A Short Stop in Genoa

by Tal Miller (United States of America)

Making a local connection Italy

The tiny Kia rolled to a clunking stop between the diagonal white lines in the rental drop off lot in Genoa. I would be getting the train to Nice. But I was early. Very early. I was burdened with bags and equipment so exploring the beautiful port city wasn’t an option. I was on a strict budget and I wasn’t about to pay to store the bags somewhere. Plus, I was just worn out. It was my 31st day on the Continent and it had been nonstop from the start back in Bratislava, Slovakia. Outside the car rental, I hailed an overpriced cab to Genova Sampierdarena Stazione. I showed the driver a piece of paper with the station’s name on it. He nodded a definitive “yes” and was animated. He had short gray hair and a white stubble beard. He spoke no English. I gathered when he kept fanning himself and sighing loudly that he was complaining most of the way about the heatwave. It was August in Italy and it was hot. I agreed as best I could. He smiled that beautiful Italian smile and stomped on the accelerator. We arrived at the train station and I gave him a tip. He threw my luggage onto the sidewalk and sped off back into the heavy traffic. I moved into the station, luggage in tow. I found the 1980’s digital display on the wall inside. My train would depart from Platform 1 in a few hours. As ineffable fortune would have it, there was a cafe right on the platform. The chipped and deteriorating walls of its old facade invited me in. It was modest and old and very Italian. -Dal 1930, the sign above the door read. Upon entering you got the sense of immediate familiarity. It was a big room split in two by a waist high wall and the ceiling was tall. One side was more of a restaurant and the other the cafe. In the cafe where I was there were four square tables with white and red checked tablecloths draped over them. Each had four simple and worn out wicker chairs apiece and two of the tables were occupied. There was a man ordering at the bar. He was selecting a sandwich amongst all the pastries in the glass case. The barman himself was friendly but deadly serious. I walked up to order a drink. -Buongiorno, I said. -Pomeriggio, cosa verresti? I bought a half litre of Birra Moretti. Condensation dripped down the dark glass bottle and onto my hand as I sat down at one of the tables. All my bags made a sort of enclosure around me. I felt foolish there with so much luggage but no one seemed to mind. There was an older woman working too and a younger woman running tables on the far side for the restaurant. I watched her carry the big plates of spaghetti with all the grace in the world. I don’t speak Italian but with observation it was obvious that they were all related. It was a family business. They would smile at each other and joke and laugh wonderfully. Everyone in the cafe glistened with perspiration. Light music danced in the hazy air. There were two entrances to the cafe and both sets of double doors were open, a prayer for any sort of relieving breeze. The small couple of fans inside could only offer so much. I bought a few more beers and the afternoon hours waned. I wrote in my small Moleskine and watched the men gambling on the electric machines against the dull and faded yellow wall. One man hit some sort of jackpot and coins flooded his metallic reservoir. He didn't even seem excited. No one else seemed to give a damn either. Just another day on the platform at Genova Sampierdarena. The time came to board my train. I gathered my things and started out the door. -Ciao, the barman, the woman and the younger woman all said almost in unison with endearing bright smiles and I wished that I could have stayed longer. -Grazie mille, I said in my terribly twangy American accent. I was headed to France.