Stendhal Syndrome Strikes Again
By: Philippa Hughes
Tags: Italy, Travel, Bologna

[Part of an experiment in writing Instagram-ready posts containing fewer than 2,200 characters. Except this time, I needed a few more words to complete my story.]

I spent a week in Bologna because my friend Holly, who has exquisite taste, said, “And the food is amazing- even by Italy standards.” That was all I needed to hear before booking a room and driving north past the crowds in Florence. Once settled into my hotel at the edge of the old town near the Castiglione gate, I asked the front desk person which way to the center and he pointed left. Dizziness overcame me and I could feel my heart rate increase soon after I started walking in that direction. The diagnosis: Stendhal Syndrome. The symptoms of this affliction were familiar to me, having previously suffered its onset in other places, like the Blue Mosque in Istanbul and the Sistine Chapel. I knew the worst of it would pass, though the residual effects would continue to plague me throughout my time in Bologna, and beyond.

What had triggered the episode? I hadn’t done any advance research so I did not know about the nearly 40 kilometers of beautiful porticos that lined the narrow cobbled streets, protecting pedestrians from the elements. It was possible to walk for miles without getting soaked in a rainstorm. The floors were often made from colorful patterned terrazzo and elegant arches supported the porticos. The surprise of discovering this delightful and distinct characteristic of Bologna had triggered the malady.

I also had not known that Bologna was called “la dotta, la grassa, la rossa.” The educated one because the oldest continuously operating university in the Western world was founded here in 1088. The fat one because Bologna is considered the culinary capital of Italy. The red one because of the red roofs and terra cotta bricks used to build the towers and other edifices. I had not known about the people who gathered every evening in the piazza maggiore, the large square in the heart of the city that is surrounded by beautiful medieval palazzos and the giant Basilica of San Petronio with its unfinished grey façade. I discovered all of these things by meandering around the city, unrestricted by an itinerary and uninfluenced by a guidebook.

A friend suggested I visit the Sanctuary of San Luca, at the top of a hill outside the city walls, Colle della Guardia. Google maps estimated a one hour and twenty minute journey from my hotel. Two and a half hours later, I arrived at the top wondering how the hundreds of people wandering the grounds had gotten there when I’d seen fewer than ten along the path I’d followed.

At the bottom of the hill, I’d put away Google maps when I saw a sign that pointed to San Luca and followed it through a small park that turned into a grassy field. Then I found myself walking through the woods along the fence lines of several small farms. Most of the time, I could see San Luca in the distance to my right, but I seemed to be circling rather than approaching the church and it wasn’t clear how I’d ascend the steep, rocky hill on which it sat without ropes and carabiners. When Google maps had stopped working a ways back, I’d followed red and white blazes figuring even if I never made it to the church, I’d have at least had a nice stroll in the countryside.

I finally came to a paved road that looped down in a wide arc to the left then back up again, presumably ending at San Luca. Bicyclists pumped their powerful legs as they struggled up the hill while others flew down, hugging the curve tightly. I trudged onward at the edge of the road, moving aside into the grass for the occasional passing car, until I began to see the stations of the cross in reverse order. After exploring the sanctuary, I followed joggers around to the side of the Baroque structure and down through a nearly four kilometer uninterrupted sloping arcade back to the city. It was through these porticos that visitors normally arrived at San Luca. An annual procession carrying an icon of the Madonna has taken place along this route since the 15th century. Some process on their knees, saying prayers along the way. I’d said prayers, too, on my longer less trodden ascent.