It is true that a combination of social circumstances led me there, but beyond that, I have always had the desire to see this piece of land, which has become one of the greatest symbols of the battles of World War II – and it is not that there is no competition. In the collective historical consciousness of the victors, France was established as a collaborator, or at least as not having fought hard enough for its freedom. This criticism, although it has something to lean on, does injustice to many. Not necessarily those who were great fighters in the ranks of the resistance, but for the millions who were the civilian front line and grinded between the occupiers and the liberators.
The point is that history is written by the victors – and therefore we know quite a few heroic stories of the Allied soldiers landing in Normandy (I can watch “Saving Private Ryan” over and over again – and every time tear up at the final scene in the cemetery for the dead of that war), but very few Stories about what happened to the civilian population of Normandy.
With your permission we will stop here. We will return to beautiful Normandy, the land of apples (it’s not for nothing that cider and Calvados are its official refreshments) next week. Until then we will talk about the neighbor to the southeast, about Italy.
From you I don’t need to hide in the dishes – I consider myself a great man of the world: almost 45 years of traveling the world – first short with my parents, then long with myself, and again short with my partner and children – have made me the one who marked “V” almost On every historical monument or major city, from New York to Beijing, from the Finnish part of Lapland to Australia. From Rio de Janeiro to Moscow, including quite a few stops along the way. Some of these places I dedicated a visit, some I just passed through, and some (like Sydney, Australia or “my” Greek island) I lived for periods of several months.
All this world travel has come but to say that nothing prepared me for the visit to Bologna, which closed the month of holidays. Paraphrasing the joke of the soccer coaches, who after a crushing 5-0 victory, point out that they would have preferred to win five times 1-0, means that I would have preferred to divide all the days off that the holidays forced upon us, to extend something like 20 weekends.
The uniqueness of Bologna is that it has almost no uniqueness.
Sound dumb? Well, that’s only because you haven’t visited it yet. A bit like Tel Aviv (although in a completely different style) it conquers you, and not with the help of architectural greed but with its charming being. Do not rush to conclude that the city is not beautiful: it is very beautiful, only it does not have the Duomo of Milan or Florence, the Vatican in Rome or the wonderful beaches of southern Italy. And if Tel Aviv does it with the help of sexual freedom, minimal clothing and one drink too many, then Bologna does it in a European style – much more respectable, even if not tied.
I will state one caveat before I continue to tell about the wonders of the capital of the Emilia-Romagna region: a kosher keeper will stay away. The Bolognese add lard even to desserts. Therefore, those who are careful about their food will have to make do with fruits and preserves.
Blessed are I, a heretic – and therefore I flocked to the food stalls in the market and the restaurants of Bologna as a source of great booty. It is true that I devoted a moment of culture to visiting the university building (the University of Bologna was founded in the 11th century, which means it is older than Oxford and Cambridge. The building I visited is from the 15th century), but the rest of the time I let my liver functions lead me through the streets, between a slice of mortadella and one of prosciutto, or an incredibly delicious little block of Parmesan cheese. Here and there even fresh pasta and fish that I bought in the market below the rented apartment, in the kitchen of which I set up sumptuous feasts dipped in wine.
But even the wonderful raw materials in the beating heart of Italy do not explain the secret of its charm, but the fact that the whole city, literally (and it is a city that keeps its youth thanks to masses of students), is outside all the time, drinking and eating – and then drinking some more, just to let the body rest For the next bite.
If until recently I explained to Tommy that “Apertivo” meant a drink and a small snack before dinner, then I discovered that the people of Bologna will happily join the aperitivo before breakfast, lunch or in the evening: I have never seen a place where everyone drinks all day and no one gets drunk.
It seems to me that there is no one who hasn’t ever arrived in a foreign country and thought to himself: “I could live here.” It’s just that it’s usually more of a whim than an orderly plan. Bologna, I must admit, succeeded in fairly confusing me, but perhaps it’s better to dedicate the next column to that, this Let me write to you from Normandy, while trying with all my might to save Private Kipnis