Bologna

Driving in Italian cities is a tricky proposition. Streets are narrow, zones can be restricted, and the locals seemingly engage in creative driving as a sport. The hotel advised parking near the train station; I researched garages in the vicinity and used the navigation function on my now-enabled cell phone to home in on my destination.

Bologna Centrale is a major hub, and the station was bustling. There were a couple of unsavory-looking young men loitering about, but they were outnumbered by officers in uniform. It was straightforward to buy a ticket from the automated machine and bypass the line at the ticket counter. After scouting the platforms, I started to believe that I could board the right train tomorrow.

I stepped out of the station just as an open-air tour bus pulled up. Brilliant! Plug in the earphones and tune the channel to your native language. The tour oriented me to the city and its sights; by the time it was done, I had enough confidence to explore it on foot. Most businesses close for a few hours at mid-day; I enjoyed a sandwich and cooled down with a new discovery, granita.

Bologna is not a top destination for foreign tourists. I knew I had blended well when some young Communists tried to hand me their leaflets.

There are some 23 miles of porticos throughout the city; back in the day, they were required on all buildings. They knew what they were doing—today they provided welcome relief from the hot summer sun. I learned that Bologna is the birthplace of Nobel prize winner Marconi (wireless telegraphy), and home to the oldest (still operating) university in Europe (dating back to the 11th century). I was startled to realize that I had passed through a section of the train station that was the site of a fatal bombing in 1980.

Next on my agenda was Post Italiane. The drill at the main post office would be familiar to anyone who has visited the California DMV: determine the right category for the service you need and take a number. I presented the clerk with three identical postcards addressed to the USA. He carefully weighed each and every one of them (!) and affixed the requisite postage.

How do the Bolognese regard their city, I wonder? With its mixture of old and new, do the antiquities become a nuisance? Crumbling medieval walls, a leaning tower, monuments, fountains. Daily life flows around all of it, with hardly a second glance.