I went to Florence for lunch

Pro tip: If you're traveling alone and want someone to take your picture, ask an Asian guy. They tend to know their way around a camera (ha!), will try different vantages and tend to take several shots for insurance. I'm not serious, but also kinda serious.

I've always wanted to write that. My journey started, of course, at Bologna Centrale, below. I remember a few events from Italy's "Years of Lead" in the 1970s and '80s, when political extremists on the left and right were killing one another with regularity. The kidnapping of Aldo Moro made a lasting impression because it was so thoroughly covered on the nightly news in the U.S., but I had nearly forgotten about the Bologna train station bombing that killed 85 people in 1980. A number of neo-fascists were implicated and convicted in that attack, though some were acquitted on appeal a decade later, and the case is still very much alive 39 years later.

Bologna Centrale, on the northern edge of the city's historic center.

Bologna's train station has both east and west platforms, making it a little trickier than your average Italian stazione. And the train you seek may be some distance down the tracks. It doesn't hurt to ask; Trenitalia employees are helpful and don't seem to hate their jobs.

I took the "slow" regionale train to Florence, which is something of a misnomer: It cruises at a brisk 80 miles an hour. But it stops at every two-bit water-tank town along the way, so the journey to Florence involves 15 stops, taking 100 minutes to go 73 miles.

Small craggy hills that start appearing around Pianoro give way to some thickly forested medium-sized mountains (3,000-4,000 feet) from the resort town of Grizzana Morandi to Prato, where my connection was a tight 4 minutes(!). Oh, the things we'll do to save a buck.

Right. Lunch.

Tagliatelle with truffles and porcini imushrooms. Oaky and earthy, like you're eating something you found in a forest.

This is my first time in Tuscany, so it seemed appropriate to toast the occasion with a Chianti. Dessert is a crostata di pere con nochi.

Tart crust with a plateau of sliced pears, custard and walnuts. "Incoming!" I warn my tummy.

What I'm about to say could trigger some passionate debate around the watercooler, but here goes: Florence is a bit prettier than the Arizona town that shares its name. I've always wanted to write that, too. Don't @ me.

The Ponte Alle Grazie spans the Arno. When I first laid eyes on the river, I was immediately ear-wormed by "O mio babbino caro," a thematic precursor to Madonna's "Papa Don't Preach" 70 years later. There are worse things.

Santa Maria Novella. The French Gothic-style pointed arches at right, and their decorations, look like echoes of ninth-century mosque architecture found in Cairo.

Ponte Vecchio, the pedestrian-only bridge spared by Hitler from bombing  by the retreating German army, is now the place where Instagram brags are born.

In 2019, the price for a 30-minute carriage ride is 50 euros.

Florence's Cathedral. Brunelleschi's massive red dome peeks out at left.

The sun sets on the Arno River, which flows west and empties into the Ligurian Sea.