Genoa - an undusted jewel of Europe

In Europe, there are still a few these heard of but unexplored cities which merit a visit exactly because there is no risk being trapped in herds of tourists, no need to discern between local restaurants and those with pictures on their menus, no need to stand in line to get a ticket to a museum or to book a hotel months in advance. In short, the inverse mirror image of Paris.

Genoa is one of such unique cities, an undiscovered jewel, covered with ancient dust, which the tourism industry has not yet managed to cover by its ever-expanding spider web, on which almost no city guides have been written, and where the hotel industry exists principally because of its port – rival to ancient Venice – and not because it managed to market itself with all inclusive packages for mass tourism industry.

But Genoa is far from just an industrial port city as it is commonly labelled. The city is at once local and international, coastal and inward-looking. To draw an analogy, it is like a snail, confident with itself and uninterested in exiting its shell to wonder out there and show itself to others. It knows that with time, those others will come around to visit it, and then, and only then, will it come out in all of its natural glory and deliciousness of a perfectly aged wine.

Genoa’s relatively unrecognised international status is somewhat perplexing, all the more considering that it gave birth to Christopher Columbus who wanted to discover territories in the hope of connecting his old world to a new one. But all this it not to say that the city is not international. On its narrow cobblestone streets, immigrants of various communities go about their business - Equatorian, Moroccan, Senegalese, Romanian - among Italians who generally do not like to see their country invaded by frankly unwanted immigration.

Here in Genoa, they seem to co-exist peacefully as the sign “Italian Senegalese Cuisine” of the corner restaurant would seem to suggest. But Genoa is not London or New York and the interest of this unique city is not that it is able to peacefully cook a melting pot of different ethnic groups. Its value is precisely not modernity and progressive multiculturalism but its endearing charm of an old lady who under her thick glasses probably recognises that she is slightly out of rhythm with the times, but just does not care to do anything about it. Her children will fix it when the time comes, she probably reckons.

And for the moment, the edifice remains - as it has for centuries - slightly imperfect in its delicate asymmetry, cracking on the surface but shining on the inside, surprising even those most familiar with the turns of its streets. Behind every creaking door - a palazzo, behind every unsightly trattoria -centuries of tradition, every church door - a marvel of sculpture and painting. And that is precisely how the charm of this city can be best described – unexpected. It is not catalogued in countless Lonely Planet Guides, available only as a first-hand experience an old fashioned way to those willing to open the door and try it, without expectations, assumptions or premature conclusions.

Trying it, through its famous Liguirian cuisine, through its UNESCO classified Palazzi, through its Old Port, and most of all, through its inexplicable maze of cobblestone streets, is as sinful as indulging in a gelato. Every act of routine, from buying a foccaccia to picking grapes at a street vendor to getting a plate of pasta at a neighborhood café is like taking a bite of history. At café Mangini, in business since 1876, the almond cookies are every bit as fantastic as is the owner idly sitting at the cash register reflected in the ancient gold adorned mirrors. At Il Balcone restaurant, the pasta is as sumptuous as the chef who proudly displays his carefully framed certificate from the Genovese Order of Pesto Makers.

Perhaps the best part of the experience is the lack of presumptuousness of the Genovese, be they glorified cooks, owners of historic cafes, museum guides or other inhabitants who use the word “scusa” prolifically, but without the shoving which is usually accompanied by “excuse me” in the not so far away Britain. At Zefferino, the Chef - who is given a status of a Professor in Italy – has hosted Gorbachev and provided pesto to Frank Sinatra – but gives a friendly nod to every jeans and t-shirt wearing visitor. In Paris, a much less glorified Italian chef will have no problem telling a disgruntled customer that he is done for the day.

Genoa is not only humble, it is also intimate. The buildings face each other as closely as lovers on the first day, in all their complicity. The narrow streets carry noises of conversations flights below, of raindrops hitting crooked rooftops, of plates and forks being assembled on the table, of the political discussion on the radio. From behind the window shutters noises penetrate - from below, in front, atop - binding the old buildings and their inhabitants in a chain of familiarity. Complicity reins between the old lady downstairs, the baker on the corner of the street, the occasionally passing garbage remover, the sexy neighbour who uses the excuse of the heat to walk around in his tight red underwear.

In this northern Italian city, tradition, whether in cuisine or architecture is not old-fashioned and even if it was, then no one is bothered by it. On the contrary, the Genovese are proud of their palazzi, even if they are not perfectly restored. The Doria family who was in the sixteenth century behind the building of Palazzo Principe, still lives in a part of the Palazzo which is also one of the biggest museums in the city. Every museum guard interprets his job as a museum guide, wanting to showcase their knowledge of their newfound home.

Here in Genoa, time had stopped in the seventeenth or eighteenth century, as the golden clocks of palazzos seem to indicate. But its lack of ambition to renew, renovate or reform is exactly what makes it an undusted jewel of Italy. It has the beauty of Nobokov’s Lalita, the self-awareness of Hugo’s Quasimodo, and the mentality of your great-grandmother. But then, who said that old-fashioned is cannot be endearing, charming and welcoming?