History

The fond feelings I had for Genoa are a little dented, after my discovery of their mercenary attitude towards aperitivo snacks, but in the words of Homer Simpson, “Aw, I can’t stay mad at you.” Genoa’s personality is too magical. In that respect, it’s sort of like Venice, only less overt.

This morning while in search of coffee I stumbled into the Santissima Annunziata del Vastato, which looms over a busy street intersection with a bulk unornamented apart from six massive fluted columns.

Inside, however, is the full, gilded, fresco’d madness of High Baroque architecture. The ceiling fairly drips with gold, at least in the parts than aren’t slathered with vividly coloured frescoes.

Parts of the walls that aren't painted with a mural host incredible dioramas of saints in various states of passion. And the bits in between are carved marble pilasters, panels and busts. It’s glorious, in the most literal sense of the word.

Pirate Pete took the opportunity to show how menacingly he can emerge from a dark Italian alleyway.

When I pointed out that his “alley” was just a gap in an ornamental railing, he accused me of quibbling yet again. Note to self: stop spoiling his reality.

I got breakfast at a nearby cafe, this time with a latte macchiato and a pistachio corneto. Once again, the corneto was absolute perfection.

After breakfast I wandered up to the flea market at the Ducal Palace, where those who aren’t ducal can offload their old tat. I saw lots of beautiful things, and even some that were affordable, but they were all too big, too heavy, too fragile or too restricted by Australian customs. But if I ever need to furnish my little Italian hideaway, I’ll know where to come.

Later, I tried to go to the Museo del Palazzo Reale, which is apparently quite good, but even close to 4pm, with the museum only open for another three hours, there was a forty-minute queue to get in.

I ain’t waiting in line for no forty minutes. I am a fan of history, not its bitch. I went for a walk instead; in a place like Genoa there’s art and history beside every lamp post, garbage bin and mobile phone shop.

In the evening I went to another bar recommended by Google reviews, called Les Rouges. It turns out that even though they’d only been open for 20 minutes, their tables were already booked out. The waiter offered me a seat at the bar, which was really more of a ledge, and I took that. Once again, there was a token gesture at free snacks (this time, a couple of slices of rubbery flatbread with a little cheese and tomato paste on top), but I had to order some fried potato with a cheese dipping sauce to feel as if I’d eaten something. My drink, a tea-infused Moscow Mule, was very good, which is, I suppose, the main thing.