March 2007
Our Man in Bologna
By Saqib Rahim

Nearly everyone hates receiving a travel e-mail from a friend abroad, and those who don’t should seriously consider it. I uncovered my own latent fury about six weeks ago, when a college friend sent me a message with the standard Flickr link.

Normally such a message meets a deft death by delete. But something was awry this day. Choking back my better instincts, I clicked ahead.

What did I find? That the best way to experience Europe is through millions of generic photographs snapped hastily with a pocket-sized digital camera. I found the elegant Tour Eiffel beheaded by a border; renowned city landscapes shrouded in smog; a few tired tourists holding up wine glasses at some bar. All the while, the shooter (remember, my college pal) was desperately trying to get candid photos of himself – because you need some evidence you were there, dude – but obviously, they all looked staged.

And so I conclude that travel e-mails should not exist. But since they do (and we, at SAIS, live in an imperfect world), I propose three guidelines. First, they should entertain, not induce envy. Second, they should be served with irony, irreverence, and wine. Thirdly, they should have pictures.
Having derided the genre fully, I’ll now offer you my own crack at it – and, to your detriment, without pictures.

One of the best things about traveling is also one of the worst: uncertainty. I enjoyed a small helping of this on my first day in Bologna: first as an Italian mute who had to hold up fingers to give the cabbie my destination address; second, as a novice shopper who nearly derailed a busy grocery store by failing to label my produce properly.

Stories like these are considered rites of passage by the Bologna Center students, most of whom arrived last August and September with no knowledge of Italian, no sense of the city, and no friends. Bologna is a beautiful, extraordinary place – but anyplace can be sad if you’re alone.

How, then, things appear to have changed. The Bologna Center (hereafter BC) students are a remarkably tight group, and all seem to know each other by name. Without a large, English-speaking city at their backs, it’s a lot harder for students to lose track of each other, and they can frequently be found in the same joints: the library, the café, that one club, that one bar, the salad place.

As the newcomer, I felt certain of my ability to bring new ways of thinking, modern technologies, and American optimism to my cohorts. But I have since found that I am equally or more interested in curly pasta and beer. As a result, I have only inane classroom questions and ill-timed jokes to offer.

Despite my efforts, these have not deterred the throngs of Bolognese offering to shake my hand, giving me smiles instead of the suspicion I crave. I have been invited to multiple parties and drinking engagements. I have been given advice on phones, restaurants, and bus travel. I am finding it hard to remain professional!
But as your Bologna correspondent, I would be derelict of my duties if I did not explain a central BC custom: the “SAIS ghetto” party. SAIS is not a city, and it does not, thankfully, have a ghetto; but such is the name given to the series of large apartments on Via Irnerio, in the city’s north, that house SAIS students exclusively. When Saturday comes, it was explained to me, all one has to do is show up, buzz any apartment between 2 and 7, mumble virtually anything in response, and enter.

Then, be dazzled. The ghetto party is a three-dimensional feat of wonder: six apartments, spanning several floors, open their doors for mischief, loud conversation, and flip-cup. One minute, a hundred SAIS-ers will seem to be dancing in the living room; the next, they’re crowding onto the balcony for a smoke. There’s no recipe for familiarity, but you can see why this comes close. Come Monday, photos and stories were circulating. It will not be easy to build my reputation here, but I certainly know how to destroy it.

“Bologna kids don’t study.” This is a myth probably uttered by some journalist, subsequently passed around the cable news networks and finally to your innocent Washingtonian ear. On the contrary, they appear to study as much, or as little, as the typical student at Massachusetts Ave. More than a few students left the first Happy Hour – lavishly themed “Frat Party” – to hole up in the library. It is only Week 2 here – but does this not lend the argument more credence?

And it is in this, finally, that one realizes there are no, no, no, no grounds for a rivalry with the Bolognese. To see what I mean, find a 2nd year from the BC. Ask about ghetto flip-cup. Stand back and watch the stories flow. But don’t tell her you heard about it from a travel letter. Those just make everybody mad.

Saqib Rahim likes you, but there’s no “u” in his name. He solicits your rascally replies at
srahim3@jhu.edu.