Bologna - the City, Not the Meat

Bologna is a far cry from Rogliano. Situated north of Florence, it is one of Italy's larger cities and is the birthplace of little things called tortellini pasta and what we consider ragú sauce in the States (tomato sauce with meat). Because a train ride this far north would be ten hours easy, I have decided to fly Alitalia on Saturday morning. This has put me on edge for seveal reasons. One, I'm not a fan of flying. Two, I'm flying an Italian airline in Italy where they speak Italian - and I don't. So I'm concerned I won't understand anything that is going on. Turns out all of my worrying is for nothing, which it usually is. Although the boarding process is more of a free-for-all and you walk out on the tarmac to board, pretty much everything is the same. And instructions/annoucements? Given in both Italian and English so no problems there.
As we come in for our landing in Bologna, I can tell this is more of the Italy I remember from last year. There is a big difference in many ways between southen and northern Italy in so much that some of the radical politicians want to break Italy into two different countries (probably the same types of politicians that think Texas should still secede from the Union). The landscape is mostly rolling hills and patchwork farms with those tall skinny trees you see in paintings lining the driveways. The houses have the terra cotta coloring and looking down on it all you can almost taste the barolo as you sip it from the glass, the pecorino cheese complimenting the tannin finish, all the while sitting in a cushioned chair on the patio, basking in the sun and beauty around you. But, I'm on a plane with 150 other people who may or not be wearing deodorant, so let's move on, shall we?
After landing, it's off to the hotel. I contacted the front desk and they had told me through email that there was a bus to take from the airport to the main train station and then it was a short 300 meters from there. Ok, no problem, just need to find said bus. The information counter in the airport offers much help and points me in the right direction. 
Like the bus in Amalfi, it is standing room only for the 30 minute ride through the city. Once at the main station, I relax because now comes the easy part, getting to the hotel. The address is Via Galleria. Hmm, that's odd, the train station is on a completely different name street. Ok, no problem, I'll just google map it on my phone. No service. You worthless piece of! "Ugh, this was supposed to be the easy part! Easy part!" I yell in my head, thinking someone will here me and magically point me to my hotel. 
I walk one block in either direction of the station and none of the cross streets are Via Galleria. Fine, fine. I put my ego aside and call the hotel which goes something like this:
Hotel: "Pronto!"
Me: Buongiorno, I am at the main train station and am trying to get to the hotel. How do I get there?
Hotel: Tojrn owjhzd sdojfndjn njsodnf souefh njsdofh sdonf.
Me: Ah, non parlo Italiano. Parle englese?
Hotel: No, aodijf jadoifjad jaiodfjioadf sjdoifh hdif fjdi fdh.
Me: Dov'e la hotel? (Where is the hotel?)
Hotel: Ah! Si! Hotel é wr rr wef vsf sd sdv wdv we gwrzdg srg sdv. Ok?
Me: Yes, great. Grazie.
Hotel: Prego. Ciao!

So now I have a problem. 
All I really need is a map. Ok, a map, there's got to be some information booth around here somewhere. Ah yes! "Mappa? No. No mappa. Only treno (train) informazione." Awesome. Last ditch effort, I go to a magazine stand which is selling sealed, of course, maps of the area, eight euro each. Ugh. Ugh ugh ugh. FINE. Give me the stupid map. 
This is where the planning ahead part of me pops up on my shoulder as a little angel in a pink dress with white lace edges and matching strappy but conservative pink shoes saying in a southern accent,  "Now see, if y'all had just done your homework, you wouldn't be in this situation. You did this to yourself ya know. That's why I always say, plan first and be thankful later." I swat at the southern belle and grouchfully open this most expensive map. 
Expensive and ginourmous. It unfolds to our normal sized map and then doubles from there giving me way more information than I need, but with no useful landmarks to give me any bearings whatsoever. I use my last lifeline in my own personal TV show of "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire - and Comfortably Situated in a Hotel!" and pull out my iPhone map once more. *Poof* "You are here." It's about freaking time. Enter in address of said hotel from hell and hit Go. Half a block to the left and two blocks up. Time to destination: 1.4 minutes. 
The southern belle pops back up and starts in, "See, we can learn from this. Remember what I always say..." Swat. Swat, swat, swat. 
Approximately three minutes later, a little sign comes into view on the right hand side of the street. Albergo Atlantic. Home sweet home - for tonight, at least.