MONDAY, NOVEMBER 26
OUR LAST TURRO CANAL WALK
It was a clear, beautiful day, perfect for one more walk along the canal. Large goldfish swam in the deep green water, ducks nestled and slept in bushes along the water’s edge. Castorinos (or little beavers) cut through the water, their eyes and movements alert. Houses beside the canal varied; some large and elegant with lawns and gardens stretching to tiled back porches; some small buildings, crumbling on corners. Under one bridge, homeless people were camped out, playing Arabic music. Graffiti colored the walls of the walkways, homes, and bridges.
We picked up a quick lunch in a local restaurant, caught a very nice Uber to the dingy bus station and boarded the bus for Genoa.
Milan had been a bit of an emotional roller coaster. Lots of factors — mold in the apartment, disrupted sleep, construction outside, bunkbeds. In a way it was good to be leaving, but Chloe was sad knowing she hadn’t had a chance to explore more agencies. Communication with her Vancouver agent had been strained, leaving it unclear if Next was ever even contacted.
THE BUS FROM MILAN TO GENOA
The land was flat, dotted with old farm houses and farmland until the mountains arrived and the road became nauseatingly windy. In the mountains, villages tucked into the hills like an autumn corsage on a green lapel. From the bus window, I saw the Italy I remembered.
Homes of characteristic ochres, soft red and orange clung to hillsides of lush greens. There is such a tranquility to these villages, created somehow in the positioning of homes, the movement of drying laundry in a breeze, the curve of the streets like a sensual body. A river flowed beside the road.
I listen to an interview with TaNeish Coates about racism and Obama and journalism, and then another with Madeleine Albright about her book, Fascism, which I’d read in Ireland. A strange combination – Italy outside, the U.S. in my head.
GENOA: SHOCK OF ABUNDANT CULTURE
The bus arrived in a darkened Genoa. The woman who owned the Airbnb met us at a local bus stop by the station. She was tiny, brisk and friendly. Over cobbled streets and up steep hills, we ran to catch up with her, dragging our luggage and feeling slightly discombobulated having arrived in such a different city than Milan. Genoa, woven into the hills, is populated by buildings dating from the 1500s, 1600s and 1700s, and is a warren of narrow alleys. Powerful, stately buildings with windows shuttered behind small balconies rose all around us.
The apartment was more of a home than an apartment. It occupied an independent corner of an apartment complex and had its own entrance, two levels, three bedrooms, a living room, a kitchen and bathroom with bath! What a difference from our Milan Airbnb.
After settling in (and that was easy!), we found a restaurant for dinner down the street and shopped for groceries for breakfast. The short walk to the restaurant was itself inspiring, and we both dreamed of the wonders to come.
