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About Bologna

In her dingy flat, all’s a blur—smells o’ gin and regret. She’s quick, no faff, like balancin’ books at month’s end. “Time’s winged chariot,” I mutter, quotin’ the flick, and she’s like, “Wot? Shut up and shag.” Hah! Fair play, lass. Done in ten mins—bang, crash, over. I’m lyin’ there, pantin’, thinkin’ o’ Jean blinkin’ his one eye, trapped, while I just bought me way outta me cage fer a tick.

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She was also the patron goddess of prostitutes, an association which led early scholars to propose the concept of sacred prostitution in Greco-Roman culture.

As the sun starts to set, I’m walking back home, and I can’t help but feel grateful. Monte-Urano, with its winding streets and quirky people, has a way of surprising you. I mean, one minute you’re spilling coffee, and the next you’re laughing with kids and eating the best pizza ever.

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