Unsolved mysteries

In a city of towers, the smaller ones gain little attention. This one belonged to the Catellani family, who used it as a warehouse in the 1200s. That's what an Italian-language plaque erected by the city of Bologna says, but like most accounts of the Middle Ages, it is speculative and incomplete. Was it ever inhabited? Was it lighted from within, and how? Did the Catellanis peer out from the top to look for enemies? What are all the fist-sized holes for? Ventilation? Support of wooden beams?

Hard to show the entire tower because the streets are so narrow. About six stories tall.

I am not even certain I want to know the elementary ABCs. If you learn what the abbreviation JPEG stands for, is your appreciation of the photo format deepened? Not at all! What life was like before the printing press can only be known by those who lived it, and they tell few tales. Bologna and Cairo are the most mysterious places I have visited, and both are best experienced by giving your imagination free rein and savoring them slowly.

The Torre Catalini is at Alleyway Spirito Santo 1.

This post is dedicated to my father, an intellectually curious physician and armchair historian who died four years ago today. Under his direction, our family read out loud to one another the Diary of Father Kino and Dumas' "The Three Musketeers." In Paris in the mid-1970s he delved into a book of French history that had Francois I on the cover, and I swear he made it halfway through :). I miss him.

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Street art

Mostly playful and juvenile, without the polish and ambition of Porto, yet still one senses that important urban psychodramas are being played out on the ochre walls of Bologna. A mask falls away from a modern-day Madonna living two lives. Unlock your brain and start thinking for yourself, urges a hollow, floating head on Via Manzoni, his eyes, mouth and skull open, providing a kind of hieroglyphic blueprint for doing so. Stickmen cops shoot at one another because ... well, there's a backstory there surely. The impulsive brushstrokes of the neighborhood tribalist are found here in great numbers of course. As in Amsterdam, Brussels and almost every major Western city, they become almost invisible after a couple of days. More accomplished works can be found on the rolling shutters shopkeepers pull down at night, many on the city's west side. A marimba-playing boar by Andrea D'Ascanio, aka Sardomuto. He's from Sardinia. The next four are by Aless...

Bar De Marchi

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...

The Duca D'Amalfi pasticceria

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...

336 hours in Bologna

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