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Easter Sunday. It would be an exaggeration to count this as day 1, because we spent far more of the day at home or in transit than we did in Bologna: our plane did not leave until late afternoon.

A number of people on our flight from Dublin seemed to be travelling together on an organised tour, and moved up and down the aisle to engage in conversation. One man approached our neighbours to ask "what are we eating tonight?" -- not where they were to eat, but what. To them, such a degree of organisation seemed normal; to me, it would be an incentive to stay at home.

We touched down with a fairly average bump, and there was a spatter of applause from behind us. Like most people, I appreciate competence, and the ability of a pilot to get us down without killing us is a valued instance of competence. But I see no more need to applaud pilots than to congratulate bus drivers or acclaim chefs or cheer for the cabin crew. For a pilot, landing a plane is normal business. Besides, he probably doesn't hear the applause. Perhaps he should leave a plate at the cockpit door so that people can show their appreciation in a more tangible way. My preference is for negative reinforcement: I'll make my feelings known when the pilot doesn't get us down safely.

Through the airport to the taxi-rank, and I asked the driver to take us to Hotel Maxim. Bags and people loaded, he took off at speed, and we were there in minutes. The hotel was something of a venture into the unknown, or at least the very little known. I had booked it over the internet because:

• it had a room available when most hotels in the city were full, but this was not necessarily a good sign;
• it had a three-star rating, which should assure us of some minimal standard;
• it was not outrageously expensive.

It proved to be a small modern hotel beside a main road (via Stalingrado) some distance from the centre. Our room was comfortable, clean, adequately-equipped, and not very large (but large enough for a king-size bed). A nice touch: two small easter eggs had been left for us.

By the time we had unpacked and freshened up, it was time to seek our evening meal. I asked the lady at reception (whom we took to be the proprietor) how far we were from the city centre. About two kilometres, she told me, ten minutes by bus from the stop just outside. Having been travelling for several hours, the thought of a moderate walk had some appeal for us. Less than half an hour on foot, I suggested. Oh no, she said, at least an hour. Perhaps a little more than two kilometres. So we accepted the idea that we take the bus into the centro storico, have a look around, and find a place to eat. This seemed to be a good idea: we could get our bearings, and we had a number of restaurant recommendations to check out.

Not knowing the city, we got off the bus several stops too early. Eventually, after some straying, we found Piazza Maggiore. It was raining, so we settled for a quick look around, and then we sought the restaurant area such as we are used to finding in tourist-destination cities. We didn't find one. We didn't find many restaurants, and the few we did find were either closed or full. Eventually we settled on a particular place because it displayed a tourist menu at 18 euros which seemed like good value, and it had a couple of vacant tables. In we went, and were seated. Menus were presented, offering food much more expensive than the 18 euro price level. No problem: I asked for the tourist menu. It was plonked down on the table in a manner which suggested that we merited only the waitress's contempt for being cheapskates; that didn't bother me: she was right.

In perusing the menu I was mindful of advice received before our trip: when I said that "we have to eat spaghetti bolognese there" I was told "Spaghetti bolognese simply do not exist..( at least in Italy... ). Bologna is mother to Lasagne, Tortellini, Tortelloni.." The menu included spaghetti bolognese, so we sniffed in superior manner and dismissed it as being there for ignorant tourists, and ordered lasagne, tortellini, and tortelloni, to be followed by veal and pork. We went up immediately in the waitress's esteem, especially as our English neighbours on one side and our French neighbours on the other chose the spaghetti bolognese (and from the more expensive menu at that). We were the cognoscenti, knowing the cheap menu options and the local culinary tradition. Overall the meal was fairly good -- very good indeed for the money -- and I thought the lasagne was the best I had ever tasted. Herself, who is a little more experienced in the matter of lasagne than I am, averred that she had tasted as good before, but not better.

Replete, we returned to our hotel to plan for the following day and for some much-needed sleep.