Lost in Dolceacqua: A Story of Sweet Surprises

It all began with the rain. Not the timid, apologetic drizzle that merely dampens your spirits, but a fierce, theatrical downpour—an unbroken curtain of water hurled down from leaden, low-hanging clouds that seemed to smother any hope of a break in the heavens. Naturally, it had to happen on the very day we’d planned a leisurely stroll through the heart of Genoa. The kind of daydream that sounds splendid over an evening glass of wine but loses its charm under the pale, drizzly light of morning.

By the time we’d surfaced from our warm cocoon of blankets to the weak light of the late morning, the idea had lost much of its allure. It’s a universal truth, really. Last night’s confident “We should!” has a way of softening into a doubtful “Should we?” when faced with the reality of wind-whipped rain and soggy shoes. The October gusts outside didn’t help matters, either. Umbrellas, as every optimist with one broken on a gusty street corner knows, are no match for a determined wind. We weren’t keen on a repeat of the famous Cherry Lane scene in London.

And so, another idea took shape: why not chase the sun? A quick consultation with the weather map revealed a tempting option. "Monaco!" we exclaimed, with the giddy enthusiasm of travelers who’ve convinced themselves they’re embarking on a grand escape. Within moments, we were packed into the car and heading west toward France.

Well, eventually we got to Monaco. As is often the case with spontaneous plans, the journey had its detours. Somewhere along the way, the name “Dolceacqua” caught our eye—sweet and intriguing, like a whispered promise. And promises like that are impossible to ignore. By unspoken agreement, we veered off course to see what this Dolceacqua had to offer.

Sometimes, it’s the unexpected decisions that leave the most lasting impressions. Dolceacqua was one such gem. We parked at a neat little modern parcheggio just below the old town and marched merely a hundred steps, and found ourselves breathless at the threshold of a medieval maze. Narrow, winding alleys twisted and turned into tunnels carved directly into the mountain, and the steep hillside above us was crowned by the well-preserved remains of a 13th-century castle. The logistics of such a place fascinated me. How do shopkeepers restock their shelves? How did anyone install modern plumbing in these ancient, cramped spaces? Such musings come unbidden to me, though they rarely seem to trouble anyone else.

As charming as the town was, our exploration was cut short by the relentless ticking of the lunch hour clock. Those familiar with Italian dining customs know the drill: miss the sacred window of lunch service, and you’re resigned to a meager sandwich or, worse, a grumbling stomach until the evening. With only minutes to spare, we dashed through the narrow streets like frantic mice in search of cheese, glancing at our watches and trying to retrace our steps to a piazza where we’d spotted an open trattoria.

We made it—barely. Breathless and damp, we sank into chairs just as the clock struck mercy, and turned our attention to the sacred menu. October, as it happens, is a glorious time for lovers of wild mushrooms. Plump, earthy porcini and their woodland cousins, likely foraged just this morning, were proudly displayed in a basket outside the door. Inside, the chef at L’Osteria di Caterina worked wonders with them, pairing them with pasta and game meats in a way that felt both rustic and regal. Wild boar, tender rabbit, and fragrant fungi danced on our plates, each bite a harmonious nod to the season.

An hour later, warm, sated, and distinctly heavier, we slowly wandered off heading uphill toward the castle. The climb was punctuated with frequent “breathers,” conveniently taken outside small artisan shops brimming with handmade treasures. Despite noble resolutions to avoid unnecessary purchases, we left with a watercolor painting depicting the very streets we’d just wandered. It was a charming piece, though its peculiar dimensions—a maddening 17.5 by 13.4 inches—meant custom framing would be inevitable. Europe, it seems, has a knack for creating inconveniences that somehow feel charming in hindsight.

Dolceacqua may not have been the destination we’d planned, but it became the memory we’d cherish. As we drove off with our painting snug in the backseat, I couldn’t help but feel that the rain in Genoa had done us an enormous favor. Sometimes, it’s the detours that show you what you didn’t know you were looking for.