You almost felt the collective groan of the city as the first raindrops fell onto the crowded Via Ugo Busso late last night. “O dio”s, swift scarved covering of blow-dried hair, the exodus to the nearest portico-covered sidewalk all told you rain was not Bologna’s wanted Saturday night guest. I begrudgingly felt the wet shock of the first rain in Bologna, a sentiment which may have explained my slip describing the weather, using “piangere” rather than “piovere” (me: Oh no! it’s crying! Sara: no.. ) It continued to this morning, and waking up to rolls of thunder and rain pattering on my window under my university-issue quilt, which I suspect is a recycled curtain from the 60s, made me want to stay in bed forever. Sundays are the slowest of days in Italy, the weekend’s end, the last column on calendars here, when everything’s closed but mass and, today, even our windows are shut. It’s the start of cold mornings, of hugging blankets closer and of watching leaves make their way from branches to golden collections on cobblestone streets to completely abandoning naked shivering trees. But Sundays will stay slow-paced as Italy, asking for little but easy wake ups and week reflections.