Genoa: Come sail away

October 25, 5:35 PMItaly Culture & Travel ExaminerLucia Mauro

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Palazzo Reale, Genoa.

We arrived at Genoa's Aeroporto Cristoforo Colombo on a prop plane in a humid drizzle - the port city's gritty romance seeping into our moistened pores. My husband Joe and I stopped briefly here a few years ago on our way to board a ferry. This time, in late autumn, we wanted to linger. 

Genoa's port.

Falling gradually in love with the Ligurian capital's refined architectural bombast, we wondered why Christopher Columbus would have been moved to leave his alleged native city to explore New Worlds. We certainly decided to stay. And in our circular meanderings across the ages, we began linking Genoa to other imposing names, such as the Dorias and Savoys. The old, but renovated, port attests to centuries of power building by extravagant shipping families.

Piazza de Ferrari, Genoa.

Appropriately, we stayed at Hotel Balbi - retrofitted into an abandoned 19th century palazzo -- on the famously aristocratic Via Balbi, across from the Palazzo Reale. We made the four-story climb up the hotel's cracked white-marble steps to our somewhat sparse but pleasant accommodations. Our large room contained a stand-alone fan and looked out on the University of Genoa and Principe train station. Next door stood a heavy gate leading to the elevated Santa Brigita district and a religious grotto. Our block was book-ended by a café and an adult video store. 

With jetlag setting in, Joe and I plopped down on the squeaky bed to find ourselves in fresco heaven. Our ceiling was decorated with faded, deeply fissured figures of cupids and other naked mythological figures in cranberry and powder blue. We could have been lying on the floor of a church or in a noble's tomb. At least that's how we felt when we awoke, frescoes before our eyes, a few hours later to the surreal rumbling of buses and jackhammers below our window.

By mid-afternoon the city, now awash in blinding sun, came alive. We had been warned of Genoa's seedy sections, especially around the port and historic center. To an extent, it's true (we averted our one-and-only pickpocket attempt there). Yet these more questionable aspects give the city's narrow vicoli their crusty, lived-in character.

Genoa is a seafaring city in the purest sense of the term - a working port that refuses to become too tourist friendly (despite the spiffy restorations to the old port in 1992). Multicultural vendors sell their wares at makeshift stalls under thick-stoned arcades facing the Ligurian Sea and its massive freighters. Fish permeates the sooty air; scrawny guys with cigarettes lean against corroded doorways. But venture deeper in, and Genoa becomes a fantastical outdoor art museum. Almost every building has been painted in trompe l'oeil; boulevards are flanked by villas and palaces covered in decorative friezes, a Crayola box of colors, and muscular Titan statues whose bottom halves literally rescind into undulating fig leaves.

Via Garibaldi, nicknamed Golden Street and Street of Kings, is such a boulevard, where 16th century shipping magnates erected obscenely ornate mansions. One courtyard is built around a waterfall, where sculpted putti and more Titans interact with the flowing stream. These dizzying contradictions engulfed us as we walked through a medieval gateway (opposite the Porta Soprana, where Columbus' parents were believed to be gatekeepers) across from the port.

The stone gate plants visitors under the long, Casbah-like arcade teeming with the smell of fried squid and overripe produce. Locals crowd around café tables and shop for bargains at the outdoor clothing and shoe stalls. As we continued, the city slowly opened itself up to us - like its citizens. The Genovesi emit a slightly guarded generosity.

At one crowded fast-food place - next to a kabob, falafel and couscous take-out specializing in Hallal cuisine - sailors were filling up on an assortment of breaded calamari, shrimp, sardines and baby octopus (displayed under filmy glass). Joe and I shouted out an order for calamari, and the cook slapped a bunch on a piece of butcher paper, then seasoned the delectable little rings with fresh lemon juice and salt. We nibbled on our decidedly non-rubbery snack while gazing at Renzo Piano's white starburst mast sculpture at the center of the port - not too far from a massive aquarium and a three-masted party ship with a cartoonish Neptune statue jutting from its bow.

I had heard about the l'ascensore, or elevator, that transports people to a high-altitude neighborhood. The graffiti-laden elevator station is near Via Garibaldi and the Villetta di Negro park, with its manly sculptures leaning over the balustrades. For about 50 cents each, we entered the closed-in contraption and arrived at the top of the world. From this quiet neighborhood, with benches wrapped around a serene belvedere, we could see the entire upward-building topography of Genoa. Here, the city's magnificent layering - ancient, medieval, baroque, modern - can be absorbed in its full disorientating yet aesthetically pleasing glory. The eras dance with each other, all looking like pieces in an elaborate eon-crossing game of Sim City. Film director Tim Burton could have designed Genoa, with its lopsided buildings and crooked streets.

By early evening, Joe and I enjoyed an aperitivo and little squares of focaccia at one of the portside bars under the Moroccan-style arcade. We relaxed amid the international faces, stray dogs and a medieval municipal building where pigeons perched on jutting gargoyles. Over time, we watched the sun set against a trompe l'oeil façade that mimicked curtains and green shutters - a reminder of Genoa's ambiguous public-private character. Most buildings are adorned with vivid painted replicas of windows, but the life behind them remains obscured. Even outside, porticos shield the locals: an interior life lived outdoors.

We then decided to seek out a recommended restaurant called Trattoria da Maria. Along our casual quest, we passed the gray-and-white-striped Duomo di San Lorenzo at dusk and abruptly veered off course. Despite warnings from the guide books to avoid the centro storico at night, we continued to wander deeper into the narrowing bowels of the city. Along one impossibly small street, we found a macelleria that sold only African products, with the butchers slicing and dicing fresh-killed goat. Heading up another path, we spotted a produce stand bursting with blackberries and raspberries. An energetic young guy wrapped up the fragrant fruit, which we nibbled on along the way to the Palazzo Ducale.

We turned a corner near the Baroque Rubens-filled Church of the Gesu and landed somewhere in the Belle Epoque. Piazza de Ferrari -- with its bronze, arcing fountain; plump oval-shaped, 19th century banks; and the neoclassical Teatro Carlo Felice (under renovation, yet Verdi's La Traviata was piped through the construction) - could have been a film set for Anna Karenina. It reminded us of Trieste that, in turn, reminds us of Prague or St. Petersburg. Our senses were reeling.

Then our hearts sank.

The charming Trattoria da Maria was closed. So we returned to our arcaded haunt across from the port and happened upon the inviting Trattoria Le Maschere packed with merchant marine-looking men. Our no-nonsense waiter took our order for troffiette (gemelli-shaped, gnocchi-like pasta) with the city's incomparable pesto, and a mixed grill of squid, lobster, shrimp, sea bass and salmon. We lingered there until midnight caught up in an absurd variety show on an overhead TV.

Just as we approached Hotel Balbi, I turned to the stairway leading up to the Santa Brigita area to see a cocky young guy holding a champagne bottle between his crotch and confidently popping the cork. Not much later, Joe and I fell asleep only to be awakened in the middle of the night by a jilted man weeping and wailing over a break-up. He bellowed, "My life is no longer worth living. My life is over. My life means nothing." It sounded like lyrics to a song. He eventually disappeared into a vicolo --the highs and lows of life just around the corner from our frescoed haven.

Clouds rolled in the next day, perhaps the visual manifestation of that man's grief. We got caught in a downpour as we walked under Genoa's unsightly overpass that cuts through the outer rim of the port. The streets were so slick that an older businessman in a suit and helmet wiped out on his Moto Guzzi.

We opted for a museum- and church-hopping day and headed for Palazzo Reale. Owned by major shipping families, including the Balbis and Durazzos, it became the official royal palace for the Savoy rulers in the 18th century. Not a white space exists in this frescoed, painted and pilastered paean to maritime might. It's accessed through a courtyard lined with restored carriages. Ascending a few flights of red-velvet stairs, we were greeted by a vivacious tour guide in a tight-fitting, zebra-striped dress and enjoyed her stories -- like the one about a superstitious duke who slept under a thick canopy atop three fluffy pillows to ward off evil spirits; or the queen, whose private confessional - complete with a priest - stood a few feet from her bed. Each room in the Palazzo Reale is named for its mythic-themed ceiling frescoes, from Aphrodite to Aurora.

We especially enjoyed the Galleria degli Specchi, a gold-encrusted Hall of Mirrors modeled after Versailles. Approaching the end of our royal bed, bath and beyond tour, we were struck by the placement of the chamber pots: in a decoratively carved drawer next to the headboard - quite a noxious contrast to the gilt and marble environs. From a high window, we could see turtles sunning themselves on lily pads in a mosaic-tiled outdoor pond. This window once faced an unobstructed ocean, now cluttered with the ugly 1960's highway overpass, a corrugated-aluminum shed, and rusty blue cranes rising from the port.

At the striped Duomo di San Lorenzo - built and renovated between the 9th and 16th centuries - we noticed a shrine to an enormous aerial bomb. It was dropped by the British during World War II but never detonated and has since been regarded as a good-luck charm. The church, whose exterior resembles intricately patterned fabric, contains an interior split between medieval austerity and baroque excess.

For lunch, we sought out the historic Trattoria Sa Pesta, believed to have been a noted plotting ground for the Risorgimento patriots. Joe and I entered the maze of vicoli off the Duomo looking for the minuscule Via Giustiniani. Just as another downpour ensued, we detected the fogged-up windows and pushed open the restaurant's creaky backporch-style door. Only open for lunch, Sa Pesta was packed to capacity. Somehow, we landed a private table near the fireplace. Most of the restaurant consists of communal tables, and everyone sits on benches. The crowd included well-dressed professionals, fishmongers in high rubber boots and families.

Our table aligned with the big wood-burning pit, into which a heavily perspiring cook fed cast-iron skillets of farinata, Genoa's indigenous baked chick-pea patties (often served with a thick layer of cheese on the bottom). Besides the farinata, we tried a mixed platter of frittata, fried potato pancakes and a soft-cheese torte. Green trennette pasta with pesto and a platter of grilled sausage and potatoes followed. The taverna setting, with rain streaming down the windows, made us feel safe in this generous stranger's home.

Before heading back to Hotel Balbi, Joe and I stopped in the neoclassical Chiesa di Sant'Annunziata, framed in tram wires at a busy circular intersection. Its baroque interior - with an excess of gold leaf, mottled marble and cloud-burst ceiling frescoes -- stood in extravagant contrast to the floor made up of white-marble tombs. Many were inscribed with skulls and crossbones, but the macabre designs on many tombs were nearly erased by centuries of steady foot traffic.

The downpour didn't stop until later evening, when we took our now-familiar route under the arcade to seek out Ristorante Vegia Zena, hidden along a dark alley. We were seated in a dining room that resembled a wine cellar. Our waiter suggested an excellent cold octopus salad with potatoes and a sweet seaweed-type garnish (asparagi del mare) that resembled miniature pine tree branches. Needing a pesto break, we proceeded directly to the secondi piatti. I chose the frisceu di baccala, lightly breaded baccala fritters.

Joe went in a more elaborate direction: huge grilled shrimp (with shells, eyeballs and tentacles in tact) bathed in a buttery parsley sauce. For this laborious dining extravaganza, the waiter set out various tools for cracking and disemboweling the crustaceans. Then he surprised us both by nonchalantly tying a bib around Joe's neck (and over his sport coat). It read: "Io sono una buona forchetta" ("I am a good fork," which further translates as "I am a good eater.")

So here we were sipping wine and enjoying a delectable meal off an alley near Genoa's port stacked with cranes and freighters. Joe had a bib on over his sport coat. And nobody around us seemed to think anything of it. We just blended in with the regal and rustic incongruities of this fabled city by the sea.

The next day ended up being overcast, too. But even in the rain, Genoa seethes with a rough and elegant romanticism. Our destination, apropos in gray weather, was the haunting 15th century Chiesa di Santa Maria di Castello (whose foundations actually date to 500 BC). It's wedged into an obscure, half-hidden square and, from its stairs, we could catch a glimpse of the medieval Torre Embraici - an exceptionally tall Guelph-era battlement whose ramparts hover over zig-zagging lines of fresh-hung laundry (even in the rain).

We didn't encounter a living soul and heard only the laughter of children emanating from an unseen school, followed by intermittent thunder claps and occasional lightning flashes. The church in this tight alleyway could have held Dracula's tomb - the light inside so dim, we could barely see the oil-stained paintings in front of us. Our hearts skipped a beat as tombstones rattled beneath our feet, many of them semi-collapsed or sunk into the marble floor. Dark and contemplative, with horizontal charcoal-gray and white stripes, the church became a maze of chapels and cloisters. Everything creaked and echoed. Joe and I felt like we were violating hallowed ground.

Then two caretakers appeared and invited us to look at a small cloister. On the way, I recoiled in horror before a giant painting of the martyred St. Peter of Verona with a bloody ax jutting from his head. The men quickly disappeared inside the arched cloister. We admired more genteel frescoes of the Virgin then bee-lined it for the exit. On our way out, we passed the mysterious Crocifisso Miracoloso, a legendary relic in which the head of Christ is said to move and his beard is known to grow before viewers' eyes. We imagined the statue's eyes followed us. Luckily, the doors were not bolted shut.

Once outside, we fought back a sudden leaf-swirling wind and drizzle as we made our way toward the Duomo di San Lorenzo. Then another ghostly figure greeted us: a mime, stone-still covered in chalk-white paint. He wore a gold laurel wreath around his head and a white robe. As he stood on a tiny pedestal, his backpack clearly in sight, he held a gold-quill pen and book. Obviously Italy's national poet, Dante Alighieri, the mime came alive when Joe dropped a coin in a cup beneath the statue's pointy slipper-clad feet. Dante's eyes opened with corpse-like spontaneity. He then reeled around and whistled as he motioned to Joe to write in his book. Joe obliged, scribbling a request for the author of The Divine Comedy to say "Ciao" to Beatrice. The poet approved with a strange whistling sound before turning back to stone.

The wide Via San Lorenzo led us to the grandiose rectangular block of baroque-neoclassical pillars known as the Palazzo Ducale. The former seat of Genoa's doges, the Renaissance palace has been transformed into a cultural center for occasional art exhibitions. It's across from the dramatically arcing fountain of the Belle Epoque Piazza de Ferrari. Instead of turning back to our usual route along the ornate Via Garibaldi, we continued through a small wrought-iron shopping arcade.

The indoor promenade opened onto a madly swirling intersection, where traffic circled around a bombastic statue of Vittorio Emanuele II on his muscular steed. This statue is not far from a pensive one of native son Giuseppe Mazzini in high-waist pants and tailcoat contemplating the Risorgimento before a looming industrial crane. Across the street stands one of several entrances to the Villetta di Negro park. Like most Italian parks, Villetta di Negro joins natural beauty with indiscriminate trash and graffiti. Surprisingly secluded, this tree-lined expanse contains a waterfall, Cupid-bedecked ponds, and carefully orchestrated busts of statesmen in various states of dismemberment.

We worked our way out of the sprawling park and followed more dark vicoli to Piazza Maddalena toward the eclectic Palazzo Spinola di Pellicceria, built in the late 16th century to flaunt more Genovese mercantile wealth. It now houses a mixed bag of furniture and art. Most of the objects were donated by the family of Maddalena Doria Spinola, who owned the palazzo in the 18th century. Once inside we found ourselves startled at every corner by mannequins dressed as servants, with the odd addition of black-nylon Ninja masks. We took the grand staircase (around which hung cartography tapestries) to a replica of an 18th century kitchen filled with hanging taxidermied fowl and little wells of flour and eggs for bread making.

The next floor dripped with baroque extravagance, including another Versailles-inspired Hall of Mirrors, crystal chandeliers and an abundance of green-velvet divans. Sculptures followed two thematic motifs: the arboreal myth of Daphne and Apollo and the Rape of Octavia. On each landing stood thick-embroidered, satin-and-velvet litters for schlepping nobility around the city. They led to a room with silver platters featuring scenes from Christopher Columbus' life and the disembowelment of one St. Erasmus.

Besides paintings devoted to the chiaroscuro followers of Caravaggio, the galleries offered visual variations on the theme of Apollo and the brutal punishment of the satyr (he was skinned alive), who lost a music competition to the melodic god. Yet we managed to find some beauty amid the horrors: Portraits depicting the Mancini sisters, from a noble family, in clever baroque frames that "commented" on the portraiture. For instance, one elaborate frame illustrated in sculpture the mythological Judgement of Paris in which the apple-holding figures pointed to one Mancini woman in the picture to indicate her unsurpassable beauty.

Then, in the religious art rooms, Joe and I couldn't help but notice a running commentary on the plight of St. Joseph. The adoptive father of Jesus was barely visible behind a curtain in one Holy Family depiction; another featured Christ, the Virgin and an elderly St. Joseph looking exhausted with his chin in his hand and, perhaps, questioning his ambiguous role.

By early evening, the rain let up enough for us to enjoy an outdoor gelato as we strolled around the Christopher Columbus monument, where pigeons nestled in the frieze figures. In the evening, we stuck close to Hotel Balbi and dined at the unpretentious Ristorante da Lupo, where we instantly befriended the owners and staff. Our first course consisted of a delicate pappardelle pasta drizzled with light pesto alla genovese and a vegetable minestrone topped with more pesto. The star attraction was a whole baked branzino fish, Ligurian style (with potatoes, capers, pine nuts and black olives). We also enjoyed giant but tender calamari stuffed with pesto and pine nuts, served atop boiled potatoes. We so enjoyed the sciacchetra liquor (whose grapes are cultivated in the nearby Cinque Terre) that the owners gave us a bottle to take home with us.

We were leaving on a very early flight the next morning. Our cab pulled away from Hotel Balbi in a lashing thunderstorm. We traveled in darkness, with only the thrashing Ligurian Sea visible, toward Aeroporto Cristoforo Colombo. Yet we realized how paltry our weather woes were compared to all those fearless (and often later maligned) explorers who set out on the high seas during the Age of Discovery.

END