Brief Encounters in Bologna
Daytime drinking? I can handle that. Morning drinking? Yeah, I’m up for that as well, I thought as I made my way to an Irish pub smack in the middle of the Bologna’s student district. The pretext for my early morning drinking was the world cup being played a few time zones to the east but with my interest in football always having been somewhere between none and “is it over yet?” I soon found myself a bit tipsy and fairly bored.
As the air swam with references to off-sides, semi-finals and fixtures, my eyes glazed over, and in the inevitable battle against boredom, I started looking around the pub’s sparsely populated tables for something more interesting. And that’s just what I found.
Sat by herself at one of the long wooden benches, showing about as much interest in the match as I was, was an attractive girl with long dark hair. She was poring over a book and had to keep pulling her hair over to one side to stop it from falling in her eyes. She was just sitting there, minding her own business, and that was all the invitation I needed to go over and start talking to her.
I finished my drink, went to the toilet and on my way out, plonked myself down opposite her and started talking. I didn’t have much to go on, but I can never resist knowing what people are reading, particularly when they are sitting there seemingly engrossed.
“Hi”
“Hello” came a rather cold reply.
“What are you doing?”
“Reading”
“What’s it about?”
“History”
“Do you mind if I sit here?”
“Yes”
It was going badly at this point, so I threw down the only card I had left.
“Do you want a drink?”
“No, thank you”.
“I’ll just go then”, I said. Always quick to take a hint if not necessarily act on it for very long.
Back to my friends, the football and another drink, it was only another pint before I needed the toilet again (my drink to bathroom ratio dropped low that morning) and once again, as I came out of the bathroom, I sat back down opposite her just as before. This time I got the slightest of smiles. Recognition of my persistence? Maybe she was a little flattered that I’d come back after having been told where to go the first time. Who knows? Anyway, this time, I got a bit of a conversation.
“Are you studying history, then?”
“Yes”
“Italian history?”
“No, European history”.
There it was, that accent. I may not have spoken much Italian at that point but as a language teacher I could identify the accent easily, and she didn’t have it.
“Where are you from?”, I enquired.
“Paris”, she answered, talk of her home city bringing with it a little more of a smile.
“And you’ve moved to Bologna to study at the university?”
“No, I’m just here to get a book from the library”.
“That’s a long way to come for a book. What do you think of it so far?”
“The book?”
“Actually, I meant Bologna, but I’m happy to know what you think of the book as well”.
“The book’s OK, I haven’t really seen much of the city. Just the train station, the library and this bar”.
“What’s your favourite part so far?”
At this, she screwed up her eyes and with a dry smile replied, “the library”.
“Are you here for the football?”, she asked, helpfully indicating over my shoulder that one of the teams had just scored.
“Not really”, I replied, shaking my head, “I’m just here for the beer and company”.
“And how are you finding those?”
“The beer’s not bad but the company is getting better”, I said.
“It looks like you need another one”, she said.
“You’re right. Do you want one?”
“No thanks. I’m not drinking yet. It’s a bit early for me”.
“What about later this evening then?”
“No, thanks”, still firm but this time it was accompanied by a smile.
“OK”, I said, “enjoy your book, I’m going to get another drink”.
“Enjoy the match”, she said, to which I responded with my own, slightly less dry smile.
Once again, I headed back to my friends, the beer and the football, until the next toilet break, that is. Drunker than was good for me at this time of the morning, I swaggered past her to the bathroom again, only this time we exchanged a look, and both knew full well that when I staggered out, I would sit down and continue our conversation. And that’s just what I did. Only this time I was greeted with an I’d-been-expecting-you smile, and she actually looked happy to take a break from her book and talk to me for a bit.
Continuing our new formed ritual, I kicked off by asking her about her book again.
“So, is it interesting? Was it worth the trip to a library in another country to get it?”
“It’s not bad. I needed it for my course, so I had to come and get it. What do you do here anyway aside from early morning drinking and harassing girls in bars to avoid having to watch football matches?”
“I’m a language teacher”.
“English?”
“Yeah”
“But you speak Italian as well?”
“Not really”, I squirmed as she uncovered my secret shame.
“How long have you lived here?”
“A few years”, I responded sheepishly.
“And you don’t speak Italian?”
“I’m learning”, I replied defensively, “I’m just not very good yet and to be honest working as an English teacher doesn’t give you much of an opportunity to practice”.
“Umm”, was the only sound she made, and I could feel myself slipping into that stereotyped English speaker who arrogantly insists everyone learn their language wherever they go.
“No, but seriously, I can speak some Italian. I could show you some if you come out with me for a drink this evening”.
“Really?” The subtle incredulity in her tone fascinated me. I’d thrown my hat into the ring again. Which way was she going to go this time?
“Yeah, OK” and there it was, that smile I’d been waiting for all morning. I would have sat through an entire match including extra time and penalty shoot-outs for that smile. I couldn’t believe it. I almost danced back to the table, and then there was more good news: the match had ended, one of the teams had won and everyone was either really happy or really sad about it. I can’t remember which.
With the game over, the date secured and the beer drunk, it was time to head home, get some lunch, sober up and probably fall asleep for a few hours.
We met that evening in Piazza San Francesco and after a few hours off I started drinking again, she didn’t though. She ordered an apricot juice, and that was the day I learned that in Italian you say ‘albicocca’. We spent the evening sitting outside, drinking and smoking. I may not have known much of the language, but the city fascinated me and I knew a fair bit about its history.
At one point, I asked if I could kiss her and, much to my disappointment, I received a friendly smile and a definite no. I remember being thoroughly disappointed at the time, who wouldn’t be?
As we said our goodbyes, I asked for a second date and couldn’t believe it when she said she was leaving the next morning and heading back to Paris. But there was nothing I could do about it. We’d had our evening and that was what mattered. I tried again to kiss her, got another friendly knockback and we went our separate ways.
I went home happy that night. My day had taken such a wonderfully unexpected turn. It had begun with the boredom of watching football, progressed to the challenge of charming a stranger, and ended with an evening out with a beautiful girl. In less time than it takes the Earth to turn I had completely changed someone’s perception of me; in a good way.
A few days later, I was drinking with my friends again and one of them asked how my date had gone.
“It was good”, I replied, playing down the magic as men tend to when relating stories to other men. Conglomerations of testosterone are antithetical to romance.
“We just went for a drink and chatted but she had to go back to France the next day”.
“Haha, you sucker. She lied to you. I saw her down the road at another pub the next day”.
“What? No. She told me she was leaving” I couldn’t believe it and retreated inward whilst the boyish mockery continued with me as the temporary butt of everyone’s jokes.
I thought about it over the next few days and of course, she lied to me. I’m fairly certain she had a boyfriend back in Paris too. But none of that could detract from the time we’d shared. In a matter of hours, our relationship had gone from a disinterested leave-me-alone to having a chat, to going out for a drink, and I reckon if geography, time, existing boyfriends and all social constraints and realities hadn’t been an issue, maybe even further.
Over the next few days, the topic came up again and I tried to convince my friends that I didn’t care if she’d still been there the next day or not. This invariably resulted in more insults and laughter at my expense, but it didn’t matter.
Nothing physical ever happened between us and to be honest, I don’t think I even touched her hand, but there was a connection of sorts. I enjoy my memories of that day; it’s a small insignificant event in my life that holds great importance for me and makes me smile when I look back on it.
Her name? Of course, I asked her name on the day, but for the life of me, I have no idea what it was. Something French, obviously, maybe Judith, I like that.
