Post number fifty-three, Italia.

The LonelyOp just spent a few days in Bologna, Italy. A few highlights:

Day One.

Ridiculous hotel room.

Ornately furnished, complete with four poster bed, stupidly high ceilings, and a bowl of fresh fruit, it looked like it should be in the 18th century castle, only with wireless internet access.

Day Two.

Car trip to Verona.

Six of us took a couple of cars to Verona to have dinner and see the Opera. In the summertime in Verona, they have a series of rotating operas in the Arena di Verona---a two thousand year old Roman amphitheater that seats fifteen thousand. We saw Franco Zeffirelli’s very stylish production of AIDA. It was a transcendent event, the music floating up into the night sky, the wine rushing to the LO’s head, fifteen thousand people sharing a flickering, magical evening…

Day Three.

Lunch in Parma.

Jumped on a train and went to Parma the next day for lunch. It is a cute little town, but the main event was the food. Four pieces of parma ham, each aged for a different length of time, and four pieces of parmasean cheese similarly aged.

A light lunch, to be sure, but just the right amount---besides, the fun was in tasting the sometimes subtle, sometimes dramatic difference in ages.

Day Four.

Va Italia.

A few of us ended up drinking at a pub on a street not far from the Piazza Maggiore as Italy played Germany in the World Cup semifinal. The moment Italy won, people appeared from every possible direction, yelling, singing, waving flags and honking their horns with wild abandon.

We wandered back to the Piazza nearly an hour after the game, and people (who had congregated in the Piazza to watch the game projected on an enormous outdoor screen) still packed the square, celebrating with an intensity I’ve never seen in America for sports.

Day Five.

The Castangia suit.

My native friend Nicola took me to his tailor, after I’d drunkenly mentioned that I really wanted to buy an elegant suit a few nights earlier.

I was a sweaty mess, sloppily dressed, and a little embarrassed to be standing in my underwear in the chic shop (modern, white marble, everyone dressed in impossibly well fitting clothes).

I tried on Gucci.

I tried on Prada.

Then, sensing I was either finally comfortable or ready for the kill, the two tailors that were helping me---it is good to be a friend of Nicola---suggested I try a handmade Castangia suit. A little more expensive, but worth it.

I put on the jacket first. I sort of shrugged, it was a little too boxy, a little too boring. I begrudgingly put on the pants. A pin cushion appeared from nowhere, and two pairs of hands quickly started pinning here, tucking there, and almost immediately the suit was transformed into the best fitting piece of clothing I’ve ever worn.

Ocean’s 11 meets la costa nostra.

Slim in the most flattering places, forgiving in less flattering places.

I had to buy it, of course.

Nervous about the price, I sheepishy handed over my credit card…and they gave me a fifty percent discount. Relieved, I almost immediately wished I’d bought two.

Rhapsodizing about opera, Italian suits and the subtleties of aged ham…

Who.

Am.

I?

Oh, I forgot to mention I was there officially for work.

Sometimes my job is tough.