We traveled onwards, and I felt almost sleepy on the back of Sebastian’s motorcycle. I wondered if it was actually possible to fall asleep in this position.
I was beginning to feel the need to stretch my legs when we passed a sign that announced, ‘Genova 20km’ – and I saw the sea. It was calm and of the deepest ultramarine, fringed by delicate, white villas. Italy: the Mediterranean coast.
Sebastian took us along the shore road and it became apparent that Genoa’s seafaring tradition was not just historical. We passed dock after dock, lined with every kind of yacht, boat and ship I could imagine, from sleek motor-cruisers to enormous, ugly cargo vessels.
Modern Genoa seemed to be thriving, with housing creeping higher and higher up the sides of the mountain that loomed up behind us.
Sebastian appeared to aim for the towering beacon of the Torre della Lanterna, and we headed into Genoa’s bustling center. Skimming past the Piazza de Ferrari, we passed palatial buildings built at the time of the Renaissance, and up on the hill I could see what looked like a medieval castle. I drank in the history as we roared past.
I thought Sebastian would stop soon, but he cruised on and soon Genoa had fallen behind us. Jeez, was he going to try and get to Salerno tonight after all?
I was relieved when he finally pulled over, but when he didn’t cut the engine, my hope that we’d finished for the day evaporated.
“Just checking the directions, baby,” he shouted over the noise of the engine, and waved the map at me. “Not far now.”
I gave him a quick thumbs up, and we took off again, climbing back up the mountain that seemed to have grown directly out of the sea.
He stopped once more to check the map, then turned off the main road, and we bumped up a steep, unmade road. A sign next to a small, whitewashed villa welcomed us to ‘Casa Giovina’.
He stopped and let the engine idle.
“This is it. It only has one guest room, but it’s out of season… want to try it?”
Sebastian’s expression was wary. Perhaps he thought his simple tastes didn’t compare with the upscale hotel where I’d stayed in Geneva. We still had a lot to learn about each other – and I didn’t mind at all.
“It looks charming. Let’s go and see, but if the owners have a pretty daughter, we’re out of here.”
He rolled his eyes and chose to take my words as a joke, which they were. Sort of.
An elderly woman in the severe, black clothing of a widow opened the door to us.
“Posso aiutarvi?”
“I hope you can help us,” I replied, in Italian. “We were wondering if you had a room for the night?”
I could see her eyeing Sebastian’s 6’2” of solid muscle and evaluating how much trouble he was going to be. I could have saved her wondering and just answered ‘a lot’.
“Are you married?”
As I stuttered out a surprised answer, a man in his fifties came stomping down the corridor.
“Mama! You can’t ask people questions like that! I apologize: my mother is very old-fashioned. Are you French?”
“No, American.”
“But you speak Italiano! Americans never speak our language.”
Sebastian decided it was time to demonstrate his own linguistic abilities, if a little less fluent than mine.
“We mean no disrespect to your mother: this beautiful woman is my fiancée,” he said pointing to me, “but if your mother would feel more comfortable, I will happily sleep in a separate room.”
Oh really? Two lies in one sentence, Sebastian: see you creeping into my room after dark.
“No, no, that won’t be necessary,” said the owner, as his mother rolled her eyes to heaven and crossed herself twice. “Besides, we have only one room.”
A fact which Sebastian already knew.
“Please, come in. Let me show you the room.”
The room was airy and simply furnished. A pine wardrobe stood in one corner, and a matching chair was the only piece of furniture besides the large, old-fashioned bed. A mosquito net hung in a pool of lace above it, making it look like a rustic boudoir. But the views out towards the ocean were spectacular.