On an unseasonably hot spring day last year, I found myself in a large, empty room holding the hand of an elderly Italian man as he gently took biometric scans of my palm, fingers and thumb. This moment was the thrilling culmination of four months of bureaucracy, and despite the waiting area in the immigration office being out in the midday sun and the fact that my bank balance was in an instant €200 lower, there was no doubt in my mind that it was all worth it; I had my visa.
I spent last year studying abroad in Bologna, which, for those of you who don’t know, is an Edinburgh-sized city in northern Italy. It is famous as much for its food (Parmigiano and prosciutto were invented nearby) as it is for its communism (chastising fascists was practically invented here, too). The university, the oldest in Europe, was founded in 1088 and is the lifeblood of the city, fuelling its heady atmosphere of drinking, politicking, and eating.
On nights out (in essence, most nights), its vicoli are jam-packed with students clutching €4 Aperol Spritzes and fried pizza dough (crescentine), while its mild climate means that the city lends itself perfectly to lazy afternoons, long nights, tanned skin, and endless lunchtime conversations.
It may seem like this is an Eat, Pray, Love-style portrait of my time in Italy, and while life in a foreign city can be challenging at times (my flat consisted of me, a Chinese opera singer who practised at all hours of the night, an impossibly tall German who ate almost exclusively sausages and potatoes, and an Australian whose mother lectured me on the perils of homeless people upon our first meeting), for some reason, these things barely bothered me.
Yes, the university was shambolic, yes, the bureaucracy was maddening, and yes, I missed my friends here in Edinburgh, but how can you possibly top a £4,000 government grant, sun, and cheap meals out? Beware, however, that the one great risk you run is becoming insufferable upon your return…
Photo by Maria Bobrova on Unsplash