After the Shopping

After I'd done my damage in the shops, I stored my tiny bag of purchases in the Panda and walked off down the street for a sit down meal. I found a little shop where I had a plate of bolognese and a giant bottle of water. I sat and enjoyed the mid-70s temps with low humidity and watched the world go by.

At one point a 1976 Corvette drove by. Another time a WWII US Army Jeep (still green with white star) puttered by. And watching the people -- who knew! -- I learned that by-the-way white Adidas tennis shoes and white Chuck Taylor high tops are all the rage.

Able to fight off the urge for Gelato, I headed back to my car.

I found other shoppers who explained how to pay for my parking at the automatic kiosk, which took coins, bills and plastic.

In heading out I knew that from Ventimiglia with the Med at my back, France was to the left and my B&B was to the right. My plan of action was to take the path of least resistance and keep the sea on my right hand. I memorized the names of a few villages around my locale with the idea that I was so close to my final destination certo a sign would point to one of these villages.

And I was off.

The Mercato

The market goes for blocks along two streets parallel to the beach and up several perpendicular between the two.

At first glance it was a mass confusion of commerce with throngs of people pawing through merchandise while sellers dealt with them all as they were able. Yet as I kept strolling I noticed an order to the shops and a rhythm with the shoppers. I would say the shops could be divided into three categories: Really really cheap stuff; Nice stuff; Knockoffs of nice stuff.

The Really really cheap stuff stalls were usually manned by Asians and sold stuff like bras in piles on tables and shirts for 3 Euro or shoes for 10 Euro. The people buying at these shops would stand close to the racks or hunched over the tables quickly looking for the needful, usually dragging along an IKEA-style rolling basket.

The Nice stuff stalls were nicely arrayed and had prominent signage about the wares. "Made in Italy". "Real Leather". "Cashmere". "Silk". "Merino Wool".  I'm translating, but you get the picture. The products looked good and felt good. The leather smelled good. For food items like Italian meats, cheeses, pasta, spices, sauces the packaging clearly marked the location of origin, the ingredients, and came in 'specialty shop' sizes suitable for traveling. The sellers were attentive but not too -- helpful and knowledgeable. Usually Italian, with decent command of French and English. They were ready to take a credit card, and used nice packaging -- even had gift bags and boxes.

The Knockoffs of nice stuff shops were manned by Asians or Eastern Europeans, and had items that were close but no cigar. The novelty noodles came in garish colors in giant cellophane bags. The purses were fabric with a poly coating, or advertised as 'vegetable leather' (is that like a fruit rollup?). The scarves were scratchy. The sellers in these stalls stood really close to you while they did their best to find something that pleased.

A Tight Spot

We were stopped because the lot has an automatic counting system. It only allows as many cars in the lot as there are parking spaces. The digital sign by the ticket machine indicated zero parks available. Looking into the lot, cars were in motion toward the Exit, therefore it was only minutes before the four of us waiting were able to inch forward, take our ticket, and enter Parking Heaven.

I found the spot available to me and boy, was it tight, but I knew from my Smart days that I can park anywhere, so I wheeled into that  spot and powered down.

Inching out of the door was a challenge, but nothing I couldn't handle. Though my backpack had to be wriggled out with a jerk.

Finding a Spot to Park

Parking in Italian towns is at a premium. My research online spoke of municipal lots provided on the outskirts of town away from the real attractions, and my compatriots in the Italian class told stories of near tow experiences.

My first parking adventure was none of these things. I headed into what was very obviously a tourist town with no clue of where to find the mercato. I noted very large blue signs with "P" -- which even with my main-brain driving, switching gears, and keeping the Panda ON, I took to mean "Parking". They were all over the place, many having arrows to signal 'turn here for parking'.

I made a right off the main drag, made another right following the blue sign onto a totally stopped street, only to see that we were stopped at a parking lot to the right and the mercato to the left.

Serendipity.

My Sweet Panda

Friday Mercato in Ventimiglia

The Autostrade from Genoa to Ventimiglia hugs the coast, so the blue water of the Med was just off to my left had I summoned the courage to look.

The Italian Riviera is very hilly, steep, and so great stretches of the highway bores right through the mountains above in tunnels of of sometimes great lengths. Something really cool is that there are  numbered 'Emergency' alcoves carved into the right hand wall of the tunnels, where a quick glance showed a call button for assistance. (Imagine!)

I came to a sign where I had to choose France or Ventimiglia, so I got off the Autostrade and headed to the famous Friday mercato in Ventimiglia.

Learning the Way of the Autostrade

On thing that took a while to compute in my brain, is how quickly the kilometers pass.

From an American perspective -- stop, right now, go out to your car and look at the speedometer (unless you have some fancy schmancy digital thingy) -- 55 MPH is approx 90 KPH. So, if the sign says X village is 90 km from here, you can consider this 55 miles. Allora, the towns were flying by.

Another slow computation was the relative speed... Most of the straightaways on the Autostrade were marked as 110 (it's a number inside a circle -- don't ask me the colors, I cannot remember -- I only know that I know what it is... don't ask me how) which is roughly 68 miles per hour.

As a person who hardly drives beyond a four square mile segment of Charlotte, even 55 is a stretch for me -- especially in an unfamiliar car. So I kept to the right / slow lane and maintained a consistent 90 kph.

I really love that the exits are marked way in advance, and even more that the name of the town is written on the road, on the pavement, in the lane you should be in to make the exit.

The On-Ramp

I figure this must be pretty good advice, I hear it from so many folks. So I try it again. After some twists and turns, quick stops and U-ees, I find myself in the on-ramp to the Autostrade.

It feels very NY-NJ... in that the single lane spreads wide into multiple, with some being marked very clearly in school bus yellow as only for the "EZ Pass" riders. I go into a non-EZ-Pass lane with several cars ahead, so I can observe what they do. (Remember, I've never driven in NY-NJ... I've only been the passenger. And I am very good at mimicking others.)

I hit the giant Family Feud button and the ticket spits out at me. And I'm on my way.

One point I store in RAM is that the same ramp is used for both directions, so after taking the ticket your next action is to look for the signs pointing your way.

Where the hell am I??

At any rate I am now moving, controlling heavy machinery, in a country where I don't speak the language or understand the signage. I was given instructions to get onto the Autostrade (toll road), something along the lines of go-straight-turn-right-go-up.

This doesn't seem to take me toward a toll road, so I make another right, go a few blocks, then make another right and go a few blocks ... I figure in making a square I can never get lost and perhaps I'll get lucky and happen upon the Hertz office... or better yet, the Autostrade

At each stop Panda turns off, and at every red light the Vespas scoot around the cars to be first at the light. (I have India flashbacks...)

I find myself in a retail area in a one-way street with right angle parking spots on the left. The good people of Genoa are walking along the sidewalks, going about their business, when I spot a slot with my name on it. I wheel in, turn off (for real, this time), and  cross the street in time to accost a couple of elderly gentlemen one of whom speaks passable English.

And he tells me go-straight-turn-right-go-up.

It's On and It's Off

I sat in my sweet silver Panda and adjusted the seat, looking far too briefly at the various controls. I dropped the hand brake, went into Drive, and hit the gas.

The car is one of those 'half automatics' -- by that I mean it's like my Smart in that you can switch gears yourself for greater gas economy and to control the power (I say with the little to no irony) without needing a clutch, using a lever on the transmission stick. Or, you can allow the car to switch gears himself.

Another surprise in store from my fine ride is that when you come to a full stop (with your foot on the brake or the car in Neutral), the engine shuts off for fuel economy. The car is still ON, it's just off, if you see my point.

Take your foot off the brake or hit the gas and it cranks itself and moves.

[I have read in several different places that cranking the car uses much more gas than driving the car, so I'm not sure how the Panda turning off and cranking saves fuel. Perhaps this is something I need to research.]

Panda

There were two people sitting behind the standard height counter, and they remained sitting while they helped customers (do they stand in the US?... I think so, but I'm not sure). I handed over my Passport, my Intl Drivers Permit and my credit card. I handwrote my email address on a little slip of paper.

Before the woman got started, I explained that I fear I'd reserved a car which is too large for me... I'd like to downsize. I said I drive a Smart in the US, are there any Smarts available? She said no Smarts, but perhaps I would like a Fiat 500 -- I'm sure she said  "cinquecento" -- and like a doof I said, oh isn't that double the price? And she said 'no, it's the same'..... And then the guy sitting next to her said something very quietly, and she nodded and continued typing.

In my research I had actually found that the 500 was double the price of 4-door models. Perhaps it is just because they are all the rage in the US and the first law of economics is supply and demand. Could it be that the URL of the renter (indicating country of origin) drives the price? Hmmmmmmmm.  (Note to self -- in the future have friends in-country reserve the cars....)

She asked if I would like an Automatic. I was amazed, I thought all Euro cars were stick, and I said Si si si, I'd love an automatic. I asked is there GPS, she said no, do you want GPS... I said -- no I have a map -- I'm old school like that.

At any rate, when she brought the car around it was not the cinquecento, but instead the Panda... Still 4 doors, but much smaller than my Full Stop for the Ages. I've translated Panda from inglese to italiano, and it still says Panda.... So I guess I'm driving a cute slow Chinese bear with a voracious appetite.

Hertz

Pino carried my bag down the 100 black stone steps and rolled me into the street. He gave me the directions to the Metro, I nodded and smiled, and when he closed the big green door I headed in the direction of the taxis.

When I showed the guy the address he said "to rent a car?" and I said "si". Pretty popular destination. It was a quick ride in his Toyota Auris (we call it Prius), through a tunnel demarking the border between UNESCO history and simply historic. We entered the neighborhoods where the 'real people' of Genoa live, few to no tourista in evidence. He dropped me at the door to Hertz and silently slid away.

I had a real 'Stupid American' moment at the door to Hertz. The office had floor to ceiling windows and a full glass door. The door was not inline with the windows, but was parallel and slightly behind. Also, there was no "Push" sign (ubiquitous and unnoticed in US, but still we know subconsciously when it's not there -- I think the standard sign is blue, but I can't be sure), no metal push-plate, no handle. Therefore, my brain told me the door would automatically slide to the side.

It did not.

I stood there stupidly. I waved my hand for the sensor I knew should be there. Nothing happened. A passerby said 'Push' -- actually he said 'poosh', and I looked at him with vacant eyes I'm sure. He pushed the door, and I was into the promised land of Hertz.

Pino e Sheila

Final Breakfast in Genoa

On Friday I got up early to pack before breakfast. The sky was overcast and when I headed toward the terrace Pino said it was spitting rain up top, so we would breakfast inside today. He joined me this time, and we continued our conversation via Google.

We talked about dogs, and showed internet photos of our previous companions. Pino said he would love to have another dog, but "it's complicated". I think I noticed Sheila's tail twitch during this conversation.

And then it was time to go.

Last night in Genoa

Enrico is 50 and has long hair in a pony tail. He does construction work, renovating kitchens and bathrooms. He is nursing a pretty bad trowel-blister while they drink strong Italian coffee and rose wine at 11pm.

The two met when Pino took a class Enrico was teaching -- not quite an acting class, not quite a dance class, some kind of performance art movement thing. Pino showed me a video on his phone. I had no words in Italian to describe.

They asked what was next on my agenda and we got out my map to mark up the best places to go.

Apparently there is a town very near my next B&B where they burned witches at the stake.... interesting....  Also a botanical garden, an important archaeological site, an artist's colony, etc. We compared their suggestions to my research.

We talked about Pino's hiking / camping trip near the French border, where you can dive into the river like Greg Louganis.

They gave me very complicated instructions on how to get to the rental car office using the Metro... but I secretly decided that I would rather take the American Way and use a taxi. (Shhhhh...)

All the while tap tap tapping on Google to help fill in the words.

On my way to bed Nicolo (Nicoli? Nicola?) the big fat cat came to visit. She strolled around my room, smelling the corners and investigating my luggage. Then she strolled out.

I closed the door, and went to bed.

Pino

Pino and his friend Enrico were having dinner on the terrace, and I joined them for company. I completed my blogwork for the day while they visited in Italian. (At one point I heard Pino tell Enrico that I couldn't understand what they were saying.... which apparently, some of it, I could!!!)

We three then had a terrific Google-assisted conversation as the band in the next piazza started playing.

Pino is 63 and has been retired from the Genoa port since age 41. (WTF!) It's called a 'Baby Pension' because in the pre-Euro Union days in Italy you could retire after 19 years and 1 day. After EU, laws were changed, and there are no more Baby Pensions to be had.

It's nice not to work, but things have also gotten more expensive and the pension hasn't kept up, so Pino takes on private clients and he does their rooftop gardens -- planting, pruning, irrigation. He loves it, so it's not really work.

He lived on a farm on a hillside 15km from Genoa for 30 years, until 3 years ago when he sold it and moved back into town. He had goats, sheep, chickens, a veggie garden, and lots of land. But maintenance on steep land is expensive and physically hard -- better when he was 30 than 60.

As we talk he rolls his own cigarettes, including a filter.  When's the last time you saw that?

He has a deep voice and is constantly taking off and putting on a pair of white readers, which wrap around his head and clicks together magnetically on the bridge of his nose.

Dinner in Genoa

After a 30 minute nap, plus an hour's worth of hitting snooze, I went upstairs to the terrace. By this time it was almost 5pm. The time to visit Christopher Columbus was long past, and I needed to catch up on my blogwork. So I hung out up top a couple of hours.

Riccardo came up to chat and offer restaurant suggestions for the evening. As I had thought, his inglese is pretty limited, so we used Google translate on my Surface screen as a way to talk. It works surprisingly well!

I asked about the hookers, and he said -- get this! -- they are only on shift 8am to 8pm. After that, they go home. Bizarro.

Then, we worked together to figure out where to find the pin that came with my SIM. Gosh! It was under a sliver scratch off on the packaging... who knew! So we tested the phone and it was great.

I changed clothes, took the 100 black steps, and got lost on my way to the piazza for dinner. Jeesh, Riccardo said it was only two turns, but (mannaggia il gatto!) there I was again, trapped in the cobblestone maze, just me and two dozen hookers.

After asking a Brit with an Italian wife, I found the piazza with a choice of four trattoria, where I had penne baked with spinach and gorgonzola. It was excellent. I had a glass of local white -- not so much -- and a Scottish ale -- pretty nice. I ate lots of bread, wishing my own would turn out so wonderfully chewy on the outside, light and filled with yeasty bubbles on the inside.

I hung out and listened to music for a while, and then went home.

The view from my bedroom

The Hooker with the Heart of Gold

I decided to pop home for a little nap. Easier said than done, because Maddalena is to Genoa what Queens is to Charlotte. Finally in frustration I stopped to ask a group of hookers for directions.

Yes. Seriously.

They knew. So I didn't need breadcrumbs.

The Mysterious Gate