The Reluctant Graduate

I may be mistaken, but I'm pretty sure there was no official graduation ceremony when I finished kindergarten. Icecream, maybe. Cap and gown, no.

In Italy, the only official graduation is the one from college and it's slightly different from the one in America or Singapore. For one thing, you're usually on your own, interrogated (yes, I don't use that word lightly) in front of a 'friendly' commission on your thesis while your family watches with bated breath to see if you will actually pass. If you do pass, they give you a mark, 110 being the highest (well done, Michele) then your family takes you out for coffee where they open a bottle of prosecco. But the real fun comes later. Like something out of Boccaccio's Decameron, your friends parade you through the cobble-stoned city streets, carrying you on their shoulders stripped down to just boxer shorts and wreath around your neck (the smart graduates wear bathing suits under their elegant attire) while chanting incredibly scurrilous verses about you. You are then, either covered in shaving cream or hosed down with water, and unceremoniously dumped in a dumpster. I kid you not. I have witnessed this firsthand.

All I can say is, thank God I went to Vassar.