April 1, 2015
Genova
The woman outside the building hands me a flyer, pointing out here is a list of things to do and see in Genova. "I need to find somewhere to stay!" I protest "Do you know where the tourist office is?" She doesn't know as she sends me up the steps into the building to a bookshop, saying "They a maybe can help you". The girl behind the counter in the bookshop knows, giving me a longish set of directions, pointing me out the building, left from the steps across the piazza toward something Garibaldi.
It seems a bit confusing at first until I pick up the trail, seeing a sign with an italic i. It leads me into a Via Garibaldi and no more. Feeling somewhat bewildered to where to now, I halt pushing the bike at the steps to a municipal building where, a sentry with a white nineteen-hundred era helmet on his head stands watch. I ask. "It is right there" he replies mechanically from under his peak, with an air of bemusement at my stupidity at not spotting it. I still cannot see it. And I'm not asking the guard again, or he'll really think I'm stupid. Then see to the right of a big archway opposite, what looks to be a small bookshop on the corner and pushing the bike closer, see in small stencilling on red background over the shop front "tourist information".
The nearest hostel listed is two streets along from the archway, a two metre wide cobblestone alleyway downhill. I am looking for number nine, but below eleven there's the base of some kind of church with no doorway out onto this side, and when I go round through a narrow passage into a small square at the rear, there's an arch-doorway, but no sign of a hostel. There must be something wrong with the map the tourist people gave me as I scrutinize it, then decide to head for the next nearest hostel; which is easily found, being off a street I passed through on the way from the piazza to Garibaldi.
It is up a hill, a narrow stone flag street with an increment up one shallow step every three metres. I find the door and ring the bell. Immediately a buzzer sounds and I push the door in and hold the door while squeezing the pannier-loaded bike through into a stone stairwell. I lean the bike and go up to the second floor. A young man opens the door and introduces himself, Matheas; says "This is a an old house, but a new ostel" He is very welcoming. Shows me the kitchen with old renaissance cornice ceiling. "This a house is all original." Then shows me the dorm, a big spacious room with French windows opening out upon a balcony with an aroma of Italian cooking oozing up from the street and a clothes-line with pegs, where I can dry clothes.
The interior of the house has a tranquil ambience. Quiet like being in the countryside even though in the centre of a big city, albeit in the old town, closed to cars. The metre thick masonry walls are further sound insulation, as is the location with narrow cool streets front and back. So far the hostels I've stayed in have featured a world beating view of Lyon, In Nice, a grand piano with a professional Japanese pianist playing. And now this character full renaissance house in Genova.
My netbook is playing up during my stay and I spend a few hours on the second day walking the streets, going into phone and electronics shops, looking for a place with a technician. It was the same hard-drive disc capacity issue I encountered last year. The on-screen pop-up boxes notifying me I've limited disc space and urgently need to remove files, whenever I try editing pictures. It had got to the point editing couldn't be done. I don't understand because I don't store pictures on the computer no longer, instead edit and store them on the camera's card. Well anyway, after many shops entered, the staff unhelpful, I lit upon a phone accessory shop. The young man at the counter therein, knew what to do, and left the computer downloading all the picture files from before the regime change to storing on the camera, on to a USB stick. It takes over an hour, so I go and have lunch and return. He charges me only the seventeen euros for the stick. So now the computer is functioning well, touch wood.
There isn't many others in the hostel. An Italian man working in a restaurant. A French girl doing an internship and a Sub-Sahara African man that sleeps most of the day. Like Marseille, Genova is a kind of gateway to Africa and a young Swiss man come off a ferry from Tunis late one evening stays a night. Telling him about my cycle-tour over breakfast, he remarks that he though starting in February, early. I counter. saying the hours of daylight are increasing and it is soon Spring, the most beautiful time of year. It is important to be on the road at least by the end of February to make full use of the season. He on the other hand took the ferry to Tunis, claiming it is much cheaper than flying. This morning he will take the train to Milan; from there, a train to Zurich. I remark that must be an incredible train journey during the daytime.
On Friday, the hostel is booked up for the Easter weekend. Time for me to leave.
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