Lake Como, Italy

When I have headaches I begin to shed useless baggge. Trash or unnecessary receipts from my purse, kilos from my carry on, or, thoughts I no longer need to hold on to. When I arrived in Como from Milan, which was about an hours ride, I was met with more people and excitement than I expected. One might call it commotion. The sun was shining intensely.

Walking from the station I saw life as it is known in Milan, in Bari, in Palermo. There was a Carrefour sign, caffe bars and gelato shops in patterns along the cobblestone street and in front of it a all, a narrow and bottomless lake.

The Europeans did not have a lake culture like in America. And, when I mentioned Como, one Spanish lady had asked, ¨whats it mean the phrase, going to the lake.¨ That was trying to sum up the act of being native. What does it mean. It is like attempting to explain an apostrophe, within its function in the English language. When I looked out over the lake, it proved itself impressive. The Alps over Sweden or the ones cutting the watery abyss were awesome.

I stepped into the boat, so beaten badly by the waves that sloshes of water gushed from the thin escape slips on deck. The crew greeted, ¨Ciao¨ and walked to the mast to spin around and steal a double panaramic view. The Alps seemed like a tree clad and barren wonder. The tops, like an old man of better days remained rocky and bald, as beautiful, nonetheless as the villa etched cliffs steeped with evergreens. The trees ended just where the water began. The mountains were tall enough so that when I stretched my neck to scale the height, I felt the ends of my curls on my back and came back a bit dizzy and disoriented. The boat was loud and the lake was tormented, waves like a little freshwater ocean.

The heat from the sun was grasping away moments and filling the tiny voids with annoyance. When the glisten had become a full and proper sweat, I looked up once more at the mountain and once more I felt my curls.

I planed to return to Piacenza for the night before my flight out of Milan the next day. I had arranged a ride from the train station to my flat at 10 pm. My watch had broken back in May in Mallorca but I figured the time was around ten past six. The church bells rang not so long ago. The boat ride had been lovely, but the image of Sweden was floating in my head and, I refused to compare. Though, I did. The water was tempting me to jump and take a swim. To feel waves on my scalp and emerge without the subtlety of salt. I wanted badly to just dive in, with my clothes, and shoes and everything. But the waves were too fierce and the water had a silent stench that didnt come with the sea. I waited for island, and pitied Como for this reason, it hadnt the splendor of Sodermalm nor the flawlessness of the sea. But it did have this, a undeniable attraction, and, it had the Alps.

I had exactly one hour before the train would leave to go to Piacenza via Milan. I looked at the mountain once more. When I arrived to the top it felt like an invisivble vice was slowly pressing against my temples, evenly on each side. I massaged my face and set down my purse on the bench next to me. I closed my eyes and waited for my body to adjust, or, for the pressure to subside. I sat that way for 5 or 6 minutes not bothered by anyone watching. When I opened my eyes I looked out on a cloud that had since turned purple. The sun was beautiful and the shadows cast down by strained yellow rays had redeemed the sun from its unbearable heat just twenty mintues ago. The sunset was full remuneration.

If ever I had imagined Como as the place it was it would have robbed the moment. Como was more the the duly noted Italian lake culture but a place for safaris. Safaris high in the mountains or through the thickness of evergreens or up the narrow village streets with white and yellow and sandy coloured mansion rows. Safaris with closed eyes and vivid celestial paintbrushes. That was Como for me.