Sunday

I love Sundays. Something about them seems reassuringly traditional, familiar, ritualistic even. And, although church has kicked off many of my Sundays, I think the most important rituals are probably the ones that have nothing to do with putting on your Sunday best or cramming into uncomfortable pews. At home, Sundays mean long, drawn out after-church coffee dates with my family at the Bohemian Coffeehouse. With parents that now only call Maine home every other two weeks, a brother and sister-in-law who spend half their time at sea, an engineer/never-ending-thesis-writing/black belt sister, and a brother-in-law who works far too many hours a week, time together is a precious commodity. Sundays are our opportunity to relax, recap, and refill; our time to reclaim our common family-ness from the lives that often pull us in separate directions, all while laughing together over foamy double-mochas and chai lattes and french roasts. There's nothing better than hearing the same quasi-stale old family jokes every week with the best cup of coffee in town.

These days, or these Sundays, rather, I don't get to hear "remember that time when..." (my oldest relationships here are all of two months), don't get to say "no zoup for you!" with confidence that my audience will immediately pick up on exactly which Seinfeld episode I'm referencing (Friends was much more popular overseas), and don't get to sip my usual non-fat double-mocha latte (skim milk just isn't done here). I'd be lying more than Berlusconi himself if I said I didn't miss all that, but there's some charm in the Italian Sunday as well. I think my lovely and nearly too nice roommate Irine said it best during my first weekend in Bologna: "E' domenica. Mangiamo troppo." (It's Sunday. We eat a lot.)

And that we do. Generally, my Italian Sunday rituals begin with a sometimes early, sometimes late morning run (depending on the previous evening's festivities) in Giardini Margherita, a beautiful park about a ten minute walk from my apartment. It's the largest giardino in Bologna and always full of people: tiny old women in heels, men running in short shorts, old men selling flowers, ladies with their Louis Vuitton, little girls on pink Disney princess bikes, moms and dads with babies, grandparents with babies, babies with other babies. If I exit the park on the west side, I can run out of the central part of the city along narrower, windier roads that lead into the hillier outskirts, passing gated estates and perfectly manicured villas before looping back around into centro through Porta Santo Stefano. On the walk home the streets of Bologna are always full of the most amazing smells wafting from the balconies and shuttered windows above the sidewalk. As Irine said, Sundays in Bologna are all about food, preparing big, comforting meals with too many courses and multiple heads of garlic to share with the people you love.

Today was rainy and cold, so I gave up my run and decided instead to attempt to make torta di mele (apple cake) as perfectly tart and warm and sweet as Rita, my cooking instructor. I returned home from my quest for baking supplies just in time for a big early-afternoon pranzo of spaghetti with homemade pesto that my suite-mate Ade's mother makes and jars at their small family farm in Sicily. Five of us, a Sicilian, a Sardegnian, a Brazilian, an Isrealian, and an American, two of my roommates and two of their friends, sat and ate, talked, and laughed for nearly two hours over our shared Sunday meal. A kind of make-shift family, brought together to share good food and (broken, for me) conversation on a chilly October day. The cake wasn't quite Rita-worthy, but delicious and warm all the same. The company wasn't technically family, and my post-lunch coffee was a single shot of espresso instead of my usual post-church 20-ouncer, but I'd say the new traditions are a pretty good substitute for the real deal.