Sounds of muffled lunchtime conversations and clinks of silverware drifted through dark green shuttered second-story windows to the alley below. Up ahead, a pair of sculpted cupids floated above a pastry shop. I slowed down to inhale the sweet smell of baking.
A church bell rang as a woman approached me, “Scusi, signora, dove …” I stopped her before she could ask directions, and said with a smile that I was also lost. She smiled back and I continued on my way, meandering through the shadowy paths of the historic center of Genoa.
Getting lost in Italy usually brings on grimaces and bickering rather than smiles—as in my many trips on the autostrada with my husband. But getting lost in the medieval maze of narrow streets in Genoa’s centro storico could not have been more idyllic. In fact, getting lost was how I discovered its treasures.
The area, squeezed between the port and Renaissance palaces, is said to be the largest historical center in Europe. It was created by rich merchant seamen of Genoa’s 13th and 14th centuries, when each family staked out separate territories, building their own churches, palaces, and squares—cramming in additions as they grew more prosperous. The dog-legged alleys (called caruggi) of this area were once the scene of chases and back stabbings between feuding families. But centuries later, the area could not have been more peaceful. It’s free of cars and tourists—a sublime place to experience authentic Genovese life.
I’d spent the previous days being guided by Michaela, a red-headed, part-time pop singer who was eager to show my friends and I Genoa, La Superba, the title the city earned during it’s 13th to 18th century maritime heyday. And yes, the old port, the Palazzo Ducale with its ornate trompe l’oeil facade, and the rich Renaissance Palaces of the Via Garibaldi, were impressive in their beauty and grandeur. But I kept getting distracted by the core of the city we were circling. What was going on inside those narrow streets cut between seven story buildings?
When it finally came time for us to go our separate ways and explore, I tucked away my impossible-to-follow map and slipped into alley cat mode. It was like strolling through an open-air museum, lit in slits of filtered sunlight. Votive stone altars (called edicoli) jut from second story corners of pale gold and ochre buildings and Biblical scenes are carved in friezes above doorways.
One path opened up to the Piazza Campetto, where painters on scaffolding meticulously applied pastel colors to restore the Baroque facade of the Imperial Palace. A steep stairway attached to the palace led me under starry frescoed ceilings to what was once the goldsmith’s loggia, and now Fabrorum, a store, laboratory, and museum that showcases the traditional Genovese art of gold filigree.
I found Klainguti, an elegant caffe from 1826 where Giuseppe Verdi hung out during his forty winters here. I passed the counters of confections, crystal chandeliers, and ornate mirrors decorated tiny connecting Rococo salons.
The stores I stumbled upon could have been roped off with velvet as displays of life in another century. There were white-tiled butcher shops with marble slab counters, pharmacies with colorful ceramic jars displayed in dark wood cases, and old-world styled engraving workshops.
Though the shopkeepers didn’t speak much English, browsing with smiles and hand signals was welcomed. Unlike other major Italian cities, the Genovese have not been burnt out by an onslaught of tourists. As a result, the authenticity of the city has not been compromised—natives are patient and accommodating, and there were no overcrowded restaurants or long lines at museums.
Churches and piazzas appeared at the dead ends of alleys. The Piazza San Matteo, once owned by the wealthy merchant Doria family, presented itself like an opera set: a small striped marble church across from two palazzi, with a connecting loggia for taking in the sea air. At another turn, I found Genoa’s oldest church, San Siro—its cool dark grey interior, faded frescoes, and dusty chandeliers creating an eerie ambience.
I rejoined my friends for a farewell-to-Genoa dinner that night, and everyone had stories to tell about their adventures in the labyrinth. Tom had visited Genoa’s jazz museum, which chronicled the stars of the city’s festivals and nearby coastal resorts. Antonia showed off a pair of pearly chic shoes she’d bought for a bargain. I’d picked up a handmade cut glass lavender bracelet. It sparkled on my wrist as I joined in on our toast: “To return, and get lost again finding Genoa’s many treasures.”
Photo: Susan Van Allen
