As we circled up into the mountains of Abruzzo the air thinned and the November sun streamed unabated through the passes and over the rock laid bare by passing time and the elements. Occasional villages of damp stone homes with tile roofs clung miserably to hillsides; along the valley floors tight flocks of sheep tracked sheperds to corrals unseen. The mountains' sense of permance made even more ephemeral all that was human in the region: humankind seemed a burden the mountains would bear grudgingly while never actually succumbing to the intrusion. In a world where modern society had made little progress since the Middle Ages, my clock ran backwards like an inverse altimeter, taking me back to a simpler time.

A late night arrival by slow train from Emilia Romagna, and the long walk through the cool October night air in a light drizzle that kept the streets mostly silent. The water in the channels rippled softly under the breeze, blurring the yellow reflection of the street lights,and the narrow stone walkways were filled with shadows. How our impressions changed the next morning.

I've never met a traveler who went to Italy for the purpose of seeing Bologna, and yet I've never met a traveler -- or any Italians -- who experienced Bologna and didn't recall it fondly. It is a wonderful place, and we spent a wonderful year making it our home.

The books mention the conflux and north-meets-south Italian cuisine, or the raucous university vibe. And of course its porticoes walkways are unparalleled. But for me Bologna will always evoke memories of bright autumn sun on the auburn facades, pointy-shoed women shuffling across Piazza Maggiore in long coats, looking through glass shop windows at rows of fountain pens on a late winter afternoon, and the budding green of the hillsides as seen from Capella San Lucas, 666 archways over the city and 500 years before the present.