Aula magna del complesso di Santa Caterina in the University, Bologna
Our day 7 blogger is Noel Monahan
Monday 9th June - evening event & Tuesday 7th June, morning and home
Mia, Afric, Valerie and Noel at Via de Poeti, Bologna
Sounds of Words/I Suoni della
Parola is the final event of the Italo- Irish Literature
Exchange 2014. It is hot and the evening sun is relentless. Instinctively, we
head for the water-hole outside the Aula Magna, Rita pours cool glasses of
water for us and we are informed Bologna University is the oldest in the world.
The hall inside reeks of final examinations going all the
way back to the twelfth century.
Refreshments before the reading, Afric tucks in
The programme for this evening is
presented differently. On every chair you find a paper-wallet full of
information relating to the Irish and Italian writers and poets. I am taken by
its presentation, the detail right down to green ribbon. By now we are familiar
with the proceedings, the translations are ready to go, the running order is
set, Tanya, the interpreter leans over and the sounds of words ring out in
Italian, English, Irish and Roman dialect.
Writers Silvia Secco, Afric McGlinchey, Gino Scatasta, Alessandro Dall'Olio and William Wall
Questions and answers at the end of
the readings lead to a lively exchange of ideas on education and the role of
the poet. Back at 77, the Italian Writers’ watering-hole, we drink beer, wine,
nibble on cheese, bread, prosciutto … They are a lively bunch and there is real
integration. We should stay in contact with 77.
Liz Kirwan and Valerie Bistany
Not only do we talk about
DISPLACEMENT, we live it. We get lost on the way back to the Ospitalita.
Tuesday we return home. Last minute shopping and we head to the airport. Back
in Dublin, I run off with someone’s ham, wine .. and think it’s the after-shave
I bought for the boys. What was that theme again? DISPLACEMENT.
Our interpreter Tanya, with all of us and Grupo 77, the Italian wrtiers we read with, outside 77 Wine Bar
Since
this is the final report on the trip I feel I should comment on the generosity
of spirit of all. We hardly knew each other at the beginning. I certainly feel I
was enriched by the experience. Our thanks to Valerie and The Irish Writers’
Centre for making it all happen. When will we meet up?
Our Day 6 blogger is Nuala Ní Chonchúir Monday 9th June
The day started with us leaving lovely Lugo and three of our party taking the wrong train and ending up in a town called Wethorse - in Italian, 'Bagnocavallo'. Luckily, the side-tour to Bagnacavallo took all of 10 minutes and the trio (yes, I confess, I was one of them) were safely on the Bologna train before long.
Nuala and Valerie, trying to make pasta sensuously
We just had time to drop our bags at our final accommodation for the trip, the Collegio San Tommaso, before we were collected by Rita Mattioli, who walked us through beautiful Bologna (with a stop-off at a market for cheese, cherries and peaches) to her home.
The adorable Rita
There she made her family bolognese (minced pork and beef, sausage, wine, onions, celery, carrot, garlic, rock salt, pepper) and fed us organic red wine. Rita left the bolognese cooking in its clay pot, quoting Neapolitan poet Eduardo de Filippo: 'Now we have to leave the ragu alone, he has to think.' She then taught us how to make tortelloni and tagliatelle, and had us dancing to sultry music while we made our own pasta dough. Rita urged Afric to make her 'soul take fire' as she kneaded the dough. We laughed and danced and made passable pasta.
Rita makes magic with tagliatelle
Our tortelloni, which we stuffed with ricotta, parmesan, nutmeg and parsley, looked a little sad but they tasted fine when we sat in Rita's beautiful dining room afterwards to eat lunch, sip organic prosecco and gorge on cherry cobbler and homemade ice-cream. Life is hard in bella Bologna :)
Our funny looking tortelloni
Hungry writers waiting for lunch
The day was book-ended with stray writers: we got lost in Bologna that night after our event, but I will leave it to Noel Monahan to recount that particular adventure.
Travelling
between Bologna and Lugo in 35C, in an un-air-conditioned local train,
we began to think longingly for the first time of the cool of an Irish
day, and this song came to mind. It's very famous in Italy and indicates
the love affair between the Italian people and the Irish landscape,
which they see as a kind of antithesis of theirs:
Daniele
Serafini
We
were met at the Lugo railway station by the poet and translator Daniele
Serafini, who had organised our reading there. Lugo, is a small town by
Italian standards, but still manages to have a medieval citadel and
renaissance-period porticoes, an ancient open-air market, and a hotel
with exhibitions of political cartoons and a literary programme that
many an Irish arts centre would envy. We had dinner that evening, at the
invitation of the City Council, under the porticoes in glorious shade,
eating typical local food and drinking Sangiovese, and afterwards read
at Caffe Letterario.
William Wall reading in Lugo at the Caffe Letterario
It was the evening of a
closely-contested local election, taken much more seriously in Italy
than Ireland perhaps because local councils have real power, and they
were worried that there would be a small turnout, but they needn't have
been. Afterwards, in a bar in the mediaeval castle, the Italians
anxiously awaited the results of the final count. Just before midnight
word came that the candidate of choice of the literary and artistic side
of the city had won and after that we simply had to go celebrating the
victory.
A local woman in traditional dress
The piazza was busy and noisy, crowds milled around the PD/SEL
headquarters, sparkling wine in every glass, cheering and clapping. At
one point the owner of the caffe next door handed out glasses saying,
'I've found the glasses but I can't find the wine'. The new mayor, a
young man of 29, was introduced to the 'Irish delegation'. He looked
dazed. I doubt he'll remember a few random Irish writers, but it was
good to be there to see it. The atmosphere was electric in the piazza. I
don't know where the losing candidate's supporters were, but it seemed
like a sea of happy faces.
It was our
second-last reading. Onwards tomorrow to Bologna and the oldest
university in the world, the Alma Mater of all Alma Maters.
