We leave Bologna at around 11 a.m. and head to Parma, birthplace of the famous prosciutto we’ve been eating all trip. After stopping for lunch in Modena at a disappointing pizzeria (great culatello appetizer, though), we arrive in Parma, where we quickly get tipsy on Negronis at a café on Piazza Garibaldi.

After that, it’s off to La Greppia. This the only restaurant we’ve visited on the trip that we first saw in a travel guide. And, of course, the description in Fodor’s is pretty off base.

The travel guide keeps insisting that reservations are essential at many of the restaurants it recommends, including La Greppia, but we walk in at around 9 p.m., see a handful of empty tables and are seated right away.

The Fodor’s write-up also cites “chef Paola Cavazzini’s innovative treats” like guinea hen with black truffle and chestnut puree. So we’re sort of expecting Jean-George-like flourishes.

What we eat is wonderful, but also pretty damn traditional: prosciutto, anolini in broth (we skip a heavier pasta with pork ragu, because our stomachs tell us that we need to dial things down), tortellini with delicious in-season pumpkin, braised veal with spicy sun-dried tomatoes and slow-cooked veal bocconcini, which is about as tender as our braised dish.

Our lovable waiter is having a great time speaking to us in English, almost like he’s showing off to the rest of the staff, and when it’s dessert time, he vetoes our initial decision and forces us to have a meringue cake soaked in Grand Marnier.

It’s a good call, but not as good as the green tomato marmalade pie we also have for dessert. Sweet and tart and a reminder that, hey, a tomato is a fruit. Much as the commerce in Venice consists almost solely of Murano glass tchotchkes and Carnivale masks, the commerce in Parma is weighted heavily toward shoes and underwear. Mostly the stores show off women’s lingerie, but there’s also an inexplicable pair of men’s boxer briefs printed with pirate skulls that we see proudly displayed in several shops.

Such man pants must surely fly off the shelves when acts like Les Ballets Trockadero de Monte Carlo come to town. Part of the ParmaDanza 2006 festival, this extremely specific niche of drag culture – namely, men with extensive ballet training and a proclivity for tutus and toe shoes – is playing at the gorgeous Teatro Regio di Parma, and 64 euros gets us our own box for the show.

The theater, which served as home base for Verdi, is what you might unironically call pre-bordello chic, with crystal light fixtures, flocked red-velvet wallpaper in the boxes and red velvet seats.

The ballet program includes scenes from Swan Lake, and the crowd is cheering on the dancers by name — “Go Rafi!” – as if they’re regulars. We’re impressed that Parma crowds are so knowledgeable about drag ballet.

Earlier in the day, we ate lunch at La Duchessa on the Piazza Garibaldi. It was a good meal, but we’re still reeling from La Greppia and stuffed from Bologna. Our waitress is a nice, crazy Italian nana who refuses to accept that we don’t want to order a Coke. Finally, she believes, and we get wine and water. We haven’t felt actual hunger in days, though we still enjoy our culatello, spaghetti carbonara, farfalle with clams, tomato, shrimp and mushrooms and fritto misto with calamari and shrimp.

The concept of eating has, for us, gone from something you do to fuel you with energy into an obligation that must be fulfilled. We’ve ingested so much pasta and protein that we begin to understand how bears must feel in the moments between stuffing themselves for the winter and actually going into hibernation. Ashamed and defeated, we can only muster a slice of pizza for dinner.

– Erin Franzman and Andy Wang