Page 32 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

Piazza del Nettuno formed an L shape with the adjacent and grander Piazza Maggiore, and together they were the heartbeat of Bologna. Each brick building that surrounded the piazzas was a work of art worthy of its own history book, but dominating them all was the exquisite Basilica di San Petronio, a giant church the Bolognese started building in 1390. 1390! They’d never finished the exterior due to political and financial reasons, but that was part of the charm. While the bottom half featured some of the most important marble work in human history, the top half consisted of merely exposed brick, creating a unique masterpiece.

As the Italian sun warmed the crisp May air, pigeons bathed in the water of the fountain. A guitarist sang pop songs. Scents of coffee beans swirled in the air. Groups gathered for their walking tours, the guides holding up signs. People sipped cappuccinos and planned their days at the many tables tucked under the colorful awnings of the lively cafés.

In short, Bologna was giving everything it had, singing its best song, reminding Bianca exactly why it had grabbed her heart. And yet her father was beyond detached and distracted.

“What is it?” Bianca asked calmly, stopping midsentence as she explained how the fountain had been built for the pope.

George wore another pair of khakis with a golf shirt and those bright-white tennis shoes. He couldn’t have looked more American if he wrapped an American flag around his body and started singing Lee Greenwood.

“Sorry,” he said, “I was looking at the line forming. That’s the entrance to where we’re going next, right?”

Bianca looked across the square to a line of maybe thirty people waiting to get inside the Palazzo d’Accursio, where one could enjoy the municipal art collection, climb the clock tower for a view of the city, and maybe even get a glimpse into the stunning Sala del Consiglio comunale, or city hall, where Bolognese leaders had been meeting for hundreds of years, debating politics as they sat in hand-carved chairs under a gorgeous frescoed ceiling that rivaled any in the Old World.

“Oh, the line’s not that bad,” she said. “We’re still early.”

“Yeah, but it’s growing.”

What was he in such a rush for? Last time she checked, he was a tepid art lover at best, but right now he had the energy of a bull about to be let into the ring. Taking another breath, pausing for four seconds before exhaling, she touched his arm. “We’re not in a rush, Dad. Besides, I want to show you my favorite thing in all of Bologna.” She took his hand. “Come here.”

They walked twenty feet toward a daunting stone wall of the Palazzo d’Accursio. Just out of reach stood two eagles sculpted in stone. Bianca pointed to one. “Niccolò dell’Arca did that one; he was the reason Michelangelo came to Bologna and spent so much time here. And then Michelangelo did this one.”

“The Michelangelo?” George said, suddenly interested.

“That’s right.”

George stared hard at the eagle. “Hold on; it’s not even protected. You’re telling me one of the most famous artists in the world did that, and I could pull up in a pickup truck with a chisel and drive away with it.”

Bianca imagined the two of them executing a father-daughter heist. “It’s not very well known, and not everyone agrees that it’s a Michelangelo.”

He pulled his eyes away. “Then how do you know?”

Bianca touched the stone under Michelangelo’s eagle with her full palm and looked up at the sculpture, feeling the bird’s wings as if they were her own. A rush of energy ran through her, generations of her ancestors standing there with her.

“I just know.”

As they joined the line to get into the palace, you would have thought George was a little girl dressed in a princess outfit trying to get a picture with Minnie Mouse.

Bouncing in those white shoes with their cushioned soles, he kept peering past the people in front of them, trying to see when the doors would open. He’d likely trample small children if need be.

The moment the guard unlatched the gate, George said, “Okay, I’m thinking we go right.”

Bianca shook her head. “You may be the most excited person in history to ever walk through this gate.”

He shrugged it off. “I don’t like waiting around.”

Oh, she knew. She’d endured thirty-two years of her father’s impatience. And he’d passed it along to her too.

As the line started to move, a young couple snuck in front of them. Bianca wasn’t that bothered. These things happened, but George puffed up his chest and said loudly enough to hear in Venice, “No, sirree. The line starts way back there.”

The couple, both with large matching Fuji cameras around their necks, ignored him.

Little did they know that George was all about right and wrong, and cutting lines was one of the Seven Deadly Sins in his world.

Bianca set a hand on his shoulder to prevent an altercation, but George stepped forward anyway. Mortifying her to no end, he knocked on an imaginary door only inches from the man’s shoulder while making a knocking sound. “Excuse me.”

The couple finally turned.

George aggressively gestured with his thumb. “Back of the line, please. We’re not savages.”