15

I visited the van Gogh Museum yesterday. It has been beautiful and sad, looking right into van Gogh's self-portrait's eyes tears arrived. But I didn't let them go. You are not allowed to take photos inside, and I was by myself anyway, so I took a couple of reflection selfies outside, at the entrance and on the stairs. A proof that I've existed here too.
Walking back towards the city center, I felt a little as Alice in Wonderland herself, when I encountered an almost invisible, tiny dirt road, clutched between rows of tall buildings, and two old men playing quite big chess. Obviously I didn't understand a word of what they were saying, but from the tone and the chuckles of the two lines-up that were supporting each of them, it was pretty clear that they were making fun of their opponent.
I have to leave the hostel in about an hour. And then my Utrecht Summer School experience will start.

A Dutch Travel Diary #3

2 am 7.18.15

Fallen asleep seems pretty impossible tonight. So I think about all the people I spoke with in the last couple of days. I expected this first part of the travel to be quite lonely, and in fact it was, but I spoke more than my predictions. There were the two Dutch girls sitting beside me on the plain, flying back home after a holiday in Italy, blond hair, long legs, cappuccino-tanned skin. There was the guy who kept telling me "I know Spanish, I know Spanish pretty welL", as if Italian and Spanish were the same. the one who asked me, in Dutch, if the next stop was the train station's one, and when I replied, in my bad bad Dutch, I don't know, started talking very just until he realized, through the terrified look in my eyes I guess, that I don't speak Dutch, few simple words a part. The Singaporean woman in the hostel, who came with her daughter who is gonna study here for the summer and had never left alone her country before. And the old man in Amsterdam who stopped in the middle of the river of people to ask if I was lost. In fact I was, but that's ok I told him, that's how I like it. Then he wanted to know where I am from and when I said Italy "you know Gigliola Cinquetti? She won the Eurovision." Of course, with Non ho l'età. "Non ho l'età, non ho l'età..." he sung walking away.