Genuinely Genoa

monks, macchiato, and a club called qualude

This is The Peel, a weekly dispatch from the road. All aboard.

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#3

Two red setters and a club called Qualude. This is 40 minutes in Genoa, this is entry into the good books in crimson ink.

Genoa tattoos its name on my heart when, on the first night, I shelter from rain and find myself in La Lepre, a bar where bread baskets of crisps are handed out and only tracks recorded in the UK in the late eighties are played - save one by Talking Heads, which happens to be my favourite.

Such was the impact of the place and my resultant desire to do it justice, I shall henceforth be using its given name, G E N O V A. To be within its labyrinthine web of alleys, piazzas and palazzos, is to be tickled, twisted and turned. Nothing held back, no detail left out; it would be wrong to lose even a letter. A sensual place, a strange place. It’s weird, but it’s also sexy, it’s conventional but underworldy. You guessed it, a classic TTCBTAO. Passing by Qualude, it being too early in the day for such vices, one is met by a vast church and its neighbouring piazza. The two are neighbours, nose to nose. Both true, real, all at once. I had arrived in AVM’s core mindset capital - a satellite home on the Ligurian coast!

It is said by some that the city got its name from Janus, the god with two faces. One looks to the mountains, the other to the sea. There are other theories, but this one seems to fit; one could spend a week there happily hopping from one palazzo to the next, seeing only its gilt and glory. Equally, one might pass a mighty month in near-darkness, ploughing the streets of its Maddalena district, knocking back espresso, sampling oil-slicked focaccia from the many fornerias, or stopping for spritzes and being presented with plates of aperitivi free of charge. During an unanticipated torrent of rain, I took cover at Palazzo Rosso, one of three ‘house museums’ which make up the Musei di Strada Nuova, all located in the UNESCO-blessed old town.

Loathe as I am to be led, I reluctantly followed the pre-ordained direction of play; plodding dutifully up one floor to the next, taking in the collection of art, which varies from beautiful and precious to gaudy and sycophantic. As a magpie, my eye opened wide to the real treasure inside: a converted loft apartment on the top floor, designed by famed Franco Albini, and occupied by the terminal tastemaker Caterina Marcenaro. She was the keeper of Fine Art for Genoa in the 50s-70s, he was a neo-rationalist architect and icon. It’s just like they say: Rome wasn’t built in a day, and the impact of this pied à terre may never fade away.

bar none

On the grubby steps of the station, a woman is on pope watch, her screen leans against an empty cup and shows footage of a similarly empty square, presumably the one in the Vatican which will get smoked post-conclave. She’s right to be zoning out, this is perhaps the only part of town not much worth looking at. It’s just tourists (shorts :/) and people changing buses.

A man checks his hair in the mirror of his moped. Zio, uncle, you look great! Girls lean on one leg in doorways on Via Maddalena. Honey, they look great too. The visible presence of sex work in Genova seems an apt metaphor for the city at large. Some of the old streets never see daylight, but they are not hidden; as much as any palazzo, and just as beautiful too. It’s a feast, everyone gets to eat.

Although one would never order such a milky drink after 11am, a two cappuccino morning sets one up well for the day. Caffè degli Specchi, (the trip’s most expensive so far, at 2.10 euro) places me in a sacred crucible of caffeine, working people in macs, briefcases resting briefly at their feet as they imbibe at the bar. One of many thousands in Italy with lacquered surfaces, marble floors, and a loyal clientele greeted by name, addressed like family.

Emerging into Piazza Giacamo Mazzotti, an antiquarian book fair - Fiera del Libro - has unfolded for my pleasure. The stalls hold stacks of plastic-wrapped rare volumes, manned by merchants who have mastered low-key selling; presiding adjacently, thumbing a tome of their own, available to answer a question or two if they really must. Exquisitely preserved art books, first editions, and collections of pristine prints, available to browse for the whole month of May. Enquiring about a particular volume by Genova’s own Eugenio Montale, I learn that this is the event’s eleventh year. A festival dedicated, simply, to the pride - fiera - of the written word.

Any irritation I tend to feel toward the loud voices of my fellow countrypeople is eradicated by the sheer pleasure I take in perambulating Genova’s web. Even the loud holler down from the top floor of a hip clothing boutique, honey, babe, would you wear something like this?, cannot touch me. Holiday on, my friends, buy the thing! Patronise the peoples in whichever way suits.

Last week, I wrote of the rich reward from looking up. In Genova, you can be up; ascend the rainbow, find the gold. Entire neighbourhoods occupy higher levels - Sarzano, Castelletto, Carignano - boasting their own ecosystems and access to direct light. Near the university’s architecture school, I stumbled into Bar Retro, and was fortified just as much by the proprietress, Alma’s, macchiato, as by the green mosaiced bar, church pew seating, ancient theatre posters on the wall, and general sense of bohemia. The weathered, unmistakable cool of its customers may have been in equal thanks to the Teatro della Tosse across the square, or faculty of architecture professors nearby.

Big Farma

It is in one such lofty location that Antica Farmacia Sant’Anna can also be found. Found, the operative word, for to be within the walls of this ancient Carmelite Monastery, is to know that one was hitherto very much lost. Dear reader, wherever you fall on the medicine metric, bedding down with Big Pharma or not, the concoctions made there have been healing the sick, sad, and secular people of Genova for centuries. Walk around the walled garden, touch a dewy, perfumed rose, witness the healing herbs grow all around. Buy a tote bag! A bottle of amaro made within those worshipful walls! Some lavender anti-bacterial spray for your onward journey! You might even meet Father Ezio on his daily rounds.

This city’s truth, unwavering, is the watermark beneath its every square metre. Authenticity may have been masticated by the mouths of many, the idea of it having lost any distinct flavour. And yet…from the mountains to the sea, the palazzi to the lamp-lit streets, Genova is a real one.

Skins hang on hooks in the open window of a trattoria, beans soak beyond, a huge scale waits, empty and gleaming silver, bearing witness to the meal soon to be made. A red light clicks on above a confession booth, a fig tree bristles in a cloister. Pine nuts in a mortar, petulant children packing school bags. Visitors will come, popes will go, Genova emerges each morning, a diamond beneath the rock, ready for those with sense to seek it.

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Listening suggestions… pair with…

👂🏼 the bottom of a crisp basket @ La Lepre

👂🏼 il primo cappuccino, at the bar of Degli Specchi