VIII.x. Trenta Lode

"Energy and curiosity are the lifeblood of universities; the desire to find out, to uncover, to dig deeper, to puzzle out obscurities, is the spirit of the university, and it is a channeling of that unresting curiosity that holds mankind together."
- Robertson Davies

"You're what we like to call a bravo, bello ragazzo," said Professor Lenzi at the end of the exam. "What should we give him?" she asked her assistant who was sitting at a desk nearby, putting another student through her paces.
    "I don't know. I mean, he was quite good. I could practically see giving him a trenta lode."
    "Right. Trenta Lode, Nicholas. What about the girl in front of you now, though?"
    "Well, I'm not so sure," remarked the assistant.
    By this process I was awarded the highest possible mark on my Modern Architecture exam. I almost burst out laughing when I was told, though I was able to stave it off until I got into the hall, for concern of the Italian students who likely didn't have it so easy. I had been waiting, once again, all morning to take the exam, and the combination of relief and flying colours made me feel elated as I left Palazzo Poggi and made my way through the sun striated arcades of Via Zamboni.
In my defense, I had studied a significant amount for this exam. Most of my work had been the translation of architectural vocabulary from English to Italian. I had been familiar with the architecture of Bologna for some time now, since I'm never really at ease with a city until I understand its buildings.
    Formally speaking, the exam was a joke. To begin I was seen by the assistant, a boring, withered doctoral student who expressed far more interest in his ideas than in my own. "Tell me about Brunelleschi," he began.
    "Well, Brunelleschi was one of the Florentine republic's foremost architects in the early fifteenth century, responsible for designing the dome of the city's cathedral…"
    "Yes, of course, you could say that. Everyone mentions the Duomo, sure. I like to focus more on his earlier buildings. These were much more important. Can you name some? Doesn't matter. See, look here for example, the Ospedale degli Innocenti…"
    "Built 1418-1419," I hastily tried to interject.
    "Sure, if you want to be dry about things. What's more interesting, in my view, is his use of columns. See, these things? And what is this called?"
    "That?"
    "Yes, that."
    "That's an arch," I replied, not believing my ears.
    "But what kind of arch?"
    "A… A round one." And so the absurd first part of my exam continued for about a quarter of an hour, most of which I spent listening to the assistant pontificating about his own ideas which perhaps Professor Lenzi was too domineering ever to consider seriously. As I was given over to the Professoressa proper, I already felt quite comfortable, as though I could get used to taking seven years of these exams on my way to a first degree.
    Professor Lenzi's questioning was far more substantial. She was much more personable and far less senile than I had remembered from lecture, and seemed to find it quite interesting that I was from Canada. She didn't seem to mind that one or two dates slipped my mind, or that I was wrong on a few attributions, in fact she repeatedly complemented me on my Italian, even commenting to her assistant that I was far more idiomatic in the use of the language than other foreigners. When I explained to her the use of architecture as a political tool whist Bologna was ruled by Julius the second, she asked me if I though leaders still built for power in our day, actually quite an intelligent question that goes beyond rote knowledge and into more critical realms.
    "Well," I said, "just look at your Berlusconi. He wants to build that ridiculous bridge across the straight of Messina." I seemed to have caught a nerve.
    "Does he ever! And he wants to name it after himself, too. Can you believe that? Caesar had the same ideas two thousand years ago." She also asked me what were my favourite buildings in Bologna, where I had traveled, what I had seen; the whole exam took close to an hour. In her was all that typical ebullience Italians direct towards foreigners familiar with their culture, a certain pride but also an appreciation of another's interest.

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    I was, disappointingly, not in Rome for the Habemus Papam. I was in the Plenty Market, shopping while my laundry spun in the Laundromat next door, still very pleased from my exam result. The elevator music usually being played was interrupted by the news. "Oh, shit," I thought, as I picked up a sheaf of asparagus. I had completely forgotten about Rome with all the recent worldly tumult that had so been effecting my life. Between the postponement of my exams, my projects, my travels, and my study, I had neglected to get anywhere close to Rome for the conclave. So, it was under the glare of the fluorescent lights and the banality of the vegetable aisle that Rome, so near yet so distant, imposed its will.