Bologna Station Suites
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Bologna
Since Sunday's in Padova are really boring, we developed the habit of driving around northern Italy. We saw a lot of nice cities already. Last week we went to see Bologna, the oldest university. well we weren't able to look at it, because it is closed on sundays. But the red city was also nice to look at. It is called the red city because the stones are actually red marmor, and also because ...
Bologna
... too. We started walking Betty back to the train station and grabbed tortellini for dinner (it was alright but sadly not as good as described by our hotel owners). Betty almost missed her train because we didn't understand that they use one track but different sides of the train station to load more people on more trains - kind of super efficient but hard to navigate. Sara and I walked home and her poor feet have blisters :( but it was a great day and I can't wait for Venice ...
Amazing Race to Bologna
... Italy's version of happy hour. The only difference is that when you purchase your 8€ cocktail, it includes access to a full on buffet of tasty bites! From here we went and looked at a library that was unlike anything we had seen before. The floor of the library was plexiglass which allow access to the view below that revealed an entire collection of ancient ruins that once stood in place of this library hundreds and hundreds of years ago. Just one of ...
Typically Italian
... the evening as the effects of alcohol kicked in. However, the three of us were extremely tired and retired relatively early and my bed was certainly very welcoming.
The following day was a whistle stop city tour with a university friend studying in the city. We hurried through the streets, passing the castle, looking into the little quaint shops and browsing the markets, after our daily dose of pizza and gelato it was onto the train and our next stop…Padova. ...
Luca
... not being off work until late.
Donny offers me a smoke before starting the first of ten he'll puff over the next hour. He notices my glance at the windcatcher on his rearview mirror and points to himself, saying: Navaho. He asks where I'm from and I mention Northern Ontario, and upon further inquiry I share my grandmother has some slight Native heritage. He jerks and asks what ethnicity she is and I shrug: mostly French. He starts rocking in his seat, ...
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