Laurea di Marco

Antonella’s brother Marco is graduating today! Not only is this an exciting thing for the family, since he’s the youngest, but I get to dress up all fancy-like! Seriously, why else would I carefully pack a suit to bring across the Atlantic if not to put it on at every conceivable occasion? I even brought my bow tie collection!

Dressing up nicely is all well and good, but getting to the whole affair is another matter entirely. For Marco attends the University of Milan, and that’s an hour’s drive from Brescia, via a surprisingly convoluted series of private highways (thanks, Berlusconi).

Despite the Italians being historically well known for their worldly navigation (after all, all roads lead to Rome), the trait itself must be recessive, for it doesn’t seem to have been passed down to this generation of those living in the Apennine peninsula. Needless to say, Monica gets us lost. She is literally commanding the full power of Google’s omniscience, and we end up an hour behind schedule, and ten euros overpaid in undue tolls. That’s okay though, because we love her. Also, while being scheduled for 9AM sharp, Marco won’t actually be called for another four hours.

Just as we’re entering Milan, we hit some traffic, and a truck approaches us, imploring we roll down the window to better hear them. The surprisingly gentle young man, instead of lambasting us as I had assumed, cautiously mentions that our back right wheel is wobbling oddly, and we should probably get it checked out, for fear of the darn thing popping right off. But lo! What light from yonder garage breaks? ‘Tis a mechanic handily stationed by the side of this very road!

After a brief moment with another surprisingly helpful gentleman, we determine there is definitely something wrong, and while it should fixed post haste, there is unfortunately nothing we can do at this particular moment, so I begin to pray. Theologically I’m not typically a huge proponent of this particular prayer of direct intercession, but in this case I’m willing to hedge my bets as there is a lot of driving left to do today.

We make our way merrily along, vibrating all the while. At this point, we’re still only about an hour late to our original appointment date, so well within the bounds of Italian time–heck we’re not yet even fashionably late!

After a short while, it seems to me like we’re in a university-looking district of a city that is almost certainly Milan. Phew! Since it’s still rush hour in one of the busiest cities in the country, there’s not much parking around, and while I don’t quite understand the hubbub coming from the backseat (my long legs reserve my station upfront), it seems as though we should just hurry up and park and walk the rest of the way. Great!

Not so fast! There’s a lady standing in the middle of the only available parking spot that we’ve seen yet. Here’s the kicker: the streets are designed in such a way that in order to enter the parking by the side of the road, one must actually drive onto the “sidewalk” as there are cement bollards protecting the moving vehicles from the stationary, with pedestrians on their own in this infrastructural madness. Regardless, it’s not easy to get out at this point without at least attempting a 5-point turn within the spot that is currently being so boorishly blocked!

I hate confrontation, so my heart is immediately racing. The rest of the car, however, is of Neapolitan heritage, so they are able to convince the lone lane legionary that she is not yet ready to die, and we park.

If this were to be a novel, I’d continue the narrative of our walk to the university, but I feel this post is getting long, so I’ll sum things up: we get lost two more times, and once more on the walk back after the following events.

While I myself have not yet finished higher education, those with whom I’ve spoken have said that their thesis defence wasn’t the most relaxed affair, so if you can, imagine this scene:

Seated at the front of a large classroom are six bored, tired, hungry, antagonistic professors. Directly opposite them across their long and intimidating table, is a single chair, meant for a single hapless undergraduate. Behind them, watching the scene being set, in a stifling, hot and humid room, is a cramped mass of people, craning their necks and lending their ears to the madness unfolding. Not only are there fellow students waiting their turn, but those students’ friends and family as well, eagerly pining for better positions should their protege proceed.

Let’s not forget, immediately outside the thin and hollow doors swells an even greater multitude of well-wishers and ego-deflators. As each candidate exits their respective class successfully, a cacophony arises reminding them of their humble beginnings with a chant of, “DOTTORE, DOTTORE, DOTTORE DEL BUCO DEL CUL! VAFFANCUL! VAFFANCUL!” While they can technically be called a doctor, they are still but mere mortals despite their recent triumph. Needless to say, the noise outside doesn’t lend itself well to concentrating on one’s intense interrogation.

Second to last, it’s finally Marco’s turn. We’ve been sweating now for three hours, and the room is mercifully emptying so I can allow my armpits some breathing room (fancy dress does not lend itself well to breeziness). Calmly, in a decidedly Marco manner, our protagonist delivers two copies of his project to the cadre of inquisitors before him. And did I mention they’re feeling antagonistic?

I’m not sure what Marco has done to these poor profs in the past years of his schooling, but they are not going easy on him. The air in the room changes drastically from the perfunctory (if sweaty) nature during his classmates’ turns. Leaning in as far as I can doesn’t help me much, as their scholarly and rapid-fire questioning of Marco is lost on my ignorant ears. Maintaining a level of cool aplomb I’ve yet to see outside of a Bond film, Marco readily answers each point and manages to make the panel laugh! Damn that kid is charming.

It turns out in the end, my anxiety wasn’t quite necessary, as Marco’s receiving his laurels was never in doubt. At this point it’s really a matter of degrees: his defence can simply add points to his overall score, meaning the difference to a simple cum laude, or one prefixed with magna or summa (or whatever Latin verbiage the Italians prefer–I forgot to ask).

After waiting some more, we’re all called back into the classroom and the papers are handed out to resounding applause. The graduates don their laurels (literally) and we all head outside to celebrate.

Things went much longer than expected, so our lunch and dinner plans are all mixed up, so we’ve opted for a food truck sandwich, and have to settle for watching others pop their prosecco in the park around us.

We all head back to Brescia, where a larger contingent of the family joins us for a delightful aperitivo (and my first Italian Manhattan!) and gift giving.