Fast Company A Memoir of Life, Love, and Motorcycles in Italy.

Chapter One The porticoes march on like soldierscolumns of pale stone and red plaster over brick. The terrazzo rolls out for miles, a great expanse of sparkling sidewalk, rising and falling like swells in a rough sea. On the ground lie the patterns of antiquity: a Greek key motif in ochre, an intricate bargello of ebony. Overhead, fat angels and a playground Virgin soargilded, exaltedrestored to polychromatic wonder. Walkers in the city don't much talk about the architectural details. What they care about are the shoes. Stroll the arcades of the Piazza Maggiore and watch the fancy-dress ladies peering into windows, wearing stenciled ankle straps in bronze-patinated calf. The feet are animated! Shop the oval-shaped Piazza Cavour with the pretty girls in green lizard patchwork pumps. The heels are talking! The moody streets of via Zamboni like it darker: vamps in spike motorcycle boots with nickel-plated hardware that could shift gears at any moment. And stop to smoke a cigarette. Or drink a glass of wine. Soles tip. Soles tap. They shuffle against rough marble. They go clip-clop on smooth mosaic. Soles echo and boomsound reverberating down the arcadesthundering their arrival in the center of town. In the fall any businessman with quattro soldifour lire to put togetherkicks off the season by slipping into custom brogues with squared-off toes. Fine footwear isn't just a woman's game. Two-tone man leathertoffee and cream, with contrasting stitchinglooks right against faded walls. Shoes follow seasons and they're also coordinated with activities. There are morning cappuccino shoes. There are afternoon loafers to buy groceries. Cesare Paciotti makes designer trainers just to work out in at the gym. And because Bologna is a medieval stage set of a town, complete with ancient gates and battle ramparts, doing the passeggiata, or stroll, in centro, can make you feel like a conquerorif you're wearing the right footgear. If it is spring in Riccione, the style capital of the riviera romagnola and the Hamptons of Greater Bologna, then we are talking about sandals. But not the crystal-beaded sandals that say skipping across beach sands and flirting with boys. No. Those are saved for August, when feet are tanned, toes are buffed smooth, and a single cord of sparkling leatheron the right figacan make a man's heart leap with desire. In early May ragazzi want something simple. Here is a figataa beautiful thingthat stops traffic: a suede bikini in fringe and feathers. And what is a figa, you ask, if you don't speak Italian or haven't spent the better part of a decade, as I have, watching men watching women negotiate cobblestones or race mint green Vespas in short skirts and heels while boys hiss "fiii . . ." through their teeth? It's a matter of genitalia. The masculine version of the word, figo, is also used and is just as misleading. For what is macho about the breed of musclemen who, at least at the beach club where I go, get their eyebrows waxed as well as their bikini lines? Long ago, figo and its female equivalent, figa, lost their literal meanings: penis and vagina, respectively. Today they stand for virtually anything that is hip or desirable. A fire-engine-red superbike, made by the company that I help run, is figo. So is a silver Ferrari 360 Modena. Sprinkling your conversation with choice dialect, like socc'mel, "blow me" in Bolognese, is considered very cool, very figo to the people in this part of the world. The funny thingGross, David M. is the author of 'Fast Company A Memoir of Life, Love, and Motorcycles in Italy.', published 2007 under ISBN 9780374281335 and ISBN 0374281335.