Been here only 24 hours and unless I have been tricked, this is the real dolce vita. Already I am scaling back my day-trip plans because Bologna is a city built on a human scale with a healthy civic life, and I wll need nearly all 336 hours I have available to unpack it.
I am staying in an Airbnb apartment on the west side of the city center. This area is called the Pratello, and it appears to be occupied by a nice mix of pensioners and young families. Aside from the blood-curdling scream of a woman at 2 a.m. last night, it has been dead quiet. Motorized traffic is almost nil because of a number of restrictions. The Pratello's heartbeat, I think, is the San Francesco basilica, built over a 40-year span in the 1260s.
The vaulting, ribbed with bricks (I assume in the 19th century), is something to behold. That the bricks stayed in place during the 2012 earthquake is un miracolo.
Chapels in the ambulatory. The tomb of Pope Alexander V is somewhere around here.
The reason why San Francesco resonates with me is the public space it creates. And between 5 to 6 p.m., no one utilizes these spaces better than the Italians, who have perfected the art of just hangin' out. Maybe it's the jet lag, but scenes like this choke me up a little.
Great atmosphere, just a 30-minute walk from the Pratello, and hey, it's quality Serie A football. Fans of the visiting team are kept in a literal cage for their protection. Vendors in the city can be found here (enter "Emilia Romagna" as your region). I got my ticket at L'Occitane Voyages at Via Della Lame 2. Bring your passport. Your name is printed on your ticket so you'll also need some kind of identification at the stadium. The Rosso e Blu fell behind, then boat-raced Empoli in the second half, with all four goals coming right in front of me. On the way home, every scooter on Via Costa tooted its horn.
Piazza Celestini, almost directly in the city center. Good spot for prayin', pastries. I am the least foodie-est person I know and remain shockingly untutored in manners of Italian cuisine, so it's a bit odd that when in Italy I lie awake at night thinking about what I'm going to eat the next day. This country makes you do it. Staring at the ceiling last night it occurred to me that I have never had a sfogliatella (or even a latte macchiato, for chrissake) and was able to remedy those two shortcomings by popping into Il Duca D'Amalfi in Bologna's very pretty Celestini square. Entering this shop, the only thing I knew about sfogliatella is that Christopher Moltisanti thought it worth shooting a pastry clerk over a box of the stuff in Season 1 of "The Sopranos" ― so I really wanted one. As far as the latte macchiato goes, I had no idea I would be afforded the tactile pleasure of pouring my own shot of espresso into a glass of frothy steamed milk. No...
My slender experiences in Italy lead me to believe that the word "bar" signals that a place serves coffee and snacks, and that it also happens to pour wine, beer and aperitifs. This chill pub on Piazza San Francesco got my business today. It is gearing up for a big Liberation Day party coming up Thursday to celebrate the collapse of Fascist rule and the end of the Nazi occupation. Sounds like a simple victory lap in a neighborhood rife with antifa-friendly graffiti, but maybe not. Takeaway alcohol sales have been banned on April 25 previously, so maybe things have gotten out of control, not sure. Motorists in the Pratello are warned that all traffic will be prohibited, and even bicyclists in the neighborhood are advised to vacate the racks. Don't know what that will accomplish or where they’re supposed to put their bikes. On a sunny day, Bar De Marchi is a great place for a cold Pignoletto or a Campari spritz. If you order a birra, they’ll pour you a Dolimiti Pi...
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