In many of the cities I’ve visited in Italy, there are several main squares and historical sites where the ostentatious culmination of the art and architectural marvels of the region is on full display. Meanwhile, the rest of these historic city centres are densely packed with seemingly endless rows of flats built right on top of the street with barely any room for walking, let alone cars, trucks, bicycles and the odd vespa. However, just behind each set of flats or offices, there is usually a gorgeous natural surprise, for many of the city blocks are built surrounding an interior cloister, open only to the residents. In this case, Università Cattolica has several beautiful courtyards (I really hate the word quadrangle) all linked together by the surrounding classrooms overlooking the manicured interior beauty.
This is where we meet with the rest of Veronica’s family: mum, dad, aunt, sister, brother in law, two nephews and a niece, making three whole niblings in all. I had been told in advance that the boys were beginning to learn English in school so I introduce myself in passable Italian and offer to practice with them while we wait. Since I’m a strange foreigner, the kids are rightfully shy, but we all soon warm to each other up as I keep stumbling through the beginnings of conversation. While the adults all applaud my small progress in Italian, the kids (I imagine often corrected for their imperfect use of the language) find the silly mistakes of someone much older a veritable laugh riot. I always enjoy speaking with kids in Italian because I find it both adorable and hilarious (how the heck does that tiny thing know Italian and I don’t!?), and I’m constantly surprised at the meaningful conversations we’re able to have, even at that basic level. Kids love teaching others, and I’m happy to learn from them. Thankfully their nervousness subsides and we have fun drilling each other in the fundamentals until it is time to continue on.
I’ve almost forgotten the most important thing! The last time we were in Milan for such an occasion, I wore my standard regular tie. Marco is less particular when it comes to fancy dress, so I wanted to save something special when planning my wardrobe for today. As a result, I brought bow-ties! I wasn’t entirely decided on which to wear, so Antonella and I brought a selection from which our new graduate-to-be can choose. She selects my favourite: a gift from friends from NOLA, bright pink with little green alligators on it. After awkwardly tying my papillon (pronounced in the French fashion) while gazing into the black mirror of my phone, I straighten my tie, face and hair and we are off to the next phase.
While the facade through which we enter is less grandiose than the buildings surrounding Marco’s graduation, it is immediately clear that this is definitely not a public school, fancy hidden lawns notwithstanding. Leaving the square and walking upstairs toward the auditorium we are greeted and guarded by imposing statues of saints, popes and university presidents past. The high ceilings creating a lofty headspace within and without our plebeian skulls, we wait together nervously before an imposing door and an equally imposing porter, both demanding sublime respect and silenzio!
Mercifully, Veronica is the first one called, and just her family and friends enter along with her. She sets up her computer and readies her presentation before the stoic guard of deans and professors in their fancy robes and frilly cravats, signalling their high office. All are seated; Veronica begins.
Visibly nervous with a subtle shimmer to her voice, Veronica quickly recovers to command complete confidence now that years of careful study and meticulous preparation are on full display.
After fifteen minutes of dense high-register Italian pass, there is an imposing silence.
Here’s how it’s supposed to work: in the panel of adjudicators there is your sponsor, your favoured professor, and your antagonist, in this case the bloody dean of the whole college. The others are there to be convinced. Your sponsor breaks the ice complimenting your work and the research that you’ve completed under her wise and patient tutelage, and then lobs a very gentle softball question at you. After your expert reply, the antagonist of the group does their best to pick apart everything you’ve dedicated the past five years of your life to and unnerve you with the most difficult nit-picky question they can muster. After you answer you gain points based upon how well the rest of the panel is convinced of your expertise.
Here’s how it happens: Veronica’s sponsor praises her breakthrough research for about seven minutes, and is then interrupted by the dean, the antagonist. The first words out of her mouth? Devo concordare, I must agree. The woman holding the loftiest position in the building, if not one of the highest in the city, goes on to praise Veronica and all the amazing progress she has done in her studies for another ten minutes! To say that everyone is pleased is an understatement.
We leave back to the antechamber, where a professional photographer (definitely not a public school) takes photos of all the family and friends before we make our way in jubilation back to the cloister to relax a moment.
Since there are signs all around the courtyard sternly advising us not to yell, we can’t bring Veronica back down to earth from her nigh-angelic high by simply screaming obscenities, so Antonella and Marco have prepared an alternate solution: a proper humiliation, as is tradition.
From the heavy bag I’ve been carrying all this time, out come apron, thermos, paper cups, an obnoxious balloon, and wry smiles. A little embarrassed, but a good sport all along, Veronica traverses the halls selling coffee, hopefully for the last time. It’s only one euro, and being served by a proper doctor! I drink two.
Now we’re off to celebrate properly with a standard Milanese aperitivo.
A few short notes to round out the post:
- we watch an older lady throw a fit over the little bowl of couscous she’s served, since her generation just can’t fathom the notion of eating anything that hasn’t been “Italian” for at least 300 years (I’m looking at you tomatoes, potatoes, and corn)
- the cutest little girl hits me in the face repeatedly calling me stupid and ugly, as if those are her first words (I’m pretty sure they must be and were taught by her mischievous older brothers). Marco later assures me that while I may be stupid I’m not that ugly
- Veronica’s party favours are amazing–cute little boxes with the traditional red confetti!
- on the way to the metro we walk by the knitting needle square…
- driving home we pass through several large industrial farms and Marco brings the whole day to a close, accusing me of such incredible flatulence to have infected the whole of northern Italy, and I can’t think of a better way to end such a special day
A Nix in Brixia 
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