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Bologna's porticoes

Via Santo Stefano. The entire city is not colonnaded; some streets are simply too narrow to allow for the overhangs. But where width allows, there will be porticoes on either side.

An editor once explained to me that that the lack of a singular possessive apostrophe in "Caesars Palace" was a well-considered choice by the casino-hotel in order to skirt the possibility of its name being construed as a palace belonging to a single Caesar-like big shot. Instead, the reasoning goes, each of the casino's patrons is a little Caesar unto himself, deserving of all the amenities and advantages the property allows.

If central Bologna has a main drag, it is probably Via Indipendenza.

A similar kind of egalitarianism is at work in the shade of Bologna's dozens of miles of porticoes, where the rich and poor alike can guard against sunburn and rain-streaked mascara. They provide a weighty, elegant feel to the city's streets and a bit of visual and physical drama. You step out of one portico ― entering a world of red buses and whizzing scooters ― and into the safe confines of another on the other side. At one location, the striking Meloncello Arc outside the city's gates, you can cross Via Saragozza without ever exposing your balding pate to the elements.

The Arco del Meloncello lets walkers and runners cross the street without ever having to be un-porticoed.



In most cases you will be walking on what appears to be a pinkish granite surface flecked with feldspar and quartz, or the kind of travertine you find in airports, but you do run across some interesting variations.

Sunburst pattern on Via Barberia.



If while in Bologna your fat ass is need of exercise, as I am, you can make the climb to the sanctuary of the Madonna di San Luca under a single 2.2-mile covered arcade. I don't know how one judges these things, but it has to be the longest in the world.

The farther you go, the steeper the San Luca arcade becomes. It's a nice workout. Soccer stadium at left.




The church itself held little interest for me aside from a few Calvaert paintings, but the views it affords of the surrounding countryside are squisito.
The Bologna hills, home of the prestigious Pignoletto grape.


 If you're not a copy editor (or "sub-editor" in the Commonwealth), you can stop reading now. I used the spelling "porticoes" because of its slight preponderance in American dictionaries and for no other reason. No consistent rules exist for plurals of words ending in "-o," only agreed-upon conventions. It is "buffaloes" but "innuendos," "potatoes" but "tuxedos." These are inexplicable differences but not close calls, usage-wise. But "porticos/porticoes," like "pecadilloes/pecadillos," fall in an unnaturalized middle ground and are therefore Dan Quayle-friendly. Phew. Dinnertime!

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