fall: autumn & autonno
Autumn: In London, autumn surrounds you in September. Now, I am used to warm falls in DC, and as an oversight, I only pack sandals. Much of this fall will be in Italy, where warmth that lingers late into October allows for sandals. In London, in September, the mornings are cool with drops of moisture on cold surfaces. The grass is damp with dew, too. Beyond a light jacket, I also forget to pack layers to add and remove as the temperature of the day slowly rises and then falls again in the evening. Why would I pack layers and closed-toe shoes before fall equinox? In Russell Square, my sandals crunch leaves, and my feet are cold. Sitting in the square, my mind wanders back nearly two decades, when, during the morning commute a wave of terror swept through London. At nearby Tavistock Square, a bomb tore the roof from a double-decker bus and terrorists attacked tube cars across the city. Whenever I am in this part of London, which is less frequent now, memories of that July morning often return.
Heimat: After undergraduate studies, my final summer in the UK was spent living in university dorms near here; London was a city where I thought I was meant to be. A life I nearly had, but didn’t. Instead, I left. Heimat, in this moment of fall, arrives as nostalgia for an uncreated home and a homeland I left behind. During that summer, identifying as European was more important; London didn’t reject Europe, but the country outside the city’s borders did.
I walk in the direction of the British Museum, a space filled with artifacts that are not British at all. A reminder of the painful legacy of colonialism and the reckoning the UK, and other European countries, either attempt to confront or continue to ignore. “We weren’t there. We can’t keep apologizing for the past,” they say. I stop at the London Review of Books to pick up the latest novel of a favorite London-based writer. I’ve waited all summer to buy it in person from this bookstore. The second copy is gift-wrapped for a friend. After, I head towards another bookstore specializing in travel books and maps. During high school, so eager to get out into the world, I’d get lost among the maps, travel guides, and globes. Surrounded by the possibility of something greater than the life I was living. At that age, I was unable to reach whatever or wherever these experiences were. Now, I return to the bookstore as a European-American stopping in London between lives in the United States and Italy. Another book purchased: a guide to North Macedonia for next summer. As this summer ends, my mind wanders to a future summer exploring the Balkans. After the bookstores, I take the new tube line to Paddington. As the train departs the station, my brief morning in London during autumn comes to an end.
Autonno: The lines are long outside the copisteria. The university students, who have returned from summer vacation to Bologna, make copies of syllabi and readings for the semester ahead. In Bologna, copy stores still thrive. Here, noticing the change in seasons isn’t obvious, you must seek it out; outside of the walls, the changing colors of the trees catch you by surprise. Still in sandals, mosquitos flourishing in the moist and humid fall air bite my feet during the walk to the city’s green spaces. Back within the walls, if you take a moment to look up or emerge from the portici, the length of the day's light and the brightness in the sky signal the season’s shift. The light starts to become lower and fades earlier in the evening. When fall rain does arrive in Bologna, the portici cover the routes to a bar for coffee, to the library to write, and to the university for an Italian language class. As the season progresses, finally swapping sandals for boots, fall surrounds you at the mercato while buying ingredients for minestrone soup. The light early morning breeze - aura - as you wait for your number to be called to pick up sofrito: onions, celery, and carrots. I also add cabbage, green beans, and the final zucchini of the season. At this time of year, the zucchini must come from Italy’s southern regions or the islands of Sicilia or Sardengna. Sessantasei. The number, 66, on the ticket is called. Shouting “Io'', it’s time to select the produce for the soup. “Allora, cedano… poi … carotte.” Basta cosi? Si, basta cosi. After the market, I return to the apartment that sits between the historic Jewish Ghetto and the University District. On the stovetop, the soup simmers for hours, and the parmesan rind sinks beneath the vegetables in the pot. Outside of Bologna, in the hill towns of Dozza (BO), la città d’arte, and medieval Brisighella (RA), there is a greater connection to the season through the harvest of grapes, olives, and truffles. Brisighella hosts weekly festivals to celebrate the olio novello and tartufi. Returning to Bologna from Brisighella, the drive crosses back into Emilia from Romanaga, and the sun sets over the hills south of the highway. At home I make lentil and leek soup inspired by an item on the menu at an osteria. Instead of the soup for lunch, I chose fresh fagottini pasta filled with pear. A casa, I’ll drizzle new olive oil, purchased at the celebration of the harvest, over the soup as autonno slips into winter.
