Bologna: Porticos! Cars! HAMMMMM!!!!

 Day 1-  Arrival and Recon

So the Bologna area is known for several things- most notably its culinary delights, which include several of the most treasured elements of Italian food culture: Parma ham, Parmigiano Reggiano  (Do NOT say Parmesan Cheese if you know what's good for you), Balsamic Vinegar, and olive oil.  So pretty much everything but pasta.  Also, in nearby Modena, is "motor valley," an industrial center that includes the factories of Ferrari and Lamborghini.  

And... porticos!  If you like a covered walkway, and you like it elaborate, Bologna is the town for you!  Why walk down the street with the sun beating down on you?  Why bring an umbrella if it might rain?  Window shop in complete comfort with Porticos!  

We arrived in Bologna via yet another slick high-speed train, which whisked us to our destination in comfort and speed (we have GOT to get some of these).   The accommodations, another short-term rental apartment, were again convenient, well-located, and an interesting insight to how your average European lives (like you, but a lot smaller, and in a A LOT older building.   

We still had half a day, so we dumped the packs, and walked a long loop around the relatively compact city center.  (sorry, "centre")  Pretty sure our legs and feet have toughened up from all the walking we have been doing over the last few weeks, as now walking 5 or 6 miles over cobblestones doesn't faze us anymore.  Of course, there is the central plaza, with its bizarre cathedral that apparently ran into some severe budget cuts halfway through construction- the lower half is all Gothic marble and the upper half more of a rustic brick.   There are some great food markets immediately nearby, and all sorts of great places to eat, particularly if you are in the mood for some pasta with Bolognase sauce or a big charcuterie plate featuring the local products.   

Day 2- Bologna sick day, odd museums, and hanging in the U district

Unfortunately, I was feeling under the weather on this day- I thought over the previous 2 days I might be allergic to something in Italy, but it was actually just me coming down with a cold.  It hit more in full force, with a really sore throat and lots of sneezing, but damned if I am going to let a head cold keep me from a precious day of the itinerary.  Anyway I had the cough drops I had gotten from the Farmacia the day before, which was a funny experience- here, all medicines of any sort are only available at the separate pharmacy, identified by light-up green crosses outside.  Asking for cough drops from the white-coated people behind the desk provoked a sober discussion of several pharmacists.  Then, the opening of a oaken drawer in an antique pharmacy cabinet, the removal of the very medical-looking cough drops, and a somber handing over of the medicine (with both hands) with detailed instructions.   Have to admit, kinda prefer just winging a bag of Riccolas into the shopping cart at the Super 1.  

Anyway, today was pretty mellow and unstructured.  We were a little classical-museum weary after the super museum day in Florence, so our general plan was to go to some minor ones in Bologna, and generally have a nice walk around this gorgeous city on a lovely summer day.   One very nice stop was the old university, which aparently had focused on law and medicine.   The medicine part was represented in an extraordinary operating theater made entirely of exquisitely carved hardwoods, except for the very center, where a granite slab was placed on a raised platform.  This is where anatomy demonstrations would be performed, and the steep bleachers on either side would be filled with students, or, apparently, interested aristocrats with kind of grim ideas of entertainment.  This being Renaissance Italy, of course the chamber was decorated with life-sized statures of Greek and Roman healers in alcoves the walls, and in alcoves in the ceiling, wooden sculptures of the mythological creatures of astrological constellations.   There was a large roofed pulpit on one end where I imagine a professor would lecture, flanked by two other wooden statues of "flayed men" in natural poses holding up the roof- sort of like that ghoulish "Bodies" exhibit popular in America.  

The law rooms, (and every other hall, waiting room, courtyard, etc.  was covered with coats of arms of the landed proffessors and students who attended the university.  There seemed to be one large display per class, constructed of carved food, or as a fresco, or metal, or carved stone.  They said the idea was to add prestige to the university, to demonstrate that it was limited to the Quality in both faculty and student body.   In any event, it's aparently by far the largest display of hearaldry in the world.   I kinda face-palmed when I thought our American equivalent is to spray-paint a derelict car "Class of '87 4-Ever!!"   

 We saw many other sights- the landmark 2 towers, for instance-  Move over, Pisa, Bologna has 2 of them, and the shorter one is now at such an alarming angle that civil engineers have ordered shipping containers piled all around it in case it tumbles over before they can shore up the foundations.   You used to be able to go up in them to get a great view, but now the whole thing is closed off.   

Another attraction was the "new" and present university district, which houses the University of Bologna.  The campus is comprised of the same portico-ed centuries-old buildings and narrow streets as the rest of the historic downtown, except that they are designated as the various departments of the large schoool.  It seems to me an amazing place to go to school, or have spent a semester abroad.  It's summer, of course, so the campus is fairly quiet, but there are still lots of restaurants and cafes full of young people in the area.  Bologna is also historically the center of the Italian political left, so there are lots of posters and placards about that are consistent with that.  A really nice end of town, all in all.  

Again, since I was feeling pretty under the weather, we packed it in fairly early that night after a nice dinner downtown.  

Day 3- Ham, Cheese, and bonus hang time in Parma

One of Jen's must-do's for the trip was to visit the dairies where the Parma Cheese was made, and the tours we were able to easily find also included a trip to the Parma Ham factory for which the region is equally famous.  So it was an early start in the morning so we could catch the train from Bologna to Parma, where we got picked up near the train station by our guide in a van.

We got some other folks at a hotel, and went off into the countryside to a family dairy operation that was ideal for demonstration the cheese-making process from beginning to end.  First we saw the cows, which have to be specific breeds and have a specific diet, since this all has a crucial effect on the taste of the end product.  Indeed, many cows were munching a lot of hay and alfalfa.  

But inside, we saw the dairy workers at their craft.  This particular dairy pretty much maxed out at six wheel of cheese a day, which doesn't sound like a lot until you realize each wheel starts out at over 100 lbs, and it takes about 50 times as much milk to make the same mass of cheese.  It's all pretty simple with the cheese-making really- the milk and rennet is cooked in big copper cauldrons until the curds form, the curds are skimmed and drained in (you guessed it-cheesecloth), it' placed in a mold, and weighed down until it conforms to the mold.  Next, into a brine-bath for a good long while, then pretty much it's aged in specific temperature and humidity for generally a couple years (the older, generally, the higher quality).

What I thought was more fun was the regulatory process.  Apparently there exists a "Consortium" of local Cheesemasters who strictly define what makes a true Parmigiano Reggiano.  There is a great difference, our guide told us, in graven tones, between Parmigiano Reggiano, and this abbonination we might know as "Parmesan Cheese."  Parmigiano Reggiano is the finely-crafted product of scores of generations of local artisans.  Parmesan Cheese is a registered trademark of the Kraft Foods Corporation, and is composed of sawdust and the dehydrated tears of children broken to the wheel of late-stage capitalism.   To consume Parmigiano Reggiano is to sample ambrosia straight from the Elysian Fields.  "Parmesan Cheese" is fit only for consumption by the condemned souls of Hades and the criminally insane.  Or maybe Americans.  

The shadowy members of The Consortium arrive with small silver hammers and tap each and every wheel of Parmigiano Reggiano, and listen with sensitive eardrums to the sound of cheese excellence or cheese shame.  The wheels meeting their somber approval receive a special stamp, which I can only imagine is kept in an ancient velvet bag and opened with a tiny crystal key.  Cheese not quite making the grade is scored  along the rind, demoted to Parmigiano Reggiano Second Grade, and devoured by peasants.  Cheese below this standard is denied the Hallowed Name, the rind is entirely removed, and the cheese is fed to Americans.  

It is whispered that a CheeseMaster who fails too often will also see these silver hammers- Late at night.  Behind the barn.  One. Last. Time.    This is how young CheeseMasters advance... for a time.  

Long-time readers of this blog might know that I did an extended bike tour in 2014 in Spain, Morocco, and Portugal.  In Spain and Portugal, I observed every bar and every restaurant there was a large ham in a sturdy decorative stand, which would hold it firmly so a skilled person with very sharp knife could carve it ever so thinly and serve it with robust red wines.   Being the innocent I was, and pretty much the only foreigner travelling the rural areas in November, I would employ my high school Spanish to enquire what exactly this local delicacy was, and perhaps might I sample some of the product.  "Absolutely!" was the answer, only I was then under a lot of scrutiny in the lightly-populated wine bar.   I tasted the savory treat, and, recognizing the flavor immediately, and my cheeks flushed with excellent wine, exclaimed, "Oh, it's prosciutto!"

Such a long, tense silence followed.  Such a narrowing of eyes.  Such a souring of every visage present.  "Senor," the bartender finally said, "you are... mistaken.  This," he said, waving the sharp, sharp knife at the proud slab of meat, "is Jamon Iberico.  It is produced" -here he choked back a sob of indignation, "by a reversed process for many centuries, and IS, MY FRIEND, the finest ham in the world."   He took a breath, composing himself.   "This prochuitto of which you speak.  It is but a pale imitation of the One True Ham.  Now we are going to forget this conversation ever happened, comprende?  But you.  You don't forget it."  I made sure to camp well out of town that night.  

Well, it turns out Italians also take their cured ham extremely seriously.  If you go into an Italian supermarket, there is an entire section of the store dedicated to the myraid ham variants available here.  The deli will have hanging a variety of whole hams you can have sliced to order.  Ham and cheese platters (we might call them charcuterie, except it generally doesn't come with anything but meat and cheese) are universally available.  The ubiquitous quick lunch places serve, inevitably- pizza, and ham sandwiches.  Italians LOVE ham.  

So all of this is a very roundabout way of saying our next stop in Parma was sure as *&^(* going to be the ham factory.  More accurately, where they cure the hams, which were raised and butchered elsewhere- the curing houses traditionally had large open windows to help dry the meat, so the pig farms needed to be some distance away, for reasons anyone who has driven within a mile of a pig farm is aware.   So the ham cuts (the rear leg and buttock of a pig) show up, and the process is pretty much 1) trim the fat just so, 2) salt the ever-loving crap out of it, 3) store the ham in a very clean temperature controlled space for weeks, 4) remove from storrage, repeat steps 2 and 3 until at least 400 days, (and sometimes 36 months!) have gone by.   You would think moldy meat that has been barely refrigerated that is a year old would not be super great, you, my friend, have clearly not tasted Parma Ham.   We did!!  At the end of the tour you get wine and a entire plate of meat!     

And did you believe for a second that there is not ALSO an ancient Consortium that regulates the quality of each and every Parma Ham?!  No!!!! These Protectors of the Pork are armed with needles about 6 inches long which (not making this up) are carved from the shinbone of a horse (or actually it's kind of their metacarpal- ungulates are weird) because the smell of the ham only lingers for but a second on the bone, and then it is fresh for another stab and another sniff.  The pokes are done in very precise places, the sniffs completed in a practiced movement, and the tiny hole then immediately plugged with salt, all with in a few seconds.  

As with the cheese, success yields a stamp and solemn nods of approval from the shadowy figures who I can only assume wear sackcloth cowls to mask their visage from God and Man.  Failure, we were told, pretty much incapacitates the Consortium Representative, for his nasal instrument is a sensitive thing, and the reek of corrupted flesh breaks it like a porcelain toy hurled upon the stones of incompetence.  I can imagine the stricken Guardian can do little but faint away into the arms of several acolytes, only to be nursed slowly back to health on a low diet of olives and watered wine.  Unlike the cheese, which can be downgraded, a bad ham is a bad ham, and MUST BE DESTROYED, our guide told us.   Though he was cagey about how, I knew that clearly the offending ham must be carried to the top of Mt. Etna by underlings, and there cast into the boiling lava and into the arms of Pluto.  The HamMaster responsible for this tragedy?  Of course, the Consortium guards its secrets better than to blurt them to tourists... 

In any event, the tour deposited us back in Parma, and having a few hours before the train back to Bologna, we had a very pleasant walk around the historic downtown, a nice beverage in a sidewalk cafe,  and a walk through yet another spectacular cathedral with oils by Rennisannce masters hanging from its many altars.  There is a particularly nice park we walked through on the way back to the station, but it had an unexpected army base on one side of it, and circumventing that made us hustle to make our train- but happily, we made it, and settlled in as usual, at a ridiculously early hour by Italian standards in Bologna. 

Day 4- CARS!!! also vinegar

So we wanted to see some other sights in the general Bologna region, and as excellent as the public transit system is in Italy, it is pretty inconvenient if you want to see things distributed about the rural landscape that are somewhat far apart.  And, since some of the things we wanted to see were automobile-related, we decided just to roll with the theme and rent a car for the day.   

Some surprises there- for whatever reason, it appears most cars in Italy are still standard transmissions- not the pretend flappy-paddle shifting, but the old-school clutch stick shifts.   Our vehicle for the day was the Fiat Panda, which for Italian standards is medium size, and American standards something you would generally see 12 clowns pile out of in a circus.  6-speed manual, with a weird toggle on the shifter to get it in reverse.  I actually love standards, but they are all but extinct in the States for a decade or more.  Fortunately I grew up on one, so it came back pretty quickly as I simultaneously adjusted to European roadways and Italian drivers.

I wrote before that Italian drivers get this bad rap.  With biking, I didn't find this to be especially true, because they are more used to bikes on the road, and also lots more obstacles appearing suddenly.   When you are one of them, it's different.  I mean, I still am going to come to the defense of the Italians here- with the exception of the motorcyclists who really are crazy.  But I have also been to places like Miami, where not only motorcycles, but flashy sports cars are regularly blowing by you as if they are in a high speed police chase (which they very well might be there).  Italian drivers are aggressive, sure, but that's just life in the big city.  Ever drive in New York or Chicago?  You just need to adjust accordingly and it's fine.  

First stop was the Ferrari museum, which was on the outskirts of Modena, near their production plant there.  You could tell by their museum they don't mind selling supercars to the ultra-rich, but their true passion is racing.  The museum reflects that- it's slick and cool, and has a nice display of vintage racers before they lead you to a grand hall of the modern-era F1 champions.  I am not the biggest motorsport guy, and having watched a couple seasons of "Drive to Survive" gave me a decidedly icky feel for both the obscene waste of resources and the really sketchy Saudi/ Russian oligarch funding of the sport.  But I did grow up in Indianapolis, and the thunder of the Greatest Spectacle in Racing rumbles through my earliest memories.   So yeah, pretty freaking cool to be right next to these earthbound spaceships- the product of legions of engineers and untold fortunes.  

Randomly, across the street from the museum, a high school for boys was having an impromptu celebration which must have been the last day of school.  Or maybe, since school is only mandatory until age 16 here, this might have been the boys who are done with school forever. (Not to stereotype, but they kinda looked the part- had it been the 50's, these guys would have had greasy pompadours and packs of cigarettes rolled up in their T-shirt sleeves, and maybe engaged in a well-choreographed musical "rumble").  In any event, they were celebrating very loudly with fireworks that had to be illegal and zooming around wildly on motorcycles and scooters in the street.  Not surprisingly, we saw one of them had a head-on collision with a compact car.  Yeeesh.

The Lambroghini museum was pretty meh.  Weirdly, for a car museum, they lack a parking lot, so you have to park blocks away on the street in the middle of an industrial district (which includes the Lambo factory).  The basic admission gets you 2 rooms of some admittedly cool cars- neat to see a 1974 Countach and a modern GT3 racer fresh off the track- oil spatters and all.  But for the price and the effort to get there, weak sauce.   You can get the deluxe tour that includes the factory tour, but it's super expensive and maybe beyond our level of interest in douchey supercars.  

So I was feeling a little disappointed in the day, but since we had some time, we decided to stop by the traditional Balsamic Vinegar museum.  This was a very good move.  First,  Phone routed us and the Panda through perhaps the most charming possible farmland on the tiniest little roads possible, where we got a very good look at some of the vineyards that created the very vinigar we were about to experience.  The little museum was empty, and apparently right from the start we weren't doing it right, so a very nice woman walked us through all of the exhibits, which pretty much got me way up from the 0.1% knowledge I had about the Traditional Balsamic Vinegar of Modena (let's call it TraBVoM from now on).  

Okay, so I may have been having a little fun at the expense of the Parma Cheese and the Parma Ham in yesterday's entry, but I gotta tell you, you REALLY have not had the actual real thing until you have done TraBVoM.  For one thing, the crap you wing on your salad at home is just some oxidized wine with caramel color in it.   

And I know I was clearly making up most of the cheese and ham stuff (though a surprising amount is actually true), all of the following is 100% not made up:  TraBVoM is (of course) made from particular grapes, which are made into must via a time-honored process (I am sure by vestal virgins), fermented just so, and then placed in barrels made my artisan craftsmen.  The barrels come in a set of ideally 9, in a descending sizes, from about the size of a beer keg to one about the size of a large watermelon.  Each keg has a little vent on the top covered by a little doily special made for the purpose so it can vent and evaporate juuuussst a little bit over time.  A LOT of time-  at least 12 years for the lower grade, and 24 years for the primo stuff, the kegs are checked every 6 months or so, and then refilled from the next-biggest keg up the line.  That one is then topped off, and so on and so on, getting more and more concentrated with every step. Unlike wine, they age the TraBVoM in an unconditioned loft, so it gets really hot in the summer, and really cold in the winter.  It aparently loves this abuse, unlike its pampered wine cousins downstairs.  

So you get to the final room, were you are surrounded by the pictures of the winners of the Consortium's (did you believe for a SECOND there wasn't a TraBVoM Consortium?) annual taste test content, all starting down at you.  The tiny bottles, which look like they just as likely might contain ambergis or the Nectar of Olympus, contain a nearly black syrup which is reverently poured on a tiny tasting spoon.

So what's it taste like?  Well, imagine someone offering to open a door to a room for you, and then you forgot the room you were in was a plane, and you were skydiving, and then the taste is like that surprise free fall.  Or you were shaking a friend's hand, and then your friend turned out to be George Clooney, and he was happy you see you accepted his invitation to stay for a week at his villa on lake Como.    It's really good, and REALLY intense, is what I am saying.  Truth be told, the Parma Cheese was really great, and really made me totally rethink what a cheese like that could be, and the Parma Ham is great prosciutto, but the TraBVoM is an entirely different substance.  The 12 year, interestingly, is way more intense than the 24, which mellows considerably.       

Very happy with that visit, and with it now getting into the evening, we headed back to Bologna so I could give back the car before I could do it any damage.  Since we were travelling the next day, we made it kind of an early night.