In Bologna the Streets Are Alive at 12:30 AM
Bologna is well known in Italy as a center--a center geographically, a place where nearly all railroads and major highways intersect, in short the center of it all. Yet to Americans, few even know about this city. One person we told thought we were going to Germany when she heard the name.
Last night we hopped between osterias, beginning with a little hole in the wall called Olindo Faccioli, where we sat in the back in a big square table. This place has been here since 1924, the son of the founder brought us lambrusco and little puffs of fried dough and breadsticks. Outside a protest against Facisism was marching by, led by carabineiri, mostly young men and women tatooed and following a man on a truck yelling into speakers, alternating with rap music. Our wine bar was right next to one of the city's towers, these lean precariously and have many legends behind them of how they were built and paid for.
The city was bustling on this the longest day of the year. In the huge San Petronio basilica there is a tiny hole in the ceiling. On this day a beam of light spreads across a path marked on the floor, all the way down to the end. On a wall there is a fresco that depicts Mohammed naked and about to be eaten by the devil, a rare depiction of he who is not supposed to be depicted. Would-be bombers were foiled a few years ago when they tried to bomb this the fourth largest Christian church in the world. Now one must enter through a check point, and the evocative fresco is surrounded by fences.
We walked the busy narrow streets as scooters whizzed past and ended up at an outside table at Il Cantinone, a friendly place where we had pasta and absurdly large plates of salad. Pasta here is so al dente, I found out that it isn't just how they cook it, it's that they use a harder grain. So good, god the pasta is so good, we sat out there and finally walked home at 12:30. People were still sitting and talking politics in the square.
Last night we hopped between osterias, beginning with a little hole in the wall called Olindo Faccioli, where we sat in the back in a big square table. This place has been here since 1924, the son of the founder brought us lambrusco and little puffs of fried dough and breadsticks. Outside a protest against Facisism was marching by, led by carabineiri, mostly young men and women tatooed and following a man on a truck yelling into speakers, alternating with rap music. Our wine bar was right next to one of the city's towers, these lean precariously and have many legends behind them of how they were built and paid for.
The city was bustling on this the longest day of the year. In the huge San Petronio basilica there is a tiny hole in the ceiling. On this day a beam of light spreads across a path marked on the floor, all the way down to the end. On a wall there is a fresco that depicts Mohammed naked and about to be eaten by the devil, a rare depiction of he who is not supposed to be depicted. Would-be bombers were foiled a few years ago when they tried to bomb this the fourth largest Christian church in the world. Now one must enter through a check point, and the evocative fresco is surrounded by fences.
We walked the busy narrow streets as scooters whizzed past and ended up at an outside table at Il Cantinone, a friendly place where we had pasta and absurdly large plates of salad. Pasta here is so al dente, I found out that it isn't just how they cook it, it's that they use a harder grain. So good, god the pasta is so good, we sat out there and finally walked home at 12:30. People were still sitting and talking politics in the square.
posted by Max Hartshorne at 2:24 AM
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