If pictures are worth a thousand words, then I've already given you 10,000. Bergamo is a small medieval town, (at least the Citta Alta, where we stayed) walled in and chock full of twisty-turns streets and pastry shops and mountains in the distance.
Home of polenta, apparently, though my grandmother wouldn't approve of the way they prepare it here. Full of truffles and mushrooms and cheese and nary a red sauce in sight. We feasted though, and watched soccer with the locals and drank campari spritz and espressos and listened to the damn bell in the clocktower clang, clang, clang all damn day.
There was an interesting historical map museum, with hilarious guesses at what lay beyond Europe, starfish-shaped continents with sea-monsters and what looked like naked ladies windsurfing in the oceans. Not very accurate outside of Europe, but charming, certainly.
The interior of the church in Bergamo is enough to give me back religion. Gorgeous ceiling painting and color and gilt and beauty everywhere.
Beyond that, there is a sad ruin of a castle on the hill, and the funicular is actually kind of exciting and the local wine is spectacular.
Bergamo-skimmed, just for you.
Final thoughts: go. There were not very many Americans there, if any, besides us, and though low-key, it was everything you'd want in a Northern Italian medieval city on a hilltop. Fine wines, polenta and all.