by Michael Pezzimenti

As a full-blooded Italian-American, raised on “Goodfellas” and all five “Rocky” movies, I was not shocked to have encountered violence in Italy, especially against the establishment.

My great-grandfather left Italy in the midst of revolution at only 18 years of age and never returned. I wished to see the land and life he left behind.

In the Spring quarter of 2000, Foothill College of Los Altos, Calif., offered a study abroad program to Firenze, Italia (Florence, Italy). I was lucky enough to be included.

The students on the plane erupted in cheers as we touched down in Italy. It had been a long flight and many of us had taken advantage of the lack of legal drinking age aboard Alitalia airlines. We were all excited to see where we would be living for the next two months.

The company running the program, Accent, had arranged for students to have apartments in town. Some were better than others, though I was very pleased with the tile floors and hand-painted fresco ceilings in my apartment. Also, I was located two blocks from school, Scuola Leonardo da Vinci and downtown Firenze. Others had to cross the river. It paid to fill out the personality survey carefully.

After about two weeks, my roommates and I felt confident that we had fully explored Firenze. So, one weekend, two of us decided to take a short train ride to see Bologna, a town known for its Bolonese (meat marinara) pasta sauce and the Piazza Maggiore, which is said to have multiple museums.

The Eurail stations were not unlike those in the U.S., and it was easy enough to find people who spoke English. It was interesting to me how in America, if asked my nationality, I answer "Italian," however, in Italy they reminded me that I'm American.

I was surprised to see that not only was there a McDonald's inside the station in Bologna, but there was another McDonald's directly across the street and a third within walking distance. I admit to having eaten there more than once, which is sacreligious in a country full of such great food. But Italian restaurants are closed for a couple hours around lunchtime.

Bypassing two golden arches, my roommate, Brett, and I used our broken Italian to ask a couple of locals directions to the museums. The courtyard was easy enough to find, but as soon as we got there the museums were closing. It was the middle of a sunny day and the entrance to our destination was being locked behind a pull-down metal cage.

Looking around, we noticed that even street vendors began to move elsewhere.

Before we could determine why, a van drove into the center of the courtyard. It had speakers tied to the roof that amplified the passenger, who was half way out the window, screaming into a microphone. While only able to comprehend select words and phrases, I managed to deduce that they (to put it lightly) disliked the police. And of course “Viva la revolucion!” is internationally understood.

In seconds the whole courtyard was full of people, aged mostly around 20 to 30, with green flags and red flags. Booths were instantly assembled and pamphlets handed out to the crowd (which somehow I managed to lose). It seemed to be a well-organized, peaceful protest until I saw a man carrying a board, taped at the base for a handle, with six large nails protruding at the head.

More homemade weapons began to appear amongst the gathered. I declined the offer of a fist-sized rock by a man with a backpack full. Some people were wearing helmets and at least one had taped a skateboard to his arm to use as a shield. Still, we felt no immediate danger. Rather, we were welcomed into the rebellion by the locals.

The police arrived quite quickly for having been 30 to 40 of them. The seemingly mellow, student-like crowd we were sitting with wasted no time in wrapping bandannas around their faces and joining the other rambunctious protesters.

The Bologna Police entered slowly behind a car from a narrow alley lined with small businesses, all of which were closed. They were armed and prepared with full riot gear, including helmets with face masks, clubs and shields. Then again, so were the rioters.

The protesters did not flee from the police. Instead, they grouped together and marched towards the outnumbered officers. We stayed close to the group while trying not to stand out. I was able to pull myself up by iron window bars as the alley was flooded with angry Italians. I managed to take a picture just before noticing a guy wearing a gas mask and decided that I had seen enough.

Looking around for a safety zone, I spotted the top of a tall tower peeking over building tops. Swimming through the crowd of protesters, we found the base of the fourth-tallest tower in Italy. It took some time to climb the Asinelli tower's 97 meters of narrow, spiraling staircase, but the view at the top was worth it.

By this time Brett and I agreed that Bologna was a lost cause, and decided not to spend any more time in the possible war-zone that was rapidly increasing in size. We descended the numerous antique stairs and made our way back to the Eurail station.

We took the first train out of town, but realized upon exiting the train that we had gone an hour in the wrong direction. I'm not positive, but I believe we ended up in a town called Modena.

Now two hours from Firenze, we learned that the next train home would not come for another six hours. We wandered the streets of the dark, empty town, searching for entertainment, with no luck, for what seemed like a half hour. Not one business was open except for a small bar, nestled quietly in a dark corner of town, filled with local patrons. It was obvious when we entered that they had not been expecting foreign visitors.

The bar was quaint and friendly aside from a few glares of indecipherable intention. Noticing a half-full, magnum-sized bottle of Jameson's Irish Whiskey upside down on tap, I felt confident that I would not seem too out of place ordering a shot. Before too long we began to receive interest in our American accents.

The bartender teased us a little, though it seemed like flirtation. She made it up to us with free drinks. We explained our situation to the locals, who were not surprised by the riot, though unable to give detail to what may have been the cause.

Almost five years later I would learn that the protest that day in the Piazza Maggiore was merely a demonstration honoring a concurrent, more extreme protest.

Reuters reported, " Italian police fire tear gas at protesters on May 13 to stop them from reaching the site of a meeting of the extreme-right group Forza Nuova in the northern Italian city of Bologna. The Italian news agency ANSA reports that up to three protesters and two policemen are injured in the clashes, and several shop windows are smashed on a major downtown street. Meanwhile, trade unions, provincial authorities and several left and center-left parties, including the Democrats of the Left of former Prime Minister Massimo D'Alema, Communist Refoundation and the Greens, hold a parallel rally in Bologna 's main square, near a memorial stone honoring the resistance against fascism.”

Gladly warming our bellies with exotic alcohols, the English bartender made it a point to keep my glass full. Perhaps it was out of empathy.

The stumble back to the Eurail station felt like it took longer than it probably did. Exhausted and intoxicated, we collapsed onto the hardwood benches and mumbled about our loss of a day. We made it back to the apartment in Firenze safely, and slept soundly through our first class the following morning. All in all, it was an experience worth remembering, and I would not rule out another visit to Bologna.

--the end

Before transferring to College of the Redwoods, Pezzimenti attended Foothill College in Los Altos. He is now a junior at HSU majoring in journalism and recovering from a near-fatal accident in which his small truck tumbled 200 feet down a cliff on U.S. Highway101.  Pezzimenti is also a self-taught musician who hopes to create enough original music to fill a CD.