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Genoa is a city in Liguria. Many people think the five tiny villages are in Tuscany because clever Tuscan entrepreneurs like to tell people how close the Cinque Terre is to their hotels and restaurants.
Genoa, then, is a port town along the Italian Riviera. It was once celebrated as the birthplace of Christopher Columbus, so Americans dutifully made the pilgrimage to the port city. Then Mr. The Cinque Terre is being crushed under the weight of the tourists, especially now that the new tourist port in La Spezia has increased the tourist load immensely.
But Genoa remains Genoa, a town of contrasts, a town of light and dark the Italians call chiaroscuro. The darkness discourages the scaredy-cats who desire the whitewashing of their destinations.
The light is the light at the end of the tunnel we crave to see. There is no light without darkness, no good without evil. We never tire of them. In narrow alleyways whose cobbles have seldom been touched by the sun, fluid light flows from windows over fish, over vegetables, over artisan carvings, over the tempting thighs of a whore gossiping with another.
You like well-lit places, primary colors, precise directions, informative street signs. You also like surprises; Roman columns propping up the ceiling of a shoe store, an old woman selling lush peaches from a basket. Your soul craves the same contrast, the same chiaroscuro, like it or not.