Weekend road trip : Genoa

On the road to Italy, Hugo and I gaze one last time at the French coast.

Friday, October 29.

Sebastian and I took an early train to Nice to log a 25k run on the coastline. It felt great, though I knew I was on a tight schedule. Hugo ringed my door short after I showered and had a bit of water. It took me about 60 seconds to throw a couple of essentials in my North Face flyweight bag, namely my camera, running clothes and some cash. I grabbed grapes and apples and we were out the door, and soon on the road, in Hugo's 1973 Mini.

We zoomed on the winding seafront and through the Italian border city of Ventimiglia. There in a smaller town we stopped to have some pasta and ice cream, a tasty combination that would set the culinary mood for the rest of this little adventure.

Hours of driving –and dozing for me- later, we reached the outskirts of Genoa, a big and dirty harbor city dwelled on the shore of Liguria, where the land angles before stretching south towards Rome, hundreds of kilometers further.

We passed districts so large they made the city look like a titanic hive of brown shadows and subdued tones whirling in the setting sun. A girl at the Continental hotel recommended us the Fratelli La Bufala, a restaurant in the eastern part of town which turns out to be a international chain originally founded in Italy. Don't be so quick to sign them off though, for they legitimately make the best pizza I have had to date. And that is an understatement. I wonder if they are as good in their other establishments.

 The historic part of Genoa is coiled around narrow cobbled squares where tortuous alleys meet in awkward geometry. On Friday nights, the Genoese youth converge in long, ant-like files to meet on the ancient stones of Piazza delle Erbe. People hop from the terrace of the Berto Bar to the Purple club across, sometimes stopping by the traditional Gelateria where they serve delicious ice cream fresh from the day. There we met Margherita, an old acquaintance of Hugo, ordered drinks and talked late, amidst the incessant chatters buzzing between the walls.

Around 2 a.m. we took off to the Mini and watched the Italian girls on their Vespa fade in the night. We drove away from Genoa and parked the car on a dark and quiet lot by a French restaurant, slipped into our sleeping bags and prompty fell asleep.