Creative Protests

This is one of the best posters I've seen from the anti-Gelmini protests (see my previous post). At the top it says, "We attack the profits/ we gain (our) rights." Then below: "There is money for the University... guess who has it?" The answer, clearly, is Berlusconi and his friends, who are constantly under attack for corruption and cronyism. I love the image of the little fish banding together to eat the big one. It's a classic leftist argument - that there isn't actually a crisis of public funding that requires cuts to services, but the misuse of public funds by mogul-politicians who encourage businesses to avoid paying taxes. Italy does have a growing debt crisis, and does desperately need reform - but that doesn't stop this kind of populism from also being true.

This is a photo I took of another demonstration in Bologna. These protesters are wearing placards made to look like the traditional Italian death announcements, but that read "RIP the Public University".

My absolute favorite banner, though, is this one, protesting Gelmini's cuts to research funding. I saw this online, so I'm not sure what city its from. The banner tells the balding Prime Minister:

BERLUSCONI

If you have any hair

Its only thanks to the research

"Stay on the barricades for a real education"

Taking to the streets, Via Zamboni

I was sitting in class when I first heard the shouts from the courtyard below. A young man with dreadlocks and a bullhorn strode into the lecture hall, opened a window and shouted down "Come up." Within moments, the room had been taken over by more than one hundred student protesters. My professor made no fuss, simply gathered up his notes and sat down in the front row to see what would happen next. The dreadlocked student went up to the microphone. "Prodi thinks he'll be speaking here," he said, referring to the former Italian Prime Minister, scheduled to deliver a lecture from that podium later in the day, "That's what he thinks, but he's not going to be able to do it now." The occupation of the university had begun.

I wrote about the Gelmini reform (named for the sponsoring minister, one of Berlusconi's beautiful young hench-women) in my post on the strike at the beginning of October. On November 30th, the legislation passed in parliament, and in the days leading up to and now following the vote, the educational system went into revolt. Students occupied the Colleseum and the Leaning Tower of Pisa, and high schoolers went on strike and took to the streets. The clashes with the police at one protest in Bologna even made the cover of the New York Times (which itself was reported as news on Italian tv). In the political science department, the front gates are drapped with banners, and a desk has been pulled across the entry. Graffiti read, "Stay on the barricades for a real education". Inside its mostly quiet - a few classes still go on, though with fewer students - and the rigged-up speaker system was playing "What If God Were One of Us?", not the most raucous protest anthem. Nonetheless, my classroom that was taken over on Tuesday is still full of sleeping students, and the professor didn't even try to hold lessons for the rest of the week.

My Italian friends are mostly taking a passive role in all of this, but they accept it as normal and legitimate. As an American, though, I can't quite wrap my head around it. I've tried to explain to my friends that we just don't have protests like this. But then how do you make it known when you don't like something, they ask. How do you protest if you don't take to the streets? That's the response I've gotten from everyone, even my friend who just finished his service in the police. When I stop to think about it, its a perfectly reasonable question. Why don't Americans, and American students in particular, ever protest? In the 60s and 70s, American students occupied their universities just like their compatriots in Europe did. Why does it seem so inconceivable now?

One of my professors tried to explain the disparity by reference to the Turner Thesis, (bringing back my memories of cramming for the AP US History exam). Turner argued that the western frontier, and later the idea of mobility that it created in the American imagination, served as an escape valve for social tensions. Unions are weaker in America than in many European countries, my professor proposed, precisely because there is often the sense that rather than staying and fighting to improve conditions, one can always move on and try one's luck elsewhere. Its a classic example of Hirschman's exit/voice correlation - in Italy, the relative lack of class mobility means that its easier to organize collective action around class-based issues. The lack of alternatives to the public university system means that students are willing to fight to preserve its functioning and affordability.

All this makes me wonder if the American perception of opportunity and mobility at times holds us back from seeking real change. I wouldn't want to give it up: the persistence of the American Dream allows our country to continue to reinvent itself; neither do I mean to say that class conflict is a good thing. There's a trade-off between quality and equality, and a reason that the top American universities surpass most European ones. Yet in Italy, university is nearly free: with fees, it might cost at most 1,000 Euros a year, while Yale charges $53,000 and even public universities costs are in the tens of thousands. After Gelmini, Italian universities will be a little poorer, a little less accessible, a little less able to compete globally. But they will still cost much, much less than American ones.

My mother had another explanation for why her generation was willing to protest against the Vietnam war, while my generation hasn't mobilized against Iraq and Afghanistan: the draft. Today, without the threat to make us feel personally involved, its hard to get worked up. Its also been said that young people today aren't apathetic, but post-partisan, that our support for Obama showed that we are more interested in cooperation than confrontation. However, Obama's struggles have shown some of the limits of this type of approach. Access to higher education is an issue of immediate importance to college students. Maybe we should take a little inspiration from our European friends - we don't have to take to the streets, but we could at least speak up to defend our own interests.

And on the 25th day of November, I slip into a food coma and die happy

Normal Italy is good (or bad) enough, but a day that combines Thanksgiving with a city-wide chocolate festival? That should be illegal. On Thursday Piazza Maggiore was crowded with rows of artiginal chocolate shops from all over Italy. There was even one from Belgium. I  saw shoes and scissors and teacups made of chocolate, chocolate "salami" and "cheese"and "kebabs", even a three-foot-long chocolate crocodile. The only thing missing was a good cup of hot chocolate (cioccolatto caldo is more like pudding). I ate the world's biggest truffle - honestly, it was the size of a baseball, and was on a skewer.

The whole day was really like having my holidays backwards: Valentine's Day followed by Christmas and Thanksgiving. This week also marked the beginning of the Christmas season, as the lights started to go up on the shopping streets, and the large church next to the Poli Sci building opened a street fair selling nougat and ornaments and scarves. In America, I hate the consumerism that makes the holiday season start earlier and earlier each year, but without malls or endless repetitions of "Santa Baby", I'm starting to remember how nice it can be.

Thanksgiving of course isn't an Italian holiday, but my program nicely organized dinner in a restaurant for us and our Italian roommates. The Italians may have been more excited than the Americans - like cheerleaders and football, Thanksgiving is one of the things that American movies and TV have shown to the world, but no one quite believes exists in reality. As might be expected, once the Italians got behind the idea, the trattoria managed to cook the best, juiciest turkey I've ever eaten. It wasn't an authentic meal - no cranberries, no mashed potatoes, no pumpkin pie - and the first course was pasta, but it was delicious, and we ate ourselves into a respectable tryptophan-induced stupor.

It was strange to celebrate Thanksgiving away from home for the first time, but this weekend it truly sunk in that I only have three weeks left in Italy, and then this extended adventure will be over. I'll be home in Maine for Christmas, but until then, I can walk home in Bologna, with the snow turning to slush on the cobble stones and the Due Torre covered in strings of golden lights. I'm sad to leave and happy to go -but that's the way its supposed to be.

The professors go on strike; I go to Slovenia

This is being posted a bit late, but Rob kindly produced the necessary photo accompaniment!

Here's a reason to be grateful for the Italian budget crisis. With half the faculty at the University of Bologna on strike to protest a controversial law that would slash funding for the universities, I found myself at the beginning of October with no classes to go to, and an unexpected last week of extended summer vacation. I had been getting itchy feet from staying in one place, and this was the perfect opportunity to take a longer trip. Slovenia was less of a random choice than it might appear. The only surprise is that more people don't go: its easily accesible by train from Italy, yet has a completely different  language, a beautiful landscape and an intriguing culture.

My friend Rob and I started with an afternoon train to Trieste. The upper part of the Adriatic is so tranquil that the clear blue water meets the edge of the land without any barrier. Its possible to sit in the main piazza with the Baroque town hall behind you, and dangle your feet in the ocean a mere step down.  A few minutes walk from our hostel, Castello Miramare, built as a honeymoon getaway for the Hapsburg emperor, is now a charming, slightly overgrown, public park. I felt like I had wandered into a Maxfield Parish Painting, or maybe just Enchanted April.

 There is no direct connection from Trieste to Slovenia, so the plan was to take Italian trains as far as Gorizia, cross into Slovenia, and then pick up another train that would take us into the Julian Alps. The divided town of Gorizia/Nova Gorica was a Cold War frontier (Winston Churchill famously said that the Iron Curtain stretched across Europe, "from Danzig to Trieste"), as well as the site of one of the most brutal battles of World War I. There are few things that give me more hope for progress, considering that history, than crossing today's border. With Slovenia's ascension to the European Union, all that divides the nations is unobtrusive line on the pavement - no guards, no fence, not even a sign. It's more noticeable when you cross from Maine into New Hampshire, and I can't help thinking that somewhere, Kant is smiling. 

The train journey was the most beautiful trip I have ever taken, maybe even surpassing driving over the Himalayas. The sun was shining on the sea, we stopped at idyllic towns with tiny old stations, mountains shaped like gum drops and a turquoise-green river winding alongside. Arriving in Lake Bled, I picked an apple right off the tree as we walked to our campsite by the lakeshore. I was glad to be staying in Bled at the end of the season, since we got all the conveniences of the small resort town, without any of the crowds.

In the morning, mists hid the mountains and the swans gliding on the glass-like surface of the lake. We bought still-warm cheese pastries from a bakery, and climbed to the cliff-top castle for a view of the surrounding valleys as the sun come out. In the afternoon we took row boat out to the picturesque church on the little island in the middle of the lake. In my third boating adventure of the summer, I'm proud to say I rowed more successfully than I punted in Cambridge (and certainly in a more trustworthy boat than the inflatable lotka that almost sank in the middle of Lake Varzob in Tajikistan). 

A three hour bus ride got us to Ljubljana. Our lodging in the capital was Celica, a former jail converted into a hip hostel, where the rooms are "cells" that still have bars. Celica is in the middle of Metalkova, a bizarre alternative-living compound. After independence and the fall of the communist regime, a bunch of artists moved in to the area and transformed the Soviet-style buildings into graffiti masterpieces and a variety of semi-secret clubs and bars.

Ljubljana has a compact old center, with cafes lining both sides of the river, and a castle on a hill in the middle of town. We had a lovely time exploring the side streets, drinking coffee and eating Sacher torte, and visiting the underground market. We found lunch at a Bosnian restaurant; an old house filled with Balkan knickknacks, where the only thing on the menu was sausage with butter and raw onion and delicious bread. In the afternoon, another three hour bus ride got us to Piran, the prettiest town on Slovenia's sliver of a coastline. I climbed to the church with my watercolors and tried to paint the view over the red roofs to the sail boats on the blue-gray sea. In the morning I ignored the damp weather, and went swimming. I have a reputation to uphold after all - for someone used to Maine, the Mediterranean is warm even in October.

As we were informed in Ljubljana, there are two Latvian beers, and they are both made by the same brewery. Whether you prefer Lasko or Union is a matter of some consequence, apparently, but having tried both, I'm a firmly in the Lasko camp. It goes perfectly with a basket of fried calamari, while we had a late lunch and watched a scuba diving lesson.

Unfortunately, our lunch was a bit too late, and caused us to miss the local Piran shuttle bus.  In a "for the want of a nail..." scenario, that meant we lost the regional bus, so that we missed our third connection into Italy. After an extra hour and a half waiting in Trieste, and a bizarre 10 PM to midnight jaunt through Venice, we finally caught the night train to Bologna, arriving at 3 AM, exhausted, but immensely pleased with ourselves, and still completely in love with Slovenia.

Bologna: 8 days a week

Sunday: Giardino Margherita.
 On Sundays, the city shuts down, almost all stores are closed and the streets are empty. Where does everybody go? Giardino Margherita, the large park just outside the city center. Couples spread blankets on the grass, families bring picnics, little kids learn to ride their bikes, and dogs chase each other around the trees. There is a candy cart, and a bouncy castle, a duck pond and quiet places to sit under the trees and read a book. As the year goes on, the oaks are turning brown and the gelato kiosk is starting to sell roast chestnuts. On a foggy October evening, when the joggers have the place to themselves, you can almost forget you are in a city.

Monday: I'm here to be a university student, after all, and even in Italy that means going to class. The political science department takes up a sprawling palazzo in the center. Like much of the University, it is half marble statues looming over the grand staircase and frescos in the lecture halls, and half home-made banners advertising protests and desks covered in fifty years of graffiti. Between classes the courtyard fills with clumps of students smoking and taking advantage of the espresso vending machines. Studying is taken very seriously, but there is always the possibility the teachers will go on strike, and then all bets are off.

Tuesday: Food shopping in Bologna is more of an entertainment than a chore. I start at the Mercato degli Erbi, the daily indoor farmer's market, with produce sold by the kilo (because who would want just one apple?) It also has a fishmonger section, where the prawns are so fresh that they were moving. That may be fresher than I can handle, since I admit I'm not quite up to the complexity of ordering in the butcher's shops. There are more vegetable stands, cheese shops and bakeries in maze of streets behind the main square. Fresh pasta, particularly tortellini, is an institution in Bologna, displayed decoratively in store windows. I return home loaded with purchases, and conveniently hungry.  

Wednesday: Take a walk: Turn right at the end of my block, down Via Farini, window shopping the fashion houses. At the corner with Via Castiglione, there is a pharmacy in a curlicued Art Noveau building. Farini becomes Santo Stefano. The door knocker on this apartment building is shaped like a screaming head. Someone is growing geraniums on their roof. Walk all the way to the edge of the center, where the old city gate stands on a traffic island. Coming back on Strada Maggiore, for a moment there is a clear view all the way to the the Two Towers, before the street twists, and turns into tiny cafes and old-fashioned hardware stores. The portico above the bank building has a fresco. Always look up - just don't get hit by a student franticly biking to class...

Thursday: Gelato gets a whole day to itself in this calender. Everyone has their favorite place, but for me the winner is Gelateria Funivia. Crema Leonardo (toasted pinenuts) and Alice (mascarpone with melted chocolate added to the bottom of the cone). Pear sorbet and dark chocolate. Crema Cavour (caramelized lemon) and pistachio and hazelnut......I want one now.

Friday: Aperitivi: On a warm evening, you are most likely to find an Italian sitting on the cobblestone piazza outside their favorite bar/cafe, with a class of wine or a spritz, and a plate piled high with snacks. Appertivi is bar food elevated to an art, and also a sneaky way to eat a cheap dinner. For a base price (between 2.50 and 7 euro), with your drink you get free reign of a buffet. In the best places, that means things like focaccia, cold pasta dishes, mini sandwiches, sauteed eggplant and zucchini.

Saturday: Day Trip: So far, I've spent Saturdays in Padua, Mantua, Verona, Ravenna, Perugia and Florence, none of which was more than 3 hours away. I am in love with Trenitalia. That may sound odd to anyone who has ever spent so long waiting at a ticket counter that they missed their train (that would include me). Don't complain. I can't help thinking how different life in America would be I could hop on a train to Portsmouth or Rockland or Bethel for less than the price of a dinner out. Where did that mass-transit stimulus money go again?

Sunday: San Luca: It is an act of virtue to make the pilgrimage on foot to this church on a hill above the city. There is a porticoed walkway the entire distance, but I took an especially round-about way during an outing organized by the city government. We climbed a neighboring hill, cutting through backyards and wild patches, and getting a lovely view of the city below. Down the other side, we stopped at an organic farm by the river to sample their wine, and ate our packed lunches while being watched hungrily by goats. Then we climbed San Luca from the back, on a winding path through the woods that passed signs depicting the stations of the cross. The actually church isn't anything so special, but the feeling of accomplishment I got while sitting on the step, eating a crescentina, made it all worthwhile.

Photos

Finally, my pictures are up from Cambridge through Uzbekistan:

http://gallery.me.com/akellar#100067

Additional photo credit to Mari and Dylan

Watermelon/Tarbuj

To quote people across Tajikistan: "Are there tarbuj (watermelon) in America?"

To quote my mother: "There are watermelons in Tajikistan?"

To answer you all: 

Yes, yes there are.

There are watermelons in Latvia

There are more watermelons in Dushanbe

There is watermelon art...

...and art made from watermelons

There are balls painted like melons...

...and melons used like balls

Its a bit like being a modern-day hunter/gatherer

Hunt successful, the prizes are carried home

Refrigeration is very important

But sometimes you just can't wait

and the hunters eat their prey in the wild

Moalem presides at the carving

Nazira likes watermelon

Mari likes watermelon

Sometimes I feel like a harbuza in a pile of tarbuj

*To be followed with a rousing chorus of the watermelon song:

Just plant a watermelon on my grave and let the juice 

 seep through.
Just plant a watermelon on my grave, that's all I ask of you.

Now Southern fried chicken is mighty, mighty fine, 

but all I want is a watermelon vine.
So, plant a watermelon on my grave and let the juice, 

 seep through.