Thursday, September 24: A drove back to Ancona, returning the rental car (a nightmare!), a stop at the post office to mail two fat envelopes of no-longer-needed maps and guide books, before boarding our first of two trains for the day. From Ancona to Milano, we were comfortable in a EuroStar express, with wide seats and places to put our luggage without having to lift them up to overhead racks. The Milano-Stresa regional was a bit more choppy, but still . . . train travel is certainly efficient. When we arrived at the Stresa station, we saw our driver holding a sign with my name on it, and we lugged our very heavy suitcases down the stairs, under the tracks, and up again on the street side. Our driver loaded the bags in his trunk and we began the hour-long ride from Lago Maggiore to our final destination, Lago d’Orta.

Dropped off in the little village of San Giulio d’Orta, we checked into the Albergo Leon d’Oro, settled into our beautiful rooms overlooking the lake, and headed out for espresso, cappuccino, and some light dinner. For the next 2-1/2 days, this familiar setting did more to relax me than anything else on our trip . . . and that’s exactly why I always make sure we have three nights here before we arrive back in the U.S. It’s good to settle down, ease back into our normal lives and gather that last taste of Italy by wandering serenely up and down these cobblestone streets.

Friday, September 25: I realize I have friends in San Giulio, people who recognize me, give me great huge hugs, and are happy I have returned again to their town. Elio, the owner of Cerri, a small gift shop. Luca, proprietor of Il Buon Gustiaio, a delicious shop full of cheeses, salami, exquisite specialty breads, and other delights such as 15-year old balsamic vinegars and special bottles of amaretto, fig jams and sauces. Georgia, the American owner of the small herbal soap shop in the piazza, was delightful and in bits and pieces told me her story, from being a designer for Mattel, running an office in Milan, through her decision to buy two little businesses in Orta, marry an Italian man, become an Italian citizen, and settle here for the past 16 years.

My group and I wandered these streets, sometimes together, sometimes separately, and I am always amazed at the displays and varieties of pasta and porcini mushrooms, in the shops here.

My favorite hotel, Albergo Orta, has been sold after five generations of family ownership, and is closed for renovations for the next two or three years, but Elena, who was a 30-year employee of the Orta hotel, met me for a bit of conversation one morning, and was a great help in arranging our transportation while we were in the area.

We made time to take a boat over to the Isola San Giulio, the island in the middle of the lake, which houses a monastery/abby for 70+ nuns, one beautiful church, a meditation walkway around the island, and one restaurant which served delicious lunches at the edge of the water.

Saturday, September 26: And when I wanted a break from
walking through the cobblestone pathways, I always headed for the main piazza to sit at one of the outside tables belonging to the three little restaurants nestled next to one another, with beautiful “front porch” views of the lake. I ordered cappuccino or a glass of wine, and on this particular evening I was especially delighted as I watched as at least thirty friends and family members gathered after one of the many weddings that took place in the town that weekend. These wedding guests pulled nearly all the tables together, and each ordered the same thing, an aperitif whose color rivaled that of the sunset that evening. For two hours, I read, sipped my wine, and watched the wedding celebrants come and go, while the waitress filled her tray with more of these beautiful drinks.

Our group dinner in this serene lake village was an especially delicious one, at the Ristorante Olina, which doesn’t have a water view, but everything else about a dining experience here is exquisite. From the very attentive wait staff to the aperitif delivered immediately to your table, followed by a delicious palate-cleanser. And that is before you even begin to order from the menu! I took one last opportunity for the freshest fish around, and ordered a grilled branzini, accompanied by delicious potatoes and a small salad. The dessert case settled just behind our table meant we couldn’t avoid tempting glances toward the homemade dolci, and we each had “just a small one, per favore” before we paid our bill and walked slowly back to the hotel.

Sunday, September 27: Well, we know this drill well enough. Pack up, check to make sure we didn’t leave a precious journal or souvenir in a corner or under the bed, and head down to the lobby to wait for our driver again, this time headed for Malpensa airport for our departure to the U.S. again. Needless to say today was filled with travel, and we arrived in Denver at 10:00 p.m., though our bodies were still operating on Italian time, 6:00 A.M. the following day.

I had driven down to DIA, so my car was waiting in the parking lot, and by the time I started the engine, it was midnight. I listened to loud radio so I wouldn’t fall asleep on the highway going toward Fort Collins. Returning home is bittersweet, because my familiar bed always greets me, as do my loving partner and four pets. However, Italy is already calling to me again, and perhaps some of you might join me in May 2010 for the next Italy Adventure!

Scroll along the left menu for my post about the details of that trip, and dream of bella Italia.

Wednesday, September 23: Today we prepare to pack our belongings and return our car to the Ancona train station, but first, we want to taste a bit of LeMarche’s wine firsthand, at a highly recommended vineyard outside the town of Staffolo. The winery is Zaccagnini, a small family owned piece of grape heaven outside the village itself. When we arrived, Davide greeted us, gave us a short tour in the midst of his busy day, and set up some tastings for us. They have a wide array of delicious wines, both white and red, as well as some Bruts. The bottles, the labels, the taste and the vineyard vistas all made for a delightful way to spend our last afternoon in this region. I purchased two bottles to bring home to Neil, and we made our way back to the villa.

In the early evening, we drove back into our little villa village, Avenale, where we ate at the highly recommended little pizza restaurant, The Belmont, before returning to our last night in our own little house to finish gathering all our stuff for the voyage north tomorrow.

Okay, at this rate, I’ll never be finished writing this for your perusal! Let’s see . . . where were we?
Oh yes, completing our trip to Serra de Conti, to the Rooms of Suspended Time. And then I guess I suspended the time for awhile . . .

So – Monday, September 21: A rainy day at the villa, where we slept late, shuffled to the kitchen in relaxed fashion, munching on bread, fruit, cheese and prosciutto, sipping coffee, writing and reading and planning the rest of our time here in Avenale at Casa Frances. If I remember correctly, we did go back to Cingoli, found a bigger “supermercato” and collected some fresh fruit, vegetables, cheese and very fresh fettucini in preparation for a dinner I promised to prepare for our little group that evening. We had plenty of wine, and I bought another two bottles, which should last us the rest of the week.

Tuesday, September 22: Our plan today is to visit the southwest part of LeMarche, beginning with the Grotte di Frasassi, an enormous, incredible complex of caves with a collection of stalactites and stalagmites the likes of which I’ve never seen. Discovered by a group of climber/spelunkers in the late 1970’s, Grotte di Frasassi is one of the most well-visited natural phenomena and I can understand why. I’m told the Grotte could house the Milan Cathedrale!

We weren’t allowed any photos there, but here are two from an on-line site. if you’d like to know more about this attraction, you might visit one of the websites you will find when googling Grotte di Frasassi. You can request that it come up in English, rather than Italian, which should be immensely helpful!

We wore our coats inside and listened to our English version of the tour guide’s information, though I think next time I will wait for the English speaking tour guide, so we can ask questions and understand the responses of others’ questions.

Our next stop was to the city of Fabriano, home of the famous watercolor paper manufacturer. Fabriano was one of the first cities in Europe to manufacture paper, beginning at the end of the 12th century. The biggest mill, Miliani, produces an amazing 600 miles of paper a day, and the watermark (filigrana), along with other papermaking techniques, were invented here. Fabriano paper supplies the Italian treasury with the paper for its banknotes, and is sent from Kashmir to the Congo. We visited the Museo della Carta e della Filigrana (paper and watermarks museum), watched a demonstration of hand-making paper, marveled at the intricacies of watermarks bearing the faces of famous world leaders, and purchased one or two beautiful hand-made journals, of course.

Tomorrow . . . a local vineyard and winery, and preparations to leave this lovely area, heading toward our final destination in Italia . . .

Saturday, September 19, 2009 – A visit to a tiny country

LeMarche is an Italian province, similar to Tuscany, but wilder, less traveled, more varied in terrain. It is just south of Veneto, the province in which Venice and Ravenna are situated. LeMarche runs long, along the northeast coast of Italy and the Adriatic Sea.

And nestled into the LeMarche hills, just south of Veneto province, is a tiny country, third only in size to the Vatican as the smallest country in Europe (Monaco is second) and the fifth smallest country in the world. From About.com: Geography: ” San Marino – 24 square miles – Located on Mt. Titano in north central Italy, San Marino has 29,000 residents. The country claims to be the oldest state in Europe, having been founded in the fourth century.”

Described as “shamelessly touristy” (and that is quite accurate!), the town of San Marino sits as a medieval hilltown at the top of the country of San Marino, and once we got going on the A-road (the super toll road), we made it from our villa to San Marino in less than two hours. We parked in a designated lot and walked to the entrance to the FuniVia, a funicular (sort of a cable-car/goldola ala ski areas) that took us to the town at the top.

Beautifully situated, with wall-to-wall shops, mostly horrid souvenir shops, and some lovely stores sprinkled in to encourage those of us who wanted to wander without being assaulted by tacky pinocchio dolls and soccer flags, medieval guns and plastic toys at almost every turn. I know, it sounds horrid, but it’s like going to the circus, and whenever we got a glimpse of what was beyond those medieval walls, we stopped to appreciate the decidedly lovely views.

One of the gimmicks is that since San Marino is its own country, it makes its own postage stamps and has its own passport office. We decided to play along (when might we ever get there again?) so we marched into the Ufficio Communale, paid our 5 Euro each, and had our passports stamped, not only with the typical rubber passport stamp, but also with an official San Marino postage-type stamp, though I don’t think I could have used it to send a card back to my family. We chatted with the woman behind the plexiglass window and asked her if she had fun doing her job. She smiled. Of course she would . . . collecting 5 Euro from all manner of people, just so they could collect a stamp of her country in their passports!

We had a lovely lunch at a restaurant whose card is in the pile of receipts I have waiting for me, found a wonderful Lladros ceramic statue for Rebecca, and after a few photos of the area and a sculpture garden we discovered on the way down to the FuniVia station, we headed back to the villa. An adventurous day in yet another “country”! (I know, the photo is sideways, but I can’t yet figure out how to switch it when it does this . . . I’m waiting for my daughter to return my call. She’s the blog-whiz!)

Sunday, September 20: A lazy day at the villa, at least until mid-afternoon, because we have carefully checked to see when some of our “wish list things-to-see” are open. One has to remember we are in Italy, one of those civilized countries that take a break in the middle of the day. Today we are headed to The Rooms of Suspended Time Museum of Monastic Arts. In Italian, that’s Le Stanze del Tempo Sospeso. They are rooms in the Convent of Santa Maria Maddalena, full of objects on display that were part of the manual activities of the Sisters, which have survived since the late 1500’s. The display is set up in rooms with themses such as the pharmacy, the pantry, and the “workroom”, with spinning embroidery, tinting equipment among other things.

This is a museum that sounded intriguing to all of us, but it is closed from noon-3:30 p.m., and is located in Serra de Conti, a town we estimate is an hour’s drive from our villa. So by about 2:30, we are on our way, we arrive in a sleepy town and find an approved parking spot, just outside another of Italy’s medieval walls, and begin our walk up to the “Centro”, the old center, where most of these historical museums and churches are located. The entrance sign for Museo Monastiche leads us to a quiet, tree-lined patio before we walk through the doors of the quietest museum setting I’ve ever experienced. Of course, it’s a monastic setting, and we are the only people in the place, which suits me just fine.

The rooms have simple displays, as though one had dropped into a Quaker or Shaker setting. The old implements – spools of thread, embroidery hoops, apothecary bottles, copper pans, etc. – are nested in their display cases or on tables, in what I can only describe as a spiritual setting. This is the kind of place to which one might like to bring a small suitcase, old and black leather in construction, sit with a candle or oil lamp and write in one’s journal for days. There is a quietude here I never find at home. Maybe I’m headed for a monastery myself! I wish I could point readers to a website, but of course there is no such thing. Here are a few photos for you, and I hope they help capture your imagination.

See what I mean? Lovely old representation of life 500 years ago. When we finished in the museum, we wandered the streets for awhile, found a bar (these aren’t just alcohol bars . . . more like a cafe, with coffee, drinks, and sandwiches) and sat outside with cappucchino, small sandwiches and dessert goodies. Next to us was a group of perhaps eight men, all speaking in some sort of Arabic tongue. Each time another man joined the group, several of the seated men rose up, kissed the newcomer on both cheeks, and they all sat down again.

The church bells clanged loudly across the piazza, every fifteen minutes, in two tones. On the hour, the lower toned bell would ring the number of the hour (in our case, five, then six o’clock). Then every fifteen minutes, the deep bell would ring again, the five or six tolls, and then a higher pitched bell would come in for one ring (5:15), two (5:30), or three (5:45). Since we sat for more than 90 minutes, we had lots of time to learn the bell code of Serra de Conti. By 6:45, we were ready to wend our way down the cobblestoned streets, looking for our parked car beyond the old walls. Then it was back to the Casa Frances for another night of reading, writing, and eating before settling into bed.

Well, Day 1, Friday. We relaxed at the villa, enjoying a day of rest after the long day on trains, boats and automobiles. A short trip into Cingoli, twice, actually, to get provisions (we can’t seem to remember that everything is closed from noon or 1:00 p.m until 4:00 or 5:00 p.m. any day, no matter whether the store is filled with things we need or just things we want.) While we waited for the supermercato to open again, we walked down the street a block to watch a group of old Italian men playing bocce ball in the park. They seem to gather every weekday afternoon to throw those little Italian “bowling balls” down the course. Sort of a cross between bowling and pool.

At 5:00 p.m., the supermercato opened its doors, I wandered around with my list, trying to decipher the various commodities. Was this dishwasher soap or clothes washing soap? Was this really hot chocolate mix or chocolate pudding, as it seemed to appear on the box? Why is there milk on the shelves as well as milk in the cold cases? And which one is skim, which one is whole milk, which is cream? Often it’s a matter of making an intuitive choice and hoping for the best, but as an adventure, it’s worth any errors I make in my choices.

And the men and women behind the “deli” cases, where all meat, fish, and cheeses are selected and lovingly sliced and packaged . . . well, there are no errors there. I only have to point, say “Questo qui . . . ” (“this one here”), pantomime how big a cheese wedge, or say in my numero-Italian how many slices, and my wish is granted.

Home after a visit to the farmacia for triple-antibiotic cream, to make one of my traveler’s blisters heal more quickly, and I’m on the windy nearly-unpaved road back to Avenale and our villa, Casa Frances. For dinner . . . some of what I purchased today and some of the leftovers from our delicious dinner last night.

Until tomorrow . . . a visit to San Marino!

Actually two trains. We left Venice by vaporetto, our luggage in tow, after I helped Erin find the place to get her VAT Tax refund form stamped. We had plenty of time, and I will remember that leaving later than the morning train is a very good idea. The extra hour or two or three allowed us to avoid hurrying through the narrow streets, roller luggage in tow, and we could afford the time it took to stop at each dock, rather than make SURE we got the #2 or N vaporetti, which only stops intermittently.

I think (it’s been days, so everything melts into itself, of course) the Venice to Bologna train was the one that was 20 minutes late, and then came in quickly, ready to depart again. We practically ran to the far end of the track, looking for our first class coach, which is often farthest from the station, so when it arrives at the next large stop, the first class passengers (my travelers and I) won’t have to walk too far to the switching place. But we hurried and had to hoist very heavy bags (never again) up to the racks above the seats or stashed somewhere in the train car.

Venezia to Bologna, then another switch and Bologna to Ancona in LeMarche, where we picked up our car (I make it sound simple, but it never is in Italy), load the luggage, and head to our villa in Avenale, about 5 kilometres outside of Cingoli, an hour’s ride from the Ancona station. If you don’t make any wrong turns. In a strange place, even with maps, is that possible? Not typically. And generally it’s half the fun, though when it begins to get dark and my excellent navigators are still reading about “hairpin turns down rural roads”, we all begin to get nervous. But we arrived at Casa Frances at dusk, and were greeted by the smiling faces of Marcello and Rita, the parents of our Villa owners. Rita had prepared a delicious meal, fit for a dozen, though we were only three. And I apologized to both host/chefs and told them in my broken Italian that we would eat the rest of the TWENTY pieces of chicken for lunch tomorrow (and the next day and the next and the next). The antipasti (three kinds of meat, three kinds of cheese), the pasta con pomodoro, the twenty (really!) pieces of sautéed chicken pieces, and the cherry tart, along with appropriate wines . . . pro secco, vino bianco, vino rosso AND moscato for dessert, were so much more than plenty for us, and we graciously thanked Rita and Marcello before we tumbled off to bed.

I got some practice with my lingua Italia, talking with Rita, who reported to her daughter that my Italian was “very good”. I told her daughter that my Italy was only “very good” because Rita’s English was limited to “hello” and “eggs”. But it was such fun to dig back into the recesses of my memory and have a decent conversation, very basic, but decent, with Rita and Marcello. I’m back in my heart country, dead center, with no English in sight tonight, but for my companions.

Buona Notte!

Well, with the Internet nearly nonexistent in most of the Italian towns, I have resorted to typing these entries on my laptop at a bar overlooking the beautiful Lago d’Orta on our final two days in Italy, trying to recap the last eight days of our adventure.

September 16 – Venezia – the day of the deluge on the streets of this water city. We wander on our own, looking for stores we had each marked on our Streetwise Venice maps. My goal is to get to a bead store called Anticheta in Dorsoduro, over the Accademia Bridge. It is raining, but nothing my umbrella can’t handle. However, I arrive at the store I’m looking for, only to find that it closed 30 minutes ago and won’t be open again for three more hours, at 16:00, 4:00 p.m.. This is a long break for a store in Venice, but since the shop is in Dorsoduro, rather than in San Marco or the Rialto district, it is calmer, this shop is probably more legitimate, rather than touristy, and the owner can close for as long as he chooses.

I look for a place to have lunch and find one just two or three doors down from Anticheta. I have an excellent sandwich, a delicious peach and apple tart, and a cappuccino. I eat slowly and stay in my seat, grateful for once that the bars and restaurants don’t slam down the bill (il conto) until you ask for it, even if that is three hours from the time you finish your meal.

Unfortunately, I have hope that the rain will abate, even slightly, so I finally pay for my meal and begin to walk, taking advantage of this “killing time” task, believing it will afford me a chance to see this part of Venice, even in the rain. However, “rain” isn’t really what continues. How about torrential rain? How about deluge? How about . . . the streets are ready to float into the canals!

However, I walk, my favorite, dependable Primo Breeze shoes sloshing, holding me without sliding on the wet stones, but never to recover from their afternoon and evening of Noah’s Ark weather. I have kept them on every windowsill (windows open) for the past 10 days, but still, they throw off the scent of Venetian canal water mixed with a rainstorm the likes of which they’ve never seen. A new pair from shoes.com is definitely in order as soon as I arrive at a dependable Internet point.

And the beads? I return to the store at 3:30, pace a bit, go two doors down to the little lunch place, ask for a cappuccino again, and sit, writing in my journal for 30 minutes. Then I pace outside the store. A young Pakistani man asks in a sort of Italian pantomime whether I am waiting for the shop to open (no, I’m just pacing in the deluge for my health!). He makes a quick phone call, speaking in rapid sort of Italian, and hangs up, telling me “Quindici minuti” Fifteen minutes. At 16:20, an older, graying man appears at my sisde to open the store. Three hours and twenty minutes’ wait, then ten minutes in the store, and Euro 200 worth of beads for Euro 150 in a little red bag . . . truly, there ware probably fifteen beads – very old Venetian, some sort of old, and some he says were “newer”. He’d throw those in for no charge. Wish I had known that! I would have gotten a few more. They are silver, and very nice. See the photo with the smaller beads. The second bead collection is one I purchased earlier that morning, before the deluge!

At any rate . . . my Venetian flood, from the heavens, not the walkways. And by the time I get back to the hotel and greet my travel mates, they have already changed their soaked clothing twice. We are all hungry and ready for some dinner. And the weather has cleared, so we walk the streets toward the Rialto Bridge until we find the Il Colombo Ristorante . . . very nice, lovely food, fresh fish, whole and waiting to be chosen, and the boast that Woody Allen has eaten here.

Well, time does fly, and yes, we are having fun. Day two in Lake Como was spent in Bellagio, the most upscale busy little towns on the lake, in my opinion. And yes, the hotel in Las Vegas IS named after it, but don’t hold THAT against the original Italian village.

Walking from any of the hotels to the ferry dock is easy, breezy, and a lovely stroll along the water if you choose to take that pedestrian boulevard. We did, of course. A short ferry across the lake to one of the three triangle points (Varenna, Mennagio and Bellagio are all towns at the “crotch” of the lake, just where the two “legs” of water meet the long body).

An afternoon of window shopping, cafe stopping, and photo shooting was just what we asked for, and the sky was bright blue, the day was warm, and the crowds weren’t too bad for a Saturday at a bustling vacation spot.

When we’d had enough of Bellagio for the day, we hopped on a ferry back to our town and our hotel. We had made reservations at Albergo Milano for dinner, and enjoyed a delicious meal of tuscan soup, fresh lake fish with “Venus” rice (that’s black rice, black from the squid ink, of course), and a wonderful dessert of panna cotta with berries. My favorite! I’d give up all gelato for an occasional dish of panna cotta . . . truly.

After dinner I spoke with the owner/chef, who told me the story of his purchase of the hotel eight years ago. Neil and I stayed at this little hotel in 1997, when we first came to Italy, and while the hotel’s location can’t be beat, the rooms were (at the time) shabbby with horrid mattresses . . . quite uncomfortable. But the price was right and it was a Rick Steves bargain, of course. Well, the current owner, Egi (pronounced edgy), had a “meant-to-be” narrative that’s too long to write here, but perhaps someday I’ll do it in an essay. Needless to say, he agreed with my assessment of the beds of a dozen years ago, and a year after the purchase, he and his wife completely redid all the rooms. Small hotel, ALWAYS booked. Wonderful meals . . . try it sometime!

Yesterday, our last at Como, we decided to head up to a small village “just 30 minutes’ walk” up the “hill”, to see a raku artist whose brochure Erin had picked up at our hotel. Don’t ever believe hotel personnel in Italy who say anything is “just” a short walk. Nearly two hours later, after switchbacking up a road to Perledo, asking an old couple how to get there, climbing into their car after their offer to drive us, getting to the top of the mountain, only to find that there was no raku artist in Perledo, but just in Vezio, again, “just” 10 minutes walk down the hill and then UP again . . . needless to say, the whole trip was absurd. We were directed to here, and then there, and then down a tiny path through an olive farm, and then over the road, over a bridge, above a dry stream, through woods with a loose-rock and cobblestone pathway, up the mountain again, nearly climbing on hands and feet until we reached Vezio, where we DID find a lovely artisan shop with the raku we were looking for. And THEN, of course, we followed the signs (another mistake in rural Italy) that were supposed to lead us back to Varenna.

It DID lead us back, to be fair, but we ended up at the complete opposite end of the village from the place we began, and walked perhaps another mile back to our hotel. All in all, a story to tell our grandchildren, but would we do it again? Probably not.

A lazy rest of the day, a visit to the beautiful gardens of the Villa Montastero, a glass of pro secco, and back to the rooms to pack up for our train trip to Venice today.

This morning, we ate our last breakfast at the Hotel du Lac and climbed into the taxi driven by Rita Faggi, who got us to the station 30 minutes ahead of time. The train back to Milan was only an hour, and the EuroStar to Venice was just ten minutes late. Not too bad.

The day was gloomy and spitted rain here and there, which didn’t ruin our vaporetto ride down the Grand Canal from the Venice Stazione, Venezia Santa Lucia. Our stop, San Marco Vallaresso, was the end of the line for this boat/bus, and we dragged our rolling luggage the short walk to our hotel, Dimora Marciana, a new hotel with very ornate Italian rooms.

Shedding all the luggagee was a relief, and my little group must have visited thirty mask shops just in the San Marco area. A gelato for the others, bruschetta for me, later a bottle of wine, and finally at 9:30 some pasta at an out of the way trattoria near the Rialto Bridge, and we were ready to “bread crumb” our way back to our hotel.

Here we have free wireless in the rooms, and that is a relief after the terrible wireless service at our Varenna hotel. But still, no downloading of photos. Inserting them later won’t be as nice, but I’ll try to do something!

Must go get ready for bed. I brought three books, two of which I have to read before I return home, and the third is the one I can’t seem to put down.

Buona Notte, il miei amici!

I’m typing this just inside the balcony dining area of the Hotel du Lac on beautiful Lago di Como, in the village of Varenna (yes, there is also a Hotel du Lac in Bellagio), just as the sun is setting through the blue-grey clouds and settling behind the mountains that surround this most enchanting lake.

My small but mighty group of travelers arrived in Milano yesterday morning after an all-day flight. We loaded ourselves and our luggage on the mandatory bus that takes travelers to the Milano train station from Malpensa Airport. I’ve always wondered why an airport near this cosmopolitan city doesn’t have a short train or metro between the airport and the train, but the answer has always been, “It just doesn’t . . . “. So we buzz through the suburbs of Milan and arrive in the traffic, choked with auto fumes, arriving at the Stazione. Since there is construction near the entrance, we drag our suitcases around the large dark-blue wooden panels which close off the unfinished work from the pedestrians, and finally we reach the entrance to the station.

I spend the next hour securing my 5-day train pass, replacing one I received a month ago (don’t ask . . . long story). My travelers have passes, and they join me at the front of the queue to get theirs validated, we move on a slanted ramp to the third level where the tracks are marked and the walkways are a-buzz with travelers. Boarding the train for Varenna, we settle in for the 50 minute ride to our little village at Lake Como.

When we arrive there, two taxis await the disembarking groups, and they scurry back and forth from hotel to train platform, loading and re-loading passengers and depositing each set of three visitors to their proper hotel, turning around again for the next group. We, fortunately, are second in line, and we arrive at the Hotel du Lac. Our rooms aren’t quite ready yet, but we are just in time for a light lunch out on the balcony overlooking the lake. Don’t you just love the combination of lake and mountains?

Bruschetta and insalate caprese are brought to our table, with tomatoes more colorful than I’ve seen in years (except in Italy, of course). Why can’t we grow tomatoes like this in the United States? I remember them in my garden when I was growing up, but they are now faded remnants of those good old days, and I’m always grateful when I arrive in Italy and order my first caprese. I sprinkle those red chopped gifts with salt and close my eyes as I take my first bite.

Okay, enough of the swooning about tomatoes. When our rooms were declared ready for our arrival, we took the tiny elevator, taking turns, to our respective room levels and began the initial ritual of unpacking what we would need for the next three days.

Rebecca, my roommate, didn’t sleep on the flight over, so she fell on the bed for a much needed nap. Erin decided she didn’t want to screw up her internal clock anymore than necessary, so she opted to try to stay awake until evening, and I, having had a great six-hour nap on the plane, headed out to explore the cobblestone pathways along and above the lake, finally venturing up one of those infamous set of steep stairs that lead to the next levels of streets in this mountainous village.

Two stops to sit on stone stairs at the water’s edge, a bit of journal-writing, photo-taking, more observations in my journal, and I climbed the stairs to the piazza, where the town’s church was brimming with the families and friends of a bride and groom! There always seems to be a wedding in the village church, no matter where we arrive, and the church bells rang, announcing 5:00 p.m.

After an hour or two of exploring, I rewarded myself with one of the two gelato treats I will eat on this trip. I’m not really a fan of gelato (I know, HERESY!) but I do seem to feel the need to have one or two scoops during any trip. Today the shop I chose did not have my favorite, lamponi (raspberry), so I settled for fragola (strawberry), and did enjoy the cold creamy substance, atop a sugar cone. Maybe I kid myself about this dislike of gelato. Hmmm.

And . . . back to the room, where Rebecca was waking up from her second nap of the afternoon. Erin had left us a note that said she had lost the battle to stay awake, and she’d see us in the morning.

So Rebecca and I headed back out for the water walkway, found a nice little restaurant, Il Molo, as the skies opened for a 10-minute downpour before it cleared up enough to allow us to stay at a table outdoors while we had our pizza and risotto asparagi. A half-liter of the house red wine and we were set!

We returned from our casual dinner at 8:30, and I read for perhaps 10 minutes before I slipped into oblivion in a comfortable bed, the sound of waves my only lullabye.

Twelve hours later, I awoke to our second day on Lake Como.

More later . . .