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In Italy reader Sal Weir has a most wonderful story to tell about Genoa, City of Delights - In early April my wife, son and I arrived in Italy by car, from Valence, France. It was a rainy day, but even so the views from the Autostrada were magnificent (next time we go it won't rain, and the views will be even better). Our first stop was San Remo. What a lovely place! We arrived in early afternoon, yet managed to find a nice place to have a very good lunch even as most of the town took its afternoon rest. After, we walked down to the Mediterranean Sea; the town docks were filled with fishing and pleasure boats, and the water was clean. It was almost as if we had somehow slipped into a movie set; it was that simple and pretty. On our way back to town, we had to wait for the train to pass; the gates were down. Most people and all drivers waited patiently, although a few people did slip under the gates. As soon as the train passed, suddenly there was a bevy of motion.

Such awaited us in town. Afternoon rest was ending, and San Remo was coming back to life. As we walked the streets in search of a place to have coffee and pastry the city came back to full life. Streets began to fill with Vespas and cars, sidewalks with pedestrians and shoppers and tourists. We found a pleasant shop, went inside, and ordered three cappuccinos and three canolis; the entire bill came to 13,000 lire (six and a half dollars, which for New Yorkers, was amazingly low). It was an inkling of what we were to find: the dollar is very strong in Italia. The food was good.

We went on our way, intending to get to Genoa by late afternoon. We turned right, onto the main street in town, then turned left, following a sign for the Autostrada. We climbed, and climbed. Five, ten minutes later our son said the Autostrada seemed to be below us, so we had obviously missed a turn somewhere. I found a local man, and asked him if he "parla Inglese". He did not. I spoke to him in Spanish, and managed to be understood. You must go back, he indicated. Only when I turned the car and headed back did I realize that driving down this steep hill would be more difficult than it had been to drive up. Two more times we stopped and I asked Italians in Spanish for directions, and each time they were glad to try and help. Somehow I did not fully understand them; it seemed that the most difficult words to understand were the most critical ones to get. Still we managed to finally get all the way back down to nearly where we'd started and found a petrol station. There we filled up the car with Oilgas (diesel) and got help from two young lads who were quite glad to help. We finally found the Autostrada.

Rain fell. We managed to reach Genoa just at rush hour, and followed the signs for the Aeroporto, near which we would find our hotel. Alas, it was not to be. Suddenly we lost signs for the airport, and we wound up near the sea. This area looked as if it'd be beautiful in June, under sunny skies; we were there in April, in the rain. Lost again. Frustrated. We drove around and looked for hotel signs, but could not find anything. Finally I saw a sins for the Carabinieri, and decided to take a chance to ask for help. This was a base, and I had to run up to the front gate house, about 100 yards from the street. When I got there a young carabinieri looked at me strangely, but heard me out. Si, he spoke Inglese, but very little; no, no Spanish. yet I managed to make myself understood. He wanted to help. He went into his log book, ripped out a page, and drew me a map of how to get back on the Autostrada; once there, follow signs for Aeroporto, he said, and later, ask for more help (he made it clear he could not be more helpful).

That did not work. We still had no hotel. Now it was late. We were hungry, tired, frustrated. We looked for hotels, and still could not find any. But I did see a sign for a police station. Pleased that the carabinieri had been helpful, I figured a cop would be, too. The station was closed to the public (it was Sunday evening), but the polizia at the front desk buzzed us inside. Parla Inglese? No. Aw, shucks. But he did understand my Spanish enough to know we were looking for a hotel. He tried to explain himself, but could not do so well. Suddenly an off-duty officer came into the lobby. He did speak enough Inglese to say that we had to be careful where we went. The other officer (dark-haired, dark-skinned, incredibly handsome in his uniform) kept looking in the yellow pages whilst the second officer (fair hair, blue eyes, light skin) kept trying to explain himself. My son had his Europe book, and showed it to the officer. What about the train station? A, a good place, yes, but you must be careful: one train station is a nest of pickpockets, the other fine. How do we get there? He tried to explain, and got frustrated he could not make us understand. Finally, he said, follow me. We went outside, he got into his car, waited for us to get behind him, and led the way. Now it was raining hard. We followed him for five minutes, and he deposited us near the train station. When he stopped for a traffic light he ran out of his car, over to us, and said, any hotel around here will be fine. We looked around, and found the Hotel Astoria.

Inside the Astoria looked classy, but a bit run down. The tariff for a triple was 220,000 lire. We took a room. We would have to deposit our car in a garage for a small fee. We accepted. We took out our bags and went inside, checked in, and felt relief. As I went to get the car a man came out of the hotel; he would turn out to be bellhop, assistant manager, dining room attendant and all-around do-whatever-needs-to-be-done" wizard. No, no parking lot, he said; park the car in front of the hotel. He had two guests move their cars, and I put ours there.

Inside the Astoria was magnificent. Old, a little frayed at the edges, but clearly a hotel that once had been a glorious place. It is being restored and will look magnificent once again. Trump d'oleil on the ceilings, a cage elevator. Eighteen foot ceilings. Marble floors in the room. What a grand place. We slept well, and enjoyed a sumptuous breakfast the next morning. There, we saw our friend from the night before: he was cleaning up tables, washing dishes, stacking clean plates. Later, he would give us directions for getting to Firenze.

The previous night we stumbled upon an incredible restaurant where we had what has to be one of the finest meals anyone can have. All I can recall is that its name contained the word Rooster (Gallo). It is past the Four Star President Hotel, which sent us there; the restaurant is hidden away in a corner, near a piazza. Find it and enjoy the hospitality and food. We had fabulous antipasto (including a pate which if the French find out about, they will sue the restaurant in an EU court, I'm sure), delicious main dishes, and great desserts. My son and I had tiramisu that has to be rated a 10. My wife ordered espresso and zambuca, and there was a mixup, so her coffee arrived before the zambuca, and once the liqueur arrived, her coffee was cold. My son's tiramisu was also late. We complained (mildly, yet firmly) and the owner came over to apologize for the problem. My son's dessert arrived, then my wife's zambuca, too, and a fresh espresso was given to her, as well. Our neighbours, an Italian couple that was having a long, elaborate and slow Italian meal, as well as smoking many cigarettes, turned out to be a married couple celebrating her birthday. He was friends with the owner, as well as maitre d'hotel at another restaurant in Genoa. He spoke good English, and communicated the owner's apologies to us. We graciously accepted. Still, the owner was not happy, so he came over with a bottle and three glasses, and served us each a glass of Limoncello to express his regret and give us a favour. We accepted, and our neighbours joined us in a toast. Our neighbour the maitre d' then offered to buy us a whiskey. My son declined, as did my wife. I accepted. He gave me a drink of Glen Grant, a single malt ("only five years old, but still good" he explained). It warmed me. He offered me a second, but I could not accept. He invited us to visit his restaurant next evening, insisting he would make sure we good another good meal.

Alas, we could not accept his gracious invitation. We were off for Firenze, for two days of visiting museums and other sights, and then for two days of visiting the city of Venezia (which has to be ranked among the most beautiful places in the world, without any doubt). We stopped for lunch in Verona as we drove from Firenze to Milan, where we would catch our flight back to New York (via London). All of Italy was a fabulous experience for us: Lido, dueling orchestras in Saint Mark's Square at night, Renaissance art, even the Leaning Tower of Pisa, but nothing could match the warmth and grace of Genoa and its citizens. I shall never forget those wonderful Italians of Columbus's home town. The young carabinieri, the polizia, the hoteliers, the restauranteurs. After a long and frustrating wet afternoon, we needed a balm, and the Genoese made everything alright. More than that, they made that wet Sunday in April a grand and magnificent day. Viva Genoa!