It was raining hard when we passed through the suburbs of Genoa, and, even going very slowly behind the tramcars and the motor trucks, liquid mud splashed on to the sidewalks, so that people stepped into the doorways as they saw us coming. In San Pier d'Arena, the industrial suburb outside of Genoa, there is a wide street with two car-tracks and we drove down the centre to avoid sending the mud on to the men going home from work. On our left was the Mediterranean. There was a big sea running and waves broke and the wind blew the spray against the car. A riverbed that, when we had passed, going into Italy, had been wide, stony, and dry, was running brown, and up to the banks.