Baloney

Pulled in to Bologna around 11am after comfortable but dull flight from Boston to Frankfurt and a spectacular flight over the Alps to Bologna. I’m staying in the middle of the oldest part of the city, just a block from the immense main square, Everyone -- really, everyone, hangs out in the square, either to be seen or to watch, or both.

Being in Italy is like finding yourself transported to some enormous theatrical production, where everyone -- except you, of course -- is a character in full dress and make-up. There is not one person here who wouldn’t stand out in any other country in the world.

First time in a city for me is pretty standard: nose pressed to the window of the cab/bus/train on the ride in from the airport, dump the suitcase at the hotel and quickly wash off the Grime of Travel, then head out to the streets and explore, explore, explore. The route chosen is made up on the spot, with streets taken because they look sort of interesting. Finding interesting streets is not a problem in Bologna: the city is filled with archways, old stuff, and narrow alleys.

Got hungry after an hour, stopped at a sidewalk café, and got this unbelievable small plate of tagliatelle -- gorgeous egg pasta, perfectly cooked, with a meat sauce that actually stuck to the noodles and didn’t fly off in every direction whenever a fork came near it. Washed down with a beer. For 9 euros.

Why are all Italians thin when they do nothing but eat pasta and ice cream all day? Well, maybe not all are thin-thin, but you know. The end.