Bored in Bologna

Two strands of white hair appeared in my fringe this morning and I felt like it was a badge of honour (or just plain stress) reserved for those heroines who woke up one day and found their hair streaked with silver (was it X-Men?). Anyhow I kept the less obvious one for good luck.

Now that I had been in Italia for a week, I felt more confident and less self-conscious, enough to drink my morning caffe latte standing among the locals at the bar counter. As always, the train departed on the dot at 10.58am for Bologna, the citta where people supposedly go to eat and drink rather than sightsee. According to my guidebook, I can gorge on Parmesan cheese, prosciutto, Bolognese pasta and regional wines such as the sparkling red Lambrusco, and become "La Grassa" or "The Fat One", a nickname given to the city.

Talking about fat (no I am not quite there yet), I think I had gained back the weight loss at the start of my solo journey or perhaps overly compensated for it. I actually missed my weekly gym routine and yoga class but the daily walking and the 12kg backpack helped to burn off the calories. At Bologna, I spent an hour cursing in the intense and dry heat before I found the 3-star Hotel Cavour (bargained from 50 to 45 euros). A stark contrast from crowded Verona and Venice, Bologna was dead quiet and sluggish (worse than Turin and Milan). I almost fell asleep at the piazza's cafe after a late lunch of flat pressed proscuitto and cheese panino and was tempted to go back for a siesta. But Bologna awaited, no matter how dead it was.

It was surreal how the buildings here were awashed in varying hues of pretty warm red, coral pink, orange, and yellow, just like the book described. There were also many churches and monuments on the tourist map but I just made a token visit to the huge Basilica at Piazza Maggiore, snapped at the 2 towers at the nearby Piazza di Porta Ravegnana and strolled down the main shopping belt.

Hungry for some real company and conversation, I poked my head into an Irish pub which was miraculously open but once my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I realised this was not the usual Irish pub. For starters, the bartenders were yakking among themselves while four of us stared into our pints pathetically. Where's the conviviality?! I downed my beer and popped into the ristorante next door and struck up a conversation with this couple from Wales. They were also at the pub ealier and we agreed it was too depressing a place to be called a pub!

After a hearty chat (finally!) and a plate of fat spaghetti vongole con vino bianco, I bid them farewell and went back early since there was no extra-curricular activities in town! At this point, I was really looking forward to the first WWOOF farm Casa Lanzarotti at Gotra. The host Iris had replied today saying it was ok for me to arrive earlier. Yay, I couldn't wait for the interaction!