When I arrived in Bologna, I immediately saw that the jet off-ramps and parking areas were covered with sheets of thick, icy slush.  The city apparently isn’t equipped for snow, or doesn’t go to Herculean efforts to remove it.  Jet tire tracks revealed just how thick the sheets were, which explained why we had spent an extra seven hours in Madrid’s airport.

Once we retrieved our bags, we headed to the taxi stand.  With 75 to 100 people in the queue and no taxis in sight, I held our position in line while Evelyn went in search of an alternative way into the city. She came back ten minutes later, informing me that our transport would be by city bus. We ran 200 yards to the stop where a bus was awaiting, but before boarding the already crowded bus, we first had to defeat a tricky ticket dispenser if we were to escape the airport’s chaos.  One transfer and about 45 minutes later, we arrived at the Art Hotel Orologlio. It is located just off Bologna’s largest square, anchored by the Basilica di San Petronio, a 14th Century church with an unfinished front facade.  Several people in the square frolicked in front of the large Christmas tree near the famous statue of Neptune.  Otherwise, the square was dark and eerily quiet, except for the occasional icy breeze.

Not so the next morning.  By midmorning, the hoards had arrived.  Some were travelers, but most were locals. The vicinity adjacent to the square is filled with block after block of stores, all set back from the streets by porticos protecting the store fronts and shoppers.  While the porticos protect pedestrians from the elements, if anyone took the time to look up and southeasterly, his or her eyes were pierced by the blindingly beautiful sunlight that raced northward, only to dance over, under and around the columns holding the stone canopies directly above.  People walking in the streets naturally became chiaroscuro figurines. I could photograph all day in that light, but by 12:30 PM, it was gone. Bologna is Italy’s acknowledged food capital, but what I will remember is the light.

In Chicago, the Mag Mile is where people shop, and Millenium Park and the Riverwalk are where they stroll.  There is no such division in Bologna.  People mill about, often in packs of ten or more, chatting, eating, and shopping.  No plastic bags here.  Everyone is holding two or three rectangular-shaped enclosures, with glossy sides bearing Italian names that Americans can only dream of.  

Even in their puffy winter coats, the Bolognese look fabulously sleek, a physical characteristic that belies the readily available and continuously ingested pasta, cured meats, pudding-like deserts, and wines.  The only thing slowing obesity’s onslaught is portion size.  A half a chicken in Bologna equates with half a chicken breast in Chicago. But if the cholesterol doesn’t kill the locals, the cigarettes will surely do the trick.  I have never seen so much swirling smoke in the sunlight.  

In Florence, nondescript stone walls face outward:  Why expose the beauty within to the vandals who might steal or deface it?  In that regard, Bologna is similar to Florence.  The streets are wider, but like Florence, they are lined with massive stone buildings.  Architecturally, there is one notable difference, as I have already noted: Bologna’s  porticos, protecting pedestrians (and during the Renaissance, horses) from the summer sun and winter snow.  These wonders, however, are not perfect.  Their high ceilings may shield the walks from snow, but they do not shield them from icy condensation.  I lost my balance several times, with my feet suddenly moving faster than the mass that balances atop them.

But the biggest difference between Florence and Bologna is not the coverings above the walkways, but rather how paint is applied to the walls.  In Florence, graffiti takes the form of a stencil, or even a mural.  In Bologna, the markings are true to graffiti’s origins: ugly scribbles.  Words, slashes, and more words memorialized in childlike scrawls.  It is ugly and pervasive.  Why does an obviously prosperous citizenry not scream, “Basta, basta!”?   What’s protected by those walls is Architectural Digest worthy, judging by even by my limited success in peaking through gates, doorway cracks, and other openings.   My findings were not surprising. How could there not be beautiful gardens, ornaments, and statutory with all the furniture, fabric, and Italian design stores lining the streets?

Despite living in magnificent surroundings, the Bolognese (the people, not the meat sauce, which is referred to as ragu) have succumbed to the graffiti’s scourges.   They accept not only the scribbles, but also dumpsters and cars parked along the streets just outside the historical city center, unkempt grass, and the flotsam of accumulated waste and garbage.  Litter is everywhere.  (I even encountered one discarded woman’s boot, only to discover its mate a block away—I wondered what must have transpired on that street the night before—could it have been a night of drunken debauchery? When retracing my steps several hours later, I noticed that someone had reunited the two boots, placing both next to a dumpster.) Those who look closely may see one of the city’s many canals. They are now largely covered over, but the one we discovered was filled with smoke-like patterns on the pools of filthy water that eventually seeps through slurry gates.

There is one place where the foreigner can venture behind the walls:  the Certosa di Bologna, which is a former Carthusian monastery founded in 1334. Since 1801, it is has served as the city’s monumental cemetery. Even the vandals show the dead respect, as is evidenced by the unmarked walls encircling the cemetery, as well as the unmarked tombs within.  No, “This way to Jim [Morrison]” here.  The cemetery may not have Père Lachaise’s terraced landscapes, but it is equally awe-inspiring, divided into a series of rectangular quadrants. The walls defining the interior spaces result in all sorts of opportunities for the light entering through skylights and oculi to dart down hallways and around memorials, accentuating the tombs and statuary. Unfortunately, I’d need repeated visits at different times of the day and year to fully appreciate all the angular, photographic opportunities. I had just three or four hours.  

Bologna’s residents love their porticos in life to such an extent that they do not want to forgo them in death; that architectural motif is pervasive in the cemetery.  The porticos protect the white marble Romanesque sculptures from the rain and snow. But the protection creates its own issue: the soot in the air comes to a rest on the stone and marble figures, but only on top of the lines and curves, adding a charcoal-toned accent, which the rain cannot cleanse. The soot is not just “decorative.” It willl cause the stone to decay like the bodies below, albeit slower.  

As for the aesthetic, the cemetery is an orderly mashup of ancient Pompeii, Mussolini Brutalism, and Italian travertine modernism.  In other words, perfect for extended exploration .  And when our feet tired from pounding the stones and marble slabs embedded in the walkways, a friendly caretaker whisked us in a motorized cart to one of his favorite memorials.  I had run into him earlier in the day when he offered me a map.

It was then time to head to the university district for cheap eats at Osteria d'Orso, a student hangout that certainly had a more interesting menu than the Memorial Union that I frequented as undergraduate for meals. A short walk then took us to the city’s opera house, where we saw a performance of Cavalleria Rusticana and Pagliacci, two short operas that are often paired. As is true throughout Europe’s relatively small opera houses, the acoustics were phenomenal, even from a loge on the fifth floor.

Our final half-day in Bologna was spent walking around the rather nondescript university district. We found two bright spots, however The first was a shop that sold vintage advertising posters and product containers. We walked in, only to be greeted by a corgi who ran over and sat down on my foot, looking lovingly in an upward direction at the potential that my hands might offer. The owner wasn't far behind. We had a nice chat for about half an hour about his business, which he had started 40 years ago. He told us that our next trip to Italy should be an auto excursion through the central rural regions. We may take him up on that. I wish I had some photographs of the shop, but photographing objects he had for sale struck me as inappropriate.

The second was a visit to the university’s ceremonial library, which was exquisite. We then had a quick lunch of cured meats and Coca Cola Zero before catching a late afternoon train to Ravenna.

Post Script: Rick Steves doesn’t even mention Bologna in his regional guide book. He is not alone. Guide book publishers give Bologna short shrift. I guess they figure people just want to visit Venice, Florence, Rome, and Cinque Terre. Travelers, however, are making a mistake when they do only what the guide books recommend. Bologna is a fabulous city. It does not have the “Top Ten” museums and sights, but it has some nice museums (we found an excellent photography exhibit of work by Steve McCurry, Elliot Erwitt, and Dario Mitidieri), noteworthy churches, and many interesting walks. We ran out of time so we couldn’t take the 2.5 mile pilgrimage to the Sanctuary of the Madonna of San Luca.

Bologna also is in close proximity to a number of small towns/cities associated with parmesan cheese, wine, cured meets, and balsamic vinegar, as well as Ferrari automobiles. The foodies have plenty of opportunity to eat at Michelin-starred restaurants, and for those of us who don’t want to spend four hours dining on fussy concoctions, there are many places to eat worthy food, including an Eataly outpost on the second floor of a bookstore.

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