Lake Como and Beyond

For quite some time I have been telling my sons that when I die, many years from now, I would like them to sprinkle some of my ashes in front of each and every Broadway theater. My fondest desire is unlimited access to shows throughout eternity.  After visiting Lake Como, however, I am rethinking this strategy.  My new plan is to have the three of them journey to this magnificent locale together, ask our new friend, Alberto, to drive them into the lake on a traditional wooden boat, and dump me overboard.  Heaven is Lake Como.

See?

Speaking of death, I tried to catch up on the headlines while on the train to Como.  This one from The New York Times caught my eye.  "Drinking Coffee Lowers Your Risk of Death."   Really?  I have always believed my risk of death is 100%, but if drinking a few cups of coffee a day can lower that risk, I'm all for it.  I have had two fully caffeinated cups of Americano every day since reading that article, and I choose to believe I now have only a 98% chance of dying.

The primary pastime of visitors to Lake Como is gawking at rich people's lakeside villas.  Here is one of George Clooney's.  He now owns three homes here.

Clooney's is the only home on the lake with a sign admonishing people to maintain a 350 meter distance.  The gawkers are out of control.  

Here is Richard Branson's estate.

And this is Richard Branson's doorman's house.  Could there be a better job than being Richard Branson's doorman?

The only way to view and gawk at these homes is by boat.  Alberto, the "experience director" at our hotel, took us out on a traditional Venetian wooden boat for a half day.  We felt an instant connection, and spent an unforgettable morning together, sipping Prosecco, loving the feel of the wind in our hair, and practicing our Italian with a patient tutor. The experience culminated with Alberto's offer to take us out the following day, off the payroll, to show us the town where he was born and the side of the lake tourists rarely visit.  We jumped at the opportunity for further exploration with a fun and knowledgeable native.  

I thought it was our sparkling wit and infectious enthusiasm for adventure that enticed Alberto to spend another day with us, but when we hopped into the car the next morning, he immediately began to pummel Harold with questions regarding his (not Harold's) psychological well-being.  There is a risk to telling people you are a psychologist.  Harold never offers this information unless asked, and on the boat that fateful morning he had been asked.  Now, while we were trapped in a car, Alberto began to bare his soul about his relationship with his longtime girlfriend, his falling out with this brother, and his mother's Alzheimer's.  Harold cut him to the quick by saying, "I am not that kind of psychologist. I am an industrial/organizational psychologist."  This did not deter Alberto in the least. He instantaneously switched gears and began to complain about the management of the hotel as well as the lax attitude of his own staff, and his paltry income. The poor guy had to move to a farm to pick apples for four months during the pandemic just to stay above water.  My husband, the consummate mensch, coached him through several magnificent vistas, a scrumptious lunch and a visit to a masterfully renovated villa high on a mountaintop.  Harold did not receive a tip at the end of the day.  Alberto did.  Like I said, mensch!

Back to death.  In addition to sailing past the current homes of the wealthiest among us, tourists can partake of guided tours of the homes and gardens of long dead barons of industry. We partook. 

The local towns are not without their own beauty.  This is a street in Bellagio.

We bid arrivederci to Lake Como and environs after five glorious days of boating, eating, walking, walking, walking and walking.  We did not encounter any "snob factor" there, but we did not stay at the super pricey "Grande Dames" hotels right on the lake. Our hotel, just into town but with a lovely lake view, was pricey enough for us. Everyone we met there was lovely.

We splurged on a beautiful hotel in Lake Como because that is what you do there, but we landed with a thud in Lugano, Switzerland in a "hotel" that screamed, "I used to be a youth hostel!"  We were assigned the Peperoncino Room. Each of the nine rooms was named after a different fruit or vegetable and "decorated" in the hue of that particular plant.

 I don't know if they had an avocado room, but if they did I am glad we weren't in it.  When we arrived, we found earplugs on our pillows where the mints should be. We interpreted this as a bad sign. As it turned out, our room was atop a very busy restaurant with a very chaotic kitchen. Even with the earplugs, we could hear the dinner dishes rattling into the wee hours of the morning, at which point we began to hear the breakfast dishes rattling.

Lugano is lovely and very sanitary.  It is on a lake, nestled at the foothills of the Alps. In our humble opinion, the city lacks the vibrancy of the Lake District in Italy. We spent our time in Switzerland climbing Mont Bre.  I am here to say the hills really are alive with the sound of music!  Yes, yes, I know that was Austria, but let's not get hung up on technicalities. 

These two sets of steps were only part of the climb. It seemed like there were thousands of them.

Just call me Heidi. After conquering the steps, we hiked on trails. I used to think wheels on suitcases was the greatest invention of all time, but now I think it's synthetic cortisone. There is no way I could have managed this trek without the shot I received in my knee the day before we left the US. 

Harold said I only whined a little toward the end.  I was hot and sweaty and exhausted and well overdue for an aperol spritz. Once you summit (Isn't my alpine talk impressive?), you are rewarded for your efforts with this view. David and Patti, you would LOVE this part of the trip!

The red-roofed homes comprise a village called Bre. It hasn't changed in 100 years, and is quite charming.

We walked down to the village, wandered around the narrow streets, yodeled a little (kidding) and, thankfully, without much coaxing of Harold, took a bus down the mountain and back to town.

Before heading back to Florence, we traveled to the grand city of Turin for a day. Turin was the capital of Italy before it became a republic, and was ruled by generations of the Savoy family.  Much of the city is situated under porticos, so when it rains you can walk anywhere without getting the least bit wet.

We visited the Royal Palace and saw the chapel where the Shroud of Turin had been on display until the chapel was nearly destroyed by fire in 1997. The Shroud was saved and unmarred, but it was moved out of the Royal Palace to the Duomo of Torino where it can only be viewed by the public once every 10 years.  It will next be on display in 2026.

Our first, and we hope our only anti-semitic experience in Italy took place at the Royal Palace in Turin. We had completed our tour, when our guide directed us to a window so he could point out an architecturally unusual building. "This," he said, "was originally going to be a Jewish synagogue, but the stereotypical Jews, as usual, didn't like the price, so they didn't pay and the state now owns the building."   Harold took great pleasure in informing the misguided guide that we are Jewish.  Clearly, the tour guide handbook needs some revision.

We were mildly annoyed after this incident, but grabbed a snack and found our happiness mood once again.

From the same window at the Royal Palace you can see this.

This brick monstrosity is disdainfully called "The Finger" by the denizens of Turin. It was erected under the direction of Mussolini when he came to power.  Prior to Mussolini, builders were prohibited from erecting any edifice higher than the Royal Palace. This is how Mussolini gave the finger to the Royal family.  Clever, huh? Right.

The collection of ancient Egyptian art and artifacts in the Egyptian museum in Turin is second only to the collection in Cairo. There is a story about how Turin became home to this massive collection of priceless artifacts, but this blog is already cumbersome, so I will not recount it here.  Some photos.

Finally, the preferred breakfast drink of Turin, a city that prides itself on its chocolate. It is called a bicerin, and consists of a shot of espresso, hot chocolate, and whipped cream. I wonder if the whipped cream and hot chocolate counteract the espresso's ability to lower my risk of death.  I wonder, but I don't really care because it is delicious!

And that, my friends, is my field reportage for today. Italy continues to wrap itself around our hearts.

A few random thoughts:

Trains:  Mussolini was a very bad man, but, like Mike Pence, he did one good thing.  Pence, with whom I agree on nothing,  saved our democracy.  Mussolini made the trains run on time. We have ridden many trains and not one has been a minute late.  Plus, without exception, they have been clean and comfortable. I can only imagine what traveling Europeans think of New Jersey Transit.

Dogs:  All the dogs here understand Italian perfectly. It's remarkable. I am still having a difficult time with it😜

We are back in Florence. This is Harold wondering what we should do today.