III.xv. At the Balmoral, without Erasmus and All That

"Twenty years a child; twenty years running wild; twenty years a mature man—and after that, praying."
- Irish Proverb

As wonderful as it was to spend my birthday with Alex, my brother, it wouldn't have been right, indeed it would have been downright incorrect, to not hold a celebration for a wider crowd. At first I was hesitant towards this idea because it entailed a new social situation, something with which I am not generally comfortable.
    I decided on the Balmoral for a venue, not because I particularly enjoyed spending time at that bar, but because I was familiar with it from Erasmus nights, and it was a known quantity. What was unexpected, however, was the change the place undergoes when it is not hosting hundreds of foreign students. Gone were the leopard skin clad rock groups and in their place were tablecloths, silverware, and higher prices. The place had assumed the class of a high-end urban pub while retaining the best elements of Italian hospitality- namely a wide assortment of aperitivi that were available free of charge. In Bologna, where things rarely come for free, these delicious samplings of local delicacies- fried dough, olives, pork head sausage- are often welcomed with great enthusiasm. The Balmoral, owing to its apparently elevated status on non-Erasmus nights, didn't attract the rag tag groups that other bars normally do during the aperitivi hour. Places such as the Scuderia, the hip but still proletarian student union located right on piazza Verdi, are packed in the early evening hours with students and others piling small plates sky high with the free culinary offerings. Certain pubs are renown for their spreads, from which an entire meal can be taken, as long as one doesn't take the Italian sense of bella figura too seriously and thus loose face in front of frowning barmen.
    Nevertheless, eight of us sat at a long table in the wood-paneled parlor of the Balmoral for several hours to celebrate, at least nominally, the passing of my twentieth year. Present that night were, in addition to myself, my brother Alex, my friend from high school years Matt, his roommate Michele, Michele's girlfriend Sara, Marlene from Niemeghen, Elizabeth from Barnard College, and her friend Clara. Switching between Italian and English, the group of disparate people quickly melded together into a closely-knit gathering of friendly, talkative people. Most were drinking white wine but I had reverted to pints of dark Irish ale, a standby that in the late evening I will usually prefer to any Mediterranean offering.
    Eventually, once we had all gotten tired of sitting down, we decided to shift locations. The kasa][attam (read Casa Matta) was hosting, as it does every Wednesday, an Erasmus party. Having had enough of our exclusive get together in overly Anglo surroundings, we crossed Piazza Maggiore and headed towards that labyrinth of underground cellars. Inside, the kind of brassage was occurring that would have eliminated any need for nation states in Europe, had it only occurred a few centuries prior. In this rare instance, Italian was the lingua franca and students from all corners of the continent crowded into the tiny space, without any of the worries that burdened most of the previous generations of Old World youth. We stayed as long as we could.