Padua
Venice is the cheap thrill of Northeast Italy. Yes, it's charming, but it's altogether too obvious, as unsubtle as a Versace dress. Travelers who want to see the more dignified side of Italy should head about an hour west to Padua (Padova). Once great and now willingly overshadowed by Venice, Padua may be small (population 200,000), but it packs an impressive punch. Bound by medieval walls, the city's center is filled with portico-covered streets, an appropriate architectural metaphor.
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Evidence that the town doesn't like to brag: Locals modestly (and cheekily) refer to Padua as the city that has a saint without a name, a field with no grass and a café with no doors. And they're talking about three of their greatest treasures.
Perhaps the saint is so popular he doesn't even need a name. The Basilica del Santo is the resting place of St. Anthony — known simply as il Santo — a humble 13th century Franciscan monk. The massive church, with its mixture of Christian and Islamic influences, brims with artwork by Donatello and Titian, and annually attracts 4 million visitors and pilgrims. Surprising gothic thrill: one of the relics on display is Anthony's calcified tongue and jaw. Just down the road lies the Prato della Valle, the so-called field with no grass that's now a vast piazza of fountains and statues. Think Place de la Concorde with a little more decor, minus the dizzying traffic. No one should skip the Scrovegni Chapel, the recently restored Giotto masterpiece. Make reservations ahead of time.
In Padua, as in all of Italy, the preferred pastime is people-watching and caffeinating. There is no better temple to both than the elegant Caffè Pedrocchi, famously "doorless" because it operated without closing from its opening in 1831 until World War I in 1916. Pedrocchi now keeps regular hours — namely, breakfast through midnight snack. An architectural delight, its two floors incorporate as many styles as the café has historically had functions (stock and grain exchange, casino, ballroom).
Pedrocchi's high ceilings, terraces and Doric columns are decidedly grand. The ground floor is divided into three areas named for the colors of the Italian flag. Skip the house special, tagliatelle al caffè — as gimmicky as coffee-flavored pasta sounds — and go straight for the miraculous rum-spiked zabaglione. The French novelist Stendhal considered Pedrocchi the best restaurant in Italy, and so loved the zabaglione that he wrote about it in The Charterhouse of Parma. Pedrocchi returned the favor by immortalizing the passage on a plaque in the "white" room. A small hole on the opposite wall is a souvenir from a less happy historical moment, when Prussian soldiers fired on students during the uprising of 1848.
The small piazza just south of the café faces onto the Palazzo del Bo, the grandest of the University of Padua's buildings. Those lucky enough to spot a small graduation procession are in for a good show. The freshly diploma'd dottore is stripped, trussed and propped on a bench. He must then deliver a long, excruciatingly embarrassing ode written by his friends. For every misread word, the grad swigs booze and gets pelted with eggs and flour. The ordeal ends when the ode is affixed to the university walls for all to see. No pomp here. And therein lies the secret to Padua: It's more than willing to share its charms, but you need to know where to look.
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