Every Bolognese story begins in Piazza Maggiore, under a facade San Petronio never bothered to finish, because the city decided some things are better left in progress.

Coffee under the Pavaglione, the Two Towers leaning into view, and forty kilometres of porticoes waiting to carry you anywhere dry.

One block from the square, Bologna gets down to its real business. Mortadelle hang like chandeliers, parmigiano is stacked like currency, and the sfogline roll their gold in the windows.

There is a counter where the salumiere slices so thin the light comes through, and a table upstairs that is never in the book. It is in ours.

Bologna invented the portico so that elegance would never depend on the weather. Around Galleria Cavour the maisons live under painted vaults, and the doormen have long memories.

Behind one quiet door, a sartoria where a jacket takes three fittings and a season, and everything can be sent to your residence.

Bologna keeps her water a secret. Behind an ordinary wall on Via Piella, a small window opens onto a canal the city forgot to tell anyone about.

Come at dusk, when the houses lean their lights on the water, and keep the secret in turn.

And then Bologna does what Bologna does best: it takes the long way, beautifully. Six hundred and sixty six arches climb to San Luca, and the whole terracotta city arranges itself below.