5/24/26 Italy

I am sleep deprived and delirious.
I am also in Florence. Scratch that I’m now in Cinque Terre. Nope, Genoa. Scratch that, I have finally landed in Barcelona.

I left Mexico at 7:05pm Sunday and arrived at my hotel in Florence at 11pm Monday. In between those I was in the Madrid airport to the Milan airport, to the Milan train station and then here. As such, my first impressions of Florence were at night. I knew the train station to be central, but immediately across the street was a striking church lit up for night. People crowded the streets still, the lamp posts lending a romantic cast to narrow streetways. My cab driver was all that was charming and kind hearted.

I got in and popped in the shower. One thing about generally traveling to poorer countries than one’s own is an expectation of an underwhelming shower. But oh ho, I am in Europe and was immediately gifted with strong water pressure and accurate water temperature adjustments. What luxury! I passed out and slept for 12 hours. The older I get the more sleeping in feels like the height of self indulgence. I woke up at 12pm feeling slightly guilty for sleeping in, but then reminding myself, this is vacation and while I want to see things, what I really want is to give myself space and time. To feel unhurried. What can be more unhurried than sleep? I’ve also decided that it’s anti capitalist to sleep in. It’s a re evaluation of the value of time from a non economical lens and that I felt even a twinge of guilt indicates how much internal dismantling I have to do. #fightthepatriarchybysleepingin

So I skipped my free walking tour and instead wandered at my own pace through the city. Turns out the church across from the train station is Santa Maria Novella, a Dominican church whose construction began in 1290. It’s an enormous space complete with a ton of small chapels, a courtyard lined with Tuscan cypress (you know, that tall narrow tree that you can picture lining the driveway to a villa/winery), and a dormitory.

It seems impossible to put a date to any of these churches. How do you decide? For example, this church was a different church (Santa Maria delle Vigne) prior to becoming Dominican. In 1242, the Dominicans decided to begin a new and larger building. The first stone was laid in 1279. So clearly plans and permitting took awhile. Construction was “completed” in the mid 14th century, but the church wasn’t consecrated until 1420 and the facade wasn’t completed until 1470. Then it was remodeled in the mid 1500s and again in the mid 1800s. And this seemed to be the story with every religious site. In addition to which nearly all are undergoing some kind of semi-permanent restoration effort cause, well, they’re old. I will say, Florence does an excellent job of masking their work with construction fabric especially designed to replicate the image of whatever’s underneath.

Regardless, it was beautiful. You can tell that God had the most money cause he definitely had the nicest houses (at least until the Medicis). I don’t know much about church construction not having much of a religious background and honestly not a ton of curiosity on the point, but this one extended out past side chapels to a big courtyard and the Cloister of the Dead.

This feels like my first solo trip. One could quibble over that I’ve been to Mexico City by myself, but it’s the first time I’ve been adventuring as a tourist in a new place alone. People have told me “It’s so nice, you get to do what you want” and I am struck by how well Mike and I managed our travel. 1. We always stayed places long enough that no one was sacrificing anything they wanted to check out. 2. We were each deeply comfortable with others things. Mike knew I would drag him to historical stuff, food & coffee stuff, and make him go on every boat in sight. I knew he would decide to go to punk show and whatever weird pop culture/cultural event appealed (like lucha) and the dirtiest holes to eat in. And from my perspective I gained from this exchange. I like to think he did too. In short, I never felt like I didn’t get to do what I wanted.

My narrative on him is starting to take shape. I guess it’s a sad story of a boy who never trusted himself and a girl who did. There’s these painful moments I recall of me pleading that I hadn’t changed and him insisting that we all had to change. And I now suspect we were using it differntly. I was comfortable in my skin, my values, my priorities, my finances. I was ok. And so I grew, I developed, I matured, but I suppose I didn’t change. I didn’t need to. I knew who I was. Mike, I suspect, did not. I think of him as a weird kind of lifestyle succubus these days. He learned to love reading, travel, fresh vegetables, and Malden sea salt. He learned what it looked like to be politically engaged. And he took most of those, attached them to himself, shielded his lack of conviction, his mistrust of self, and then I had nothing left to offer. Because I didn’t need to come up with new and shiny for myself, I was grounded. I am so angry still with him and with myself for untethering me. For my self-doubt. And he needed fresh terrain and ideas. Cue someone wildly different than myself. I don’t think he has thought of, knows/believes, what have you, this narrative. But it checks every box of confusion I have. And yet, I loved traveling with the man.

But a me trip means the mercato is a first day activity.

So off to Mercato Central I went. First I got to wind through the magnificent cobblestoned streets of this city. Then I got to see Italian produce. It’s good, so good and luscious and shiny and visibly ripe, it almost brings tears to my eyes. I have no idea how they get all the cherry tomatoes to redden at the same time on a vine, but it’s stunning. The tomatoes look like my tattoo, actually they’re an even more striking red. And CHEESE! I tried the provolone del monaco made famous by Stanley Tucci. If you haven’t made spaghetti alla nerano do so immediately, tis the perfect season in the states if you’re finding yourself a bit overwhelmed by zucchini. You won’t be able to find the cheese, but I’ve always mixed and it’s still divine.

One thing I struggled with a bit in Florence was eating. First, Florence loves its gelato and has excellent gelato on every corner. This appears to be at the expense of excellent espresso on every corner and I find it an unacceptable trade off. Second, every where was packed and I had neither done the research nor made the reservations that would’ve resolved this. Consequently I had a lot of mediocre food. Tried lamprodetto. It’s not offensive, but nothing to write home about it. I’m also now trying to decide if I just don’t particularly bolognese sauce? I’d made the Marcella Hazan one a few months back and found it boring and that was also my experience on this trip. But I did find my stride.

I ate gelato. I discovered that mixing yogurt gelato and chocolate gelato bears a striking resemblance to chocolate cheesecake. I ate the lemoniest of lemon gelatos- like a cupful of amuse bouche. I was saddened by the pistachio gelato, but blown away by the coffee one.

I took a pasta making class, which I probably should’ve known better than to do, although he did use somewhat different techinques to make his sheets that might prove useful. In the first pass, we went through once and skipped the evens, so going 0, 1, 3, 5. Then we bookfolded the dough and went through 2, 4, 6 and finally 7. The resulting dough was supple and only need a quick rest. Sauces we mostly watched get made. But the wine was free, the crowd was fun, and the resulting three pasta dishes were delicious.

I am finding the importance of activities goes up when traveling solo.

Florence is tucked in the hills and the city center is quite small and walkable. I stayed across the Arno River from most of the major tourist attractions, albeit literally across the street from Palazzo Pitti. It makes for a stunning landscape when you can get in the clear enough to see the city. The bridges offer a decent view, but the river winds, making it not as sweeping. The top of duomo? This is a good start.

The Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore (aka the Duomo) is at the heart of the old city and occupies an immense space within it. While free to enter, the line is daunting, and you don’t get to climb to the top without a ticket. I had been hoping that my 6:45pm climb time would afford me a sunset view, but I’d forgotten how civilized time is here. The sun comes up around 6am and goes back down just before 9pm. It’s perfect. I headed over a bit early cause your Duomo climb ticket includes free entry to the museum, but alas, the museum was closing early at 5, and I was told to return the next day. So I had the first Aperol Spritz of the trip instead. This building is insane. It’s partially under construction (I sorta got the impression that it’s permanently partially under construction) and they’ve draped cloth over which replicates the facade underneath, and seems to imply a certain amount of practice as well.

You enter through an intricate side door with about another 30-40 people. And then you begin the climb. It’s not a tour and there’s no ceremony, you just shuffle along into the church and through a second tiny door and start up the narrow and not terribly tall staircase. Brunellischi created the world’s largest dome at the time, but he did so by first creating a smaller dome that the larger one sits on top of, we threaded our way between the domes. The stairs were even and well lit, but curved, so one got a little dizzy. But it definitely made you bond with your line neighbors.

Ok, I would like to explain this photo by saying, I know it isn’t good. But there’s a very narrow walk way on the inside of the lower dome, quite close to the painting. It’s mostly covered by plexi glass, so this is me taking the picture I could of Vasari’s “The Last Judgement” and it is a dark and disturbing mural my friends. It actually made me think of the Divine Comedy (yes, Dante is from Florence) with the lower levels being hell, look carefully you will definitely see people being stabbed and eaten and the higher more central seemingly more tranquil and heavenly. But seriously, I don’t think I did it justice but there was definitely a monster with half a human in his mouth and the other half in his hand, a devil with a trident in someone’s behind, and other various scenes of people falling into hell and a select few ascending. This is nothing if not threatening. I don’t know what I expected, but this was not it.

And then you keep going up. The ceiling gets shorter, the stairs get steeper, and you can see the inner dome alongside you. Four hundred and sixty three stairs later and you emerge out a trap door at the top of the outer dome. And you are taller than anything else in Florence.

It’s a 360 view with the city spread out below you escaping into the green hillsides. The sun was high and bright and picture taking was a little dampered by this. In the picture of the entire duomo above, you can almost make out the tiny little ball and cross up top. That’s basically where I was. They shuffle you along pretty quick and in no time whatsoever we were being herded back down the stairwell.

Santa Marie del Fiore replaced San Lorenzo as the religious center of Florence though located only a few blocks away. Begun in 1296, the project was expected to last 140 years and first involved the demolition of the previous church on the site, Santa Reparta, who ruins can be seen in the museum accessed through the church. Over the course of the next 150 years, various architects had their say, culminating in Brunellischi’s dome, an incredible architectural feat at the time, constructed in only 16 years – a breakneck pace- at that time. Comparatively, the famous gold doors took 27 years.

The inside is grand, large and features a more restrained style. It’s beautiful, but it’s not a “cover every inch in splendor” vibe. There’s a strict roped path one follows and plenty of folks on hand to tell you if you’ve strayed. Below the church are the remains of Santa Reparta. In addition to the preservation of mosaics, floors, and walls, it’s also the burial place of Brunelleschi as well as a Medici and several knights of the time.

The space feels cavernous and catacomby. Although the constant buzz of tourists kinda takes away from any creepy vibe. It is astonishing to me how Italy retains its charm despite the hordes. I honestly don’t understand. In so many ways its the epitome of all that I hate while traveling, but somehow Italy transcends.

This whole time my sleep, my eating, what have you, have been beyond off course and inconsistent. One night I’m sleeping 4 hours, the next 9. But for the next day I set an alarm to be at my rescheduled walking tour on time. I’ve become rather partial to these free walking tours. You get a very rudimentary lay of the land, a funny story or two and the broad history. In this case, we had Simona, a Florentine with a background in art history and disdain for lampredotto. She taught us about the rise of Medicis, the previous existence of Florence as a city of competing towers, the history of wine windows as a means of selling home produced wine, that was then expanded during the plague, but pretty much went of popularity after that until COVID-19. Now they are back. You see them in all forms. The idea is that you go to a small covered opening, historically only an arm with a wine glass could fit through, and either knock on the wood in front of the window or ring a bell, order your wine and have it handed to you through the window. Very touristy, very charming. Florence does not appear to have laws against wandering about with alcohol in hand. We learned about the 3 palaces of the Medici, Palazzo Medici Riccardo, Palazzo Vecchio, and Palazzo Pitti, roughly a new palace every century. She told us of the ancient and still present grudge against Pisa, pointed out where Dante was born, and how the Medici family supported both the arts and the invention of gelato.

After the tour, I headed to Forno Becagli for schiacciata, a focaccia like bread, used to make sammies. Delicious sammies. I had one with eggplant, stracciatella, sundried tomato and something else. It was loaded, it was messy, it was delicious.

Then I headed to see David. But on the way I grabbed some wine and then stopped by a kitchen supply store, ostensibly to replace the clamp for my pasta maker. You may recall it ran into some techincal difficulties around my birthday. I left the proud owner of a chitarra, a new ravioli press, and very long kitchen tweezers. And the clamp.

So David. The Accademia is not huge, it is however packed. It seems like perhaps it was built for him. You pass through initial rooms of various religious art from Medieval to Renaissance to Gothic and then pass down a hallways of arches, sculptures displayed on either side and at the end displayed in a light filled dome stands David. It’s impressively done. Given that the Accademia was established in 1784 and David was completed in the early 1500s, one assumes it was built for him. There is a debate about whether he is contemplating how to slay Goliath or admiring his handiwork post slaying. Prior to him, most depictions featured a triumphant David standing atop the headless giant. Michelangelo offers a different viewpoint, a reflective David. And he is remarkable.

He is so deeply human. Perhaps it helps that one has seen all sorts of sculpture from a similar period across Florence, and they’re quite beautiful. But beauty was perfection, stone cold smooth marble necks and legs, a graceful line without interruption in repose. Here we have veins, intent, knobby knees, and complexity. Originally the piece was meant to go atop the Duomo, so his hands, his head are of larger proportion. Instead he spent years standing outside the Palazzo Vecchio before being brought to his more protected location.

Honestly, I wish they just charged more or controlled entry to David. The room was abuzz with people, though it wasn’t hard to get to the front and the poor, poor, poor attendant rose every minutes to hush the crowd to extremely little effect and whatever was achieved was short lived. But I did wish for relative silence.

Upstairs the museum featured an exhibit of triptychs, an early form of religious art featuring 3 hinged panels (easier for transport). I also found a tree of life. This is a symbol I’m accustomed to in Mexican culture, in brightly painted clay representations, and had thought it went the other way around. Pre hispanic culture had an idea centered around a tree of life and colonizers came and evangelized it. But no, other way on this one.

The next day was my final full day in Florence. It was too soon. I felt like I was just hitting my stride. I’d found a place for espresso and for gelato, but not yet a place for breakfast. One thing I have probably not sufficiently conveyed to those of you who haven’t visited Florence, the longest I have walked to an attraction is maybe 20 minutes. The city center is dense here. It’s probably 3 block between the Duomo and the Palazzo Vecchio and that’s only block from the famous Uffizi Gallery. From the Duomo, the Accademia is barely 2 blocks and another 2 blocks from that takes you to the Mercato. So while I was definitely doing some trekking around, it was extremely circuitous. It is an amazing density of sites. I crossed the Ponte Vecchio pretty much every day and hated it every time. This incredibly famous bridge is like a very narrow tourist trap. The stores lining the bridge are high end jewelers, it’s a pedestrian only bridge that I assume all locals avoid like plague. And you are likely to run into an over extended sefie stick. But as the days before, I crossed over the bridge, this time heading a tiny bit south to Basilica di Santa Croce.

Santa Croce is the largest Franciscan basilica in the world and the burial site of Michelangelo, Galileo, and Machiavelli. And apparently the 1290s were good time for church building, cause this one was started in 1294. It’s similarly stunning, but actually I found the inside more striking and intricate than that of the Duomo.

A lot of this day was spent roaming around the city. I failed for the 3rd time to get into the Duomo museuem. First attempt was around 5pm before climbing the Duomo, and they were closing. Second attempt was before my walking tour and they were not yet open. This attempt was around 3pm and they were closing. Mind you, these were all weekdays. I have no idea what hours this place actually keeps.

More importantly, this was also the day I hit my food finding stride. One thing I most definitely learned about Florence is that dinner reservations are critical. I did not get to eat most places on my list due to this and the fact that I’m not quite clear on how one makes reservations at most these places. There’s no open table. Maybe you WhatsApp? Maybe you send them a message on IG? The latter had pretty terrible results. But I started to get a sense of what to look for.

The days here are magnificent right now. The sun comes up around 6:30 and isn’t setting till 9pm. That’s perhaps the most compelling part of the the snowbird lifestyle. I miss the long days of summer in my much closer to the equator home. It’s so delicious having this much light. I headed back to my side of the river and gave myself a little down time before wandering toward Santo Spiritu in search of dinner and wine. Then I headed back to the bridges for sunset.

There was a man playing guitar on the bridge and it was a really lovely last evening in Florence.
But I was not quite done with Florence yet.

The next morning saw me up early and headed in search of espresso before my time slot at Palazzo Pitti and the Boboli gardens. This is the third and final home of the Medicis, purchased in the mid 1500s and expanded upon. Home is a strange word for this place. It’s enormous. Like I wandered through almost laughing outloud at the opulence and grandiosity of this as a residence. I have a new defiition for wealth and it involves indoor fountains.

The space is enormous and now houses several museums, including the Palantine gallery which features Renaissance art and 14 royal apartments, a Costume Gallery, the Gallery of Modern Art, something about carriages, another thing about Russian icons, something about the treasury. And then of course the gardens. Needless to say I did not make it through. The Palantine is interesting in that it feels like a cross between a home (on a pretty ridiculous scale) and a gallery. There’s no signage to the art and the decorative walls and ceilings are so ornate that it’s hard to to focus on the paintings themselves.

After filling my eyeballs with wonder, I was ready for a little nature. Boboli was not remotely what I expected in that the majority of it is more of a nature walk than a curated garden space. I kept thinking of little Medicis running through the woods.

The gardens quickly climb to a height overlooking the city, there are signs with directions to the Gentleman’s Pavilion and the Lemon House. The ampitheater was underconstruction, so I don’t have a solid picture, but essential it was terraced, grassy sitting spaces in a half circle facing a grassy lawn and behind that the house (see above view). Behind the terraces are statues in the style of Roman Gods, these were under going restoration and were covered, but there was a nod to Venus, so I’m guessing they followed suit. It would have been an epic space to see a performance.

Atop the hill is the Gentleman’s Pavilion. Which is a much more curated space with roses, peonies, and herbs. It had a stunning view of even higher hills. I’m unclear on what the use of any of these outlying structures were, but they offered a sense of many areas of privacy. One could happily host 20 different parties in the gardens at the same time.

Descending back down, I passed Lemon House, which has a grove of olive trees (not what you were thinking?). Again, it’s use was unclear, but it afforded a lovely view of the city. It should be noted that the trails wind all over the place, up hills, down hills, vertically across hills with a rambling, free feel to them, although quite a few sections and trails were cordoned off for construction. In fact, that was thematic of the city. When I asked my Uber driver about it, he basically said “yeah stuff’s old here, it’s always like this”.

While the construction curtailed some adventuring, it didn’t diminish the beauty or sense of calm in that which was accessible. I continued on the path, now downhill, toward the grottoes. There was what appeared to be a rose garden still locked before the first, completely blocked off grotto. So I headed to the second one. On the approach a very handsome Italian security guard greeted me with Ciao, bella. It should be noted that despite only being 10:30 in the morning, it was definitely a sun high in the sky, hot and sweaty as I’m trekking in a dress uphill and downhill and I was most definitely not bella, but it was nice to hear nonetheless.

This grotto was also barred from entry, but one got a much better view nonetheless, it was immense and intricate. I might now be a seeker of grottoes.
From there the path descended back into the courtyard of the Palazzo and I exited, hustled on home, and got ready for the train to Cinque Terre, feeling like my time in Florence had been insufficient to settle into the path of the city.

My destination was Monterosso al Mare, the 5th and most northern town of the 5 main towns composing Cinque Terre on the Italian Riviera. The plan was to get up early the next day, do the Sentierro Azzurro, a hike along the coast that connects all 5 towns. And this is rugged, hilly, beautiful coast. From the train there were sweeping views of coastline through verdant hills, with smalled terracotta roofed white villages dotting the vista. Between the train tracks, wild red poppies found life amidst hardier grass. This is where James Bond evades villians in his Alfa Romeo.

These towns are small. I left the train station and simply wheeled my luggage down the main strip and partially up a hill to my hotel. Monterosso is the flattest and beachiest of the towns of Cinque Terre. If I’d had longer it’s probably not where I would’ve stayed (despite internet tales of people dragging their luggage up the hill equivalent of 35 flights of stairs), but given that I knew I wanted a dip in the Mediterranean and my goal was to do the hike, it made sense to stay at one end of it where both of these could be most easily accomplished.

You know how in Europe things just feel better? Turns out that includes small touristy beach towns.

Here agave and palm and passion flowers and cacti and bourgainvillea spill from their alloted space. My space was less hotel and more room. There was no reception, but a lovely woman named Beatrice was just finishing up cleaning my room and waiting to greet me. Though in a large building, it was ground floor and had a sort of patio space, cordoned by plants with a chair, an ashtray and a table on gravel. This was where I could stash my stuff tomorrow while on my hike. Not ideal. So I waited until she finished cleaning and stashed myself and my stuff in the beautifully air conditioned, bright and sunny room before swim-suiting up and venturing out.

Monterosso is divided in two parts, separated by a steep hillside with a tunnel running through for cars and pedestrians alike. I was staying on the more northern side and quickly made my way down to the beach. One damper was that I had no towel. But as it was delicious warm and sunny, I made a beeline for the water. The very fucking cold water. Now, in fairness, I may have become overly accustomed to tropical beaches and while this beach may have the trappings of tropical, hot sun, tan bodies, people sipping Aperol and palm trees, make no mistake, the Mediterranean is not tropical. After a brief, but refreshing and rejuvenating, swim, I made my way back to my room, showered and got ready for dinner.

Like many a beach town in the states, the food left something to be desired. I’d really wanted to try pesto since I was now officially in Liguria, homeland of pesto, but was out of luck. The wine and the view were incomparable on the other hand.

At the end of the day, I contemplated my tomorrow. The plan was to wake up at 6am, get my stuff out the door and set off on my hike with enough time to catch a 2:30 train to Genova. However, my foot was giving me sufficient grief that I’d googled and kinda suspect I have plantars fascitis. Turns out when you google plantars fascitis and hiking, the results are not good. And I wasn’t overly thrilled with the “leave the luggage outside” approach. I further realized I wasn’t super sure where I was going to cram everything in the backpack I intended to take. But really the final straw was an inability to sleep that had me wide awake at 3am.

Instead, I allowed myself to lounge in bed until 9am, despite the next guest showing up and stashing his luggage outside- mostly awkward because the entry doors are definitely just glass with sheer curtains and I was very much still in bed. And then I trekked over to the neighboring part of Monterosso.

The main strip to the cliffside isn’t long, I doubt it’s even a mile, and then you have two options, go through the tunnel or jaunt uphill past something castley looking. I chose the latter.

Turns out the castley looking thing is just a fancy hotel. However, past the hotel, you have another option. You can either go down into town or you can go up to somewhere. I went up and eventually found myself ascending the steps to the Convento dei Cappucini. Around the church is a cemetary and winding mausoleum with monuments to the dead. It’s peaceful and quiet. While some intrepid folks make their way up here, it’s nothing compared to the hordes below. At least this time of day, it was a rather sweaty endeavor. I found still more stairs that led up to small upper cemetary with a stunning view of both sides of Monterosso.

Being neither Italian, nor Catholic, I’m reasonably confident I cannot be buried in this cemetary, but I may make y’all go cast my remains from here.

In fact, that might be it- whoever the executor of my will is, they are now responsible first and foremost for ensuring that my nearest and dearest have the funds to go to Cinque Terre, throw something of me off this cliffside and then go drink and have an Italian beach party for a week. Sunrise or sunset will do nicely for throwing parts from cliffs. Then eat some bread, some pesto, some pasta, some seafood. Have an aperol or a wine or a spritz of some other persuasion. Eat gelato.

I then hustled back down cause I’d successfully changed my train ticket to earlier in the day and was now cutting it a bit close.

Getting on a train in Europe is about as far from an American transportation experience as one can get. It’s about as complicated as getting on a public bus going from one part of town to another. One would never think you could cross borders on this. I’m reasonably confident that many could easily be boarded without a ticket at all. The train station at Monterosso is really no more than a ticket counter and a few lines of track with outdoor seating and a small cafe…. over looking the Mediterranean.

Genova in Italy, Genoa in English, is a short jump from Cinque Terre. It’s an incredible city. I had no idea, no expectations, my simple goal was to get to Barcelona and buy some Ligurian olive oil on the way solely because I recently watched the Fat episode of Sami Nosrat’s “Salt, Fat, Acid, Heat” and it’s referenced in the making of focaccia. This is also the home of focaccia, of pesto, and of farinata. Dating back to the 4th or 5th milennia it’s one of the oldest continually inhabited cities in the world and to this day is the largest port in Italy.

It feels like a port town. A little rugged, a little dirty, but with a brisk and salty breeze.

I took a cab from the train station, which I really shouldn’t have bothered with, but oh well, and then was dropped on a sidewalk with a sign pointing down an alley to “Hotel Bologna Parking”. A narrow alley. Which did open into a small, but charming plaza where I found the entrance of the hotel. I was warmly greeted by two hosts, the latter of whom looked sadly upon my larger suitcase and said “Oh dear, we had a very beautiful room for you, but it’s on the 4th floor. I’m not sure we can get there with a heavy suitcase. So sad, such a beautiful room.” At which point, I assured it was large rather than heavy, and I could make it for a beautiful room. And so the suitcase was lugged up 4 flights of stairs for a room. Not a bad room, not a beautiful room, just a room. Decorated in silver, black, and white, as I was informed by my helpful hotel staff.

I had less than 24 hours in Genoa, but as my goal was only to buy some olive oil, this seemed manageable. I left the hotel with a physical map provided by the hotel clerk and a plan to do a loop, see a bunch of sites, buy some olive oil, and hit the aquarium.

What a remarkable city Genoa is. In the historic downtown “streets” are insanely narrow, like no cars, end of story narrow. The buildings are tall and close together, the curving alleys randomly open into small plazas adorned with bright sun from above and then disperse into 7 different thin alleys. It’s almost like veins.

You turn corner after corner wondering how long it would take to master this twists. On the way I came across a small opening into a mansion titled the Secret Garden. When I go back, I’ll have to check it out. Looked magical. Then I grabbed a farinata- omg yes! This is a thin chickpea flour pancake, beautiful golden and olive oily with a crunch on the exterior and a tender crumb center. I tried it plain since it was my first, but they slather them with cheese, pesto, tomato, prosciutto, just about anything you can imagine. It was so good. Then I carried on my way with my perfectly greasy treat.

The Porto Antica, or old port, has been completely modified as a tourist and cultural space on the waterfront, next to old town. It’s a bit strange to step out of darker corridors into broad open air and brilliant sun. There’s the aquarium, several museums, a biosphere, the Bigo, sculptures, an events center, a swimming pool, a cinema, etc. It just keeps going. I opted for the aquarium which is supposed to be one of the largest in Europe. And I’m partial to any aquarium that lets me pet rays.

But, an aquarium is still an aquarium, and on a Saturday it means screaming children. So I made my way through on the faster side and continued my walk through the city.

Crossing from the water into the city reminded me a bit of Seattle in the viaduct days. There’s a fair amount of grit here. I meandered back into the alleys and opened to a large plaza with a farmers’ market ringing the fountain at the center, people milling about and cars zipping by. A large piece of art protesting violence against women hung on a building.

There is a funicular to the top of the hill which provides an amazing view of the city. I found the funicular, but not the way to purchase a ticket. The machines inside the station were dead. I finally asked someone, clearly not Italian upon speaking, who said they got the ticket in a nearby plaza. So I went in search of a plaza. Instead of a ticket sales booth, I found a sign to the top of the hill through a charming narrow door. Which left me in a creepy tunnel of ugly yellow tile, grafitti and the vague smell of urine. There was only one other person walking in the opposite direction. It led to another creepy tunnel that led to an archaic all wooden elevator which I rode by myself to the top of the hill with a plan of funicularing down.

It was so peaceful. There were maybe 25 other folks milling about a plaza. The trees were shady overhead and the surrounding buildings looked more spacious and in a French colonial style than the narrow mess below. There were even a few butterflies. It was beautiful and serene.

I did not, however, find the funicular.
I suspect it leads to another viewpoint. So I walked down the steep hill.
The roads here were wider, allowing for vehicles, though I didn’t see many. The sidewalks were steep enough to be built as wide stairs. Plants grew in the cracks of cement. This felt more like a neighborhood.

After a brief rest, I set out for dinner. Just like in Florence and Cinque Terre, no luck without a reservation at my first two choices. The second place recommended a third restaurant where they thought they might have room for me and managed to give me sufficiently clear directions to find it. On the way over I found a celebration. A stretch of long narrow tables, winding maybe 10-12 tables long and a rowdy community. Kids darted about with soccer balls. The tables had pizza, pasta, so many bottles of wine, and gelato just sitting out. It was chaotic and joyous.

Twisting and turning through a few more alleys, I found the restaurant and was given a table. I had the classic trofie al pesto. Trofie is a traditional semolina pasta. It’s short and spiraled using your fingers, giving it more twists to grab onto more pestoey goodness. It was a very nice pasta. The party was still going when I headed back to the hotel.

In the morning I headed to the airport bright and early. The Genoa airport is tiny. They list literally all their flights for the day on the same one screen (or at least from 7am-11pm). Despite this, it’s a modern feeling, spacious airport. Because there is really only one flight at a time, you can spread out and take up whatever room you desire.

And now I find myself in Barcelona.