Notes from Bologna

Riding the elevator up and down several times, trying to find the hostel.

Pausing for a cup of American coffee and watching the rain pour from a small window in a cozy hostel kitchen.

A complex of churches.

A quirky, independent hostel with chalk signs, too many throw pillows, weird decor, open shelves in the kitchen, an indie playlist, and a lot of character.

Dinner at the hostel with guests from France, Norway, the Netherlands, England, Taiwan, and Germany, sharing where we’ve been and where we’re going.

Mercato di Mezzo.

How quiet churches are no matter how loud it is just outside the doors, and knowing how much peace they bring to people, even if that peace looks different from mine.

The distinct buzz and grit of a college town.

The porticoes feeling like a master class in lines, lighting, and angles.

Stumbling across unique, old bookstores.

Tagliatelle al ragu bolognese, more pistaschio gelato, a simple breakfast buffet, and arancini.    

Moody, earthy terracotta-colored buildings in golden hour and purple-pink skies after it rained.

Libreria A.Nanni. 

Cute alleyways with restaurants tucked in corners that you could almost walk by and miss.

Buzz of the hostel while quietly working and sharing a bottle of Sangiovese.

A message in graffiti on a column that makes you stop in your tracks and snort-laugh because it hits home.

Dropping one of my AirPods in a small market, leading to all of the workers and customers on the store floor for ten minutes to find it.

An old man strolling along in the evening with his cane.

Dear Bologna, there’s something comforting, knowing the feeling of the warm morning sun on one’s face is the same no matter where you are—similar to how people are comforted by the moon being the same size no matter where you are. Thanks for being a city whose color, warmth, and moodiness felt like a hug.