Hello guys! Here’s the third installment of my FUCKING LONG Eurotrip diary. When we left off in Part Two, I was about to depart Saint-Tropez for Italy after feeling extremely, confusingly queasy and fatigued. Several of you commented last column that the 300 milligram generic Wellbutrin XL (bupropion XL) I started taking in January can make me more sensitive to sun and heat. I Googled, and...you’re all right. MYSTERY SOLVED. (For the record, this medication has changed my life, and will not stop taking it.)
As ever, diary entries are written the morning after the day they are describing (aka the Andy Warhol method). At the end of this column, I reveal the sandals I’m obsessed with—that I collect—for comfortably walking 15,000 steps a day without getting one blister, or a raw top-of-the-foot situation, or any foot pain whatsoever. YOU’LL NEVER SEE ME LIMPING AROUND EUROPE. That’s amateur hour. I don’t even pack Band-Aids, bitch!
Let’s go!
Damn, Genoa is fucking cool. Genova. Same thing. It’s the sixth largest city in Italy and the capital of the Liguria region. I got here by train yesterday—well, technically I took a boatback to St. Raphael from Saint-Tropez, then got on a train towards the French-Italian border. I switched at Nice Ville, then again at Ventimiglia, the first town on the Italian side. The seaside views are so beautiful on trains in this part of the world. I love that the railway tracks are so close to the water. You have to sit on the correct side of the car, though.
After four hours on the train, I pulled up at Genoa Piazza Principe, and rolled my suitcase to the Family Hotel Balbi, a four-minute walk away. As ever, on fast-paced trips like this, I stay practically on top of the train station.
The guesthouse was up a ton of stairs. I haven’t been discussing how badly I overpacked on this diary—to the 50 lb./ 23 Kg “ugly American” limit—because I actually feel traumatized thinking about it. I am very strong and can carry luggage up and downstairs like a man, but I’m ill from the heat. Anyway, I made it up several flights and checked in, and then my attic room in the guesthouse was up another steep stairwell. The desk guy insisted on taking my suitcase up—I tried to decline and do it myself, because I knew exactly what was coming—then huffed and groaned until he put it down. Then, he asked me if I was going on a cruise. And that is what we call a Genoese insult.
I stripped off my train clothes (Outdoor Voices skort and some sort of tank tucked in), showered for the second of three times that day, put on lipstick and a non-touristy black dress, and went out walking in the early evening. It’s actually really hard to describe Genoa. My father would have me tell you that Genoa was a fierce historic rival and direct competitor to Venice, as both served as powerful medieval maritime republics vying for control of trade routes in the Mediterranean and the Black Sea.
I would tell you that Genoa is incredible-looking. There’s so much character. Like huge, ornate architecture—old-merchant wealth—and the historic caruggi, which is winding alleyways—the largest of such mazes in Europe, and a UNESCO World Heritage site.
Genoa a port city, which…if you know me, I just love them: Marseille. Antwerp. Hamburg. These are all formerly seedy European cities which have transformed into still-gritty-but-trendy hotspots in the 2000s. Port cities have an edge to them that really makes your imagination take off. Like, in Genoa, you imagine sailors and brothels from the past, but those same areas are now vibrating with energy and little restaurants and bars and food stalls.
I’d like to go back and take an informative tour of the city. The food scene there is amazing. Genoa’s specialities are pesto and focaccia. Pesto isn’t vegan, but focaccia dough is. I found focaccia with just tomato on it and sat near the port eating.
Delicious.
It’s 7:23 AM and I am double-fisting liquids. There’s an espresso machine in the common room of this guesthouse and every shot is fifty cents. Oh, and there’s a sparkling water machine. Free! Anyway, I have to write this in literally five minutes because I’m a moron and got stuck with an 8:19 AM train to Venice. Both the 9:20 AM and the 11:40 AM sold out while I was waffling between them last night—just staring at my phone. So I was stuck with either 8:19 AM or 1:45 PM. The old me would have booked the 1:45 PM, no question. But sober me is such a morning person. So here I am.
Yesterday was a fucking insanely gorgeous beach day—an Italian riviera tour. I booked a really good $33 boat tour which departed the historic Port of Genoa at 10 AM. There would be three stops, and I was most excited to see famous Portofino. The beaches at the first two stops, Camogli and San Fruttuoso, were so incredible. Like a dream. It’s the contrast of the European people and colorful umbrellas and perfect water:
We had over an hour at each place. I bought a bikini and laid out on the wet pebbles with no towel, like the Europeans do. It’s not like sand: when you stand up, you still feel nice and clean.
The third stop was Portofino and it was a big yawn, with two Dior stores and a small harbor. I don’t know what I was expecting. I sat in a bar eating peanuts, drinking Coke Zero, and texting Ben Detrick about LeBron James free agency.
Back in Genoa, I was craving pesto for dinner, so I looked up a vegan restaurant here: Soul Kitchen. YUM. Okay, gotta run to catch this 8:19 AM train.
Holy shit. Yesterday was so crazy-serendipitous; thank God it worked out the way it did. The number-one reason I came abroad this trip was to see the Venice Biennalle, aka the contemporary art Olympics that takes place every two years from May to October. It’s massive, it’s outdoors—each country has a different pavilion the size of a house—and for some reason, I just assumed it was open 7 days a week. Nope.
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